In defence of my phone.

Don't worry, I KNOW that excessive use of a mobile phone can be damaging to our interpersonal relationships.  I'm not advocating for gluing ourselves to our phones 24x7, but nor am I a huge fan of the slightly sanctimonious backlash that makes us feel like criminals for checking our notifications.  I'm here to provide a bit of balance.

I keep seeing all of this judgement online 
Critical of how we're all spending our time 
Assuming because I've got hold of my phone 
I'm socially inept and feeling alone 

I have to admit, I dislike your assumption 
That our use of these tools is purely consumption 
Mindless and brainless and begging for more
You've no way of knowing what I use it for

From the brief glimpse you have, there's no way you can know
If I'm allowing the creative juices to flow
Writing a novel or completing this poem
In case I forget it before I get home

Connecting with family who live over the sea
Brought closer together by technology
Or maybe I'm disproving cosmic expansion
Is that important enough to warrant your sanction?

I think most of all I feel sorry for mothers
They seem to have it worse than the others
If they glance at their phone they're ignoring their child
Neglecting the baby or letting kids run wild

Maybe you think I'm being defensive
For finding your judgement a little offensive
I do understand that too much can cause damage
But I resent that you feel that my life's yours to manage

The irony is, now your video's gone viral
You're a contributor to the downward spiral
Every time you walk past someone and judge what they do
The chances are, they're watching YOU.

My reason for everything

It's easy to talk about the hard parts of our lives, the struggles we go through in raising our children, the tantrums and financial worries and the endless burden of guilt.  It's almost unfashionable to say we had a good night's sleep, or are getting on really well with our other halves right now, or enjoy being a stay at home mum or love having a job that involves getting dressed and leaving the house every day.  

Don't get me wrong, I can understand why.  It can be perceived as being a bit smug if we talk too much about how wonderful things are, and there's a level of bonding that comes from discussing our emotional war wounds.  Playing the "Bet my husband is messier than yours" game or playfully competing over whose washing machine is switched on the most is much more likely to win friends than waxing lyrical about how perfect your life is, which can quickly escalate into a dangerous contest of one-upmanship that results in snide comments and hurt feelings all round.  Plus, as someone who likes to write and usually wants to make people laugh, I can't deny that the miniature disasters of everyday life hold far more humour than a constant recounting of all the reasons that life is great, aren't you jealous of me, blah blah blah.

Yet sometimes, it's important to just focus on the positives, revel in the wonder of what we're doing as we bring up these little people who are hell-bent on causing chaos.  I don't say it as often as I should, but I could say it a million times a minute and it wouldn't be enough.  I'm the luckiest woman in the world to have the privilege of life with my son.  Every day of his life is a sheet of paper off this extraordinary game of "pass the parcel", and every day I see another tantalising glimpse of the incredible gift that lies beneath the layers of his developing accomplishments.  He brings sheer, absolute, undiluted joy to my soul and renews my energy even as his uncompromising sense of his own truth threatens to eclipse and overwhelm my weak morning-time composure. 

Personality-wise, we're starting to see the person emerge from the babyish appearance.  He's funny, in a way I didn't know people could be without language.  In fact, he is side-splittingly hilarious; bringing tears of laughter to our eyes and the sharp pain of overwhelming love to our hearts on a daily, hourly basis.  His affection is a goal we pursue every minute of every day and his attention is the sun on frozen limbs.  His new-found opinions, as critical to him as oxygen, are unshakeable and forceful, and when he loves, he does so with every drop of energy his miniature little body holds.

Mid-tantrum, he is as majestic as he is woeful; as ridiculous as he is vulnerable, helpless against the weight and force of his own emotions.  He comes back to earth after these episodes a briefly wiser, weakened baby, ready to accept the circle of arms and love to which he was welcome all along.  In rest he is, quite simply, beautiful, to the point where eating my own kneecap seems easier than tearing my eyes away from his flawless face, eyelashes curving peacefully down to peach-skin cheeks; tiny, perfect teeth; ears a masterpiece of curves; plump baby lips that invite kissing over and over and over again.  His hands, so small, hold potential and my heart with the same fierce grasp that belies his tiny size when clutching his toys.  The chubby part above his toes that makes buying shoes so difficult makes not nibbling those delicious digits impossible.  He is, head to toe, a tour de force, the achievement I'm most proud of and my life's work made flesh.

Yes, it is fucking special

I have an acquaintance who objects to pregnant women being offered seats on public transport.  He considers himself a well-mannered individual, but strongly believes that pregnancy is not a medical condition and that, because a woman can choose to become or remain pregnant, doing so negates any claim she may feel she has to "special treatment".  

As you can probably guess, this attitude elicited a fierce response from me.  ("Fierce" being the word I choose when describing things to people like, say, my mother.  "Profane" would work just as well).  In the ensuing heated exchange of views, I concurred that yes, pregnancy in itself is not a medical condition.  However, leaving aside the myriad medical conditions that can and frequently do tag along with this "normal part of life," a pregnant woman is the most vulnerable she will ever be.  Physically larger, slower and clumsier, she is also permanently aware of and responsible for her cargo in a way nobody who has not carried a baby, either in their arms or their womb, can ever fully understand.  Try holding an egg on public transport at rush hour without breaking it.  Now imagine that breaking the egg will lead to your physical and emotional destruction.

During the course of the discussion, a recurring theme emerged from the spilled words of my opponent - oops, fellow conversationalist.  It's one I recognised, one I've heard before from other people - not directed at me in particular, but always at unspecified "women".  "Women," apparently, have an inflated sense of their own importance when they're pregnant.  "Women" expect special treatment for doing what billions of women have done before.  "Women" should just get on with it; and stop making such a big deal about it.  "Women" think the world should bow down to them, just because they've had sex and have a bump to prove it.  Never a name; never a person; nary even an example as proof of these accusations.  

At the time, I focused my arguments on simple facts, details that really should be common knowledge and common sense.  I provided information about the debilitating fatigue, constant nausea and dizziness that can strike women during the first trimester; the back ache, heaviness and sheer exhaustion of dragging around an extra ten pounds of baby, liquid and placenta in the last few months.  I mentioned the more severe side effects, the women with hyperemesis gravidarum whose stomachs forcefully reject everything that enters for the entire nine months, those who suffer from symphysis pubis dysfunction and find walking incredibly painful; the multitude of other conditions that can be caused or aggravated by this "perfectly normal" part of life.  

Of course, all of the above makes pregnancy sound like nine months of relentless misery.  For many people, this isn't the case.  Some women (I was lucky enough to be one of them) sail through pregnancy with only a bit of heartburn or a few sore ribs to mar the experience of creating new life.  However, there is no often way of knowing whether the tired-looking woman with the rounded stomach on the train looks a bit worn because she was tripping the light fantastic until 3am (though chances are, she wasn't); or because her energy has been drained from her like blood from a leeched wound by the almost unbearable agony of simply standing on a bus.  There's no way to know, and I'd always prefer to err on the side of caution.

Thinking about it now, there is something I wish I'd said.  I wish I hadn't tried to defend my pregnant sisters simply by listing all of the medical reasons for being a decent human being, but had stood up strong in acknowledgment and pride against what the world seems to think of as the cardinal sin of the pregnant woman - the accusation that we "think we're special".  There’s a trend nowadays to downplay this everyday miracle and pretend that it’s nothing more important than dealing with a crappy customer or a botched business deal – inconvenient, annoying and potentially able to ruin your day, but nothing out of the ordinary.

I wish I'd responded that yes, it is special.  It's special and it's brave and it's fucking wonderful.  Every woman going through it deserves a medal, never mind a seat on a smelly old train.  In fact, fuck that - what would we want with a medal?  It's just one more thing to clean.  We deserve a daily massage, a bubble bath, our favourite meal cooked for us and someone else to take care of the laundry.  We're bloody amazing.  We're courageous, heroic and strong, every one of us doing this thing that happens every day.

Most of all, we're brave.  We're dealing with the symptoms listed above and more, day in, day out.  We're going to work in discomfort that would have most people taking a personal day, because we want to save our time off for when we really need it.  We're getting up and going about our business in pain, because the boss is someone who doesn't give up his seat, much less his time, for pregnant women; or because the dog won't walk itself.  We're accepting that at the end of the longest and shortest nine months of our lives, our body is going to become a battleground and we'll know untold agony and fear death, or be pumped full of chemicals and fear death, or be cut open through skin and muscle and organ and fear death.  We'll welcome it, because it signals the end of pregnancy and the beginning of a new life, and because that battle is where we find the strength for the hardest battle of our lives – being a mother. 

We're brave because we knowingly and with intent put ourselves completely at the mercy and in the service of another human being, one who knows no compassion and has no social skills.  We embrace chaos, bid goodbye to life as we knew it and become at once the protector of innocence and more dependent and vulnerable than we knew it was possible to be.  We commit ourselves 100% to a venture that all the books and classes in the world couldn't possibly prepare us for, and we do it on no sleep.

But you know what the bravest thing of all is?  We love, adore, worship, and set our entire being around SOMEONE ELSE.  We remove our hearts from our chests and our sleeves and send them out into an unpredictable world which really couldn't give a shit about any of this.  Anyone who hasn't loved a child can't come close to the fear, the obsession, the addiction, the love.  You think you love ice cream or your mother?  You think you'd be lost without your husband or your best friend?  Multiply that by a million, then imagine that your mother is completely fucking helpless, that your husband is constantly, suicidally obsessed with electricity or crawling off high tables onto tiled floors, that your best friend has to be trusted with strangers who may or may not want to shoot or kidnap or assault her when she can't even open her fucking mouth to tell people that her shoes are on the wrong feet.  Now imagine signing up for a lifetime of this and doing it while loving every terrifying minute.

Yeah, we're fucking brave.  Yes, it is special.  And no, I don't give a rat's arse if you agree with me or not.  Now step away from the seat, matey, and go and call your mother to tell her you love her.

In My Liverpool Home

Our Rach gets the credit for the fab photos.

It's hard to write about Liverpool because on the one hand, there is so much to say that I feel I could be here for donkey's years, but on the other hand it's been immortalised in so many books, articles, songs, poems etc that it's hard not to feel like I'm being imitative or being clichéd.  So forgive me if this is a bit bitty.

During my brief trip home to Liverpool recently, I was reminded, as I always am when there, of the many reasons I love it.  I'm lucky enough to call two amazing cities home, but there's something about Liverpool that can't be matched.  I haven't travelled anywhere near as much as I'd like to, but I'm willing to bet that nowhere in the world has the same ability to put a smile on my face and earn a place in the hearts of the millions of tourists who pass through it every year.  

My relationship with Liverpool is a little unusual compared to most Scouse girls in that fashion, one of the city's main attractions for many, is a source of terror for me.  A night out in Liverpool usually begins with me rummaging through my case in panic, holding up items that I'd wear on a big night out in Barcelona and having them dismissed as "too scruffy to go for your tea in" in Liverpool.  There's usually a slightly heated debate about why I'm not wearing heels - I'm of the opinion that walking like a lorry driver in them, risking a broken ankle before I've even got in the taxi, being completely unable to enjoy any of my night out and not being able to bend my knee for a week afterwards is sufficient reason to steer clear, but that doesn't cut it with Scousers.  Pain is beauty and an unwillingness to suffer for longer-looking legs indicates a defect in my character that deems me not quite acceptable in certain circles.  Thankfully, I can now pretend that whatever I want to wear is all the rage in Barcelona, therefore blaming all of the above on "living abroad", rather than "being shit at fashion", and thus ensuring that my visits home are less sartorial stress, more six-pack-inducing laughter.

Oh, the laughter.  It's almost clichéd to mention humour when writing about Liverpool, so ingrained is it in the collective psyche of the city.  Even across the rest of the country, Liverpool is known for its incessant need to make people laugh.  Love them or hate them, Scousers aren't to be ignored.  

Apart from the sheer joy of being surrounded by my lunatic family with their hilarious stories, there were a couple of moments that stood out for me.  Both took place in discount shops, which makes me think that there's something about a bargain that brings out the comedian in Scousers.  While waiting to pay in Poundland, I overheard a couple of teenage girls ask the cashier, "Can we get served with hair dye?".  The question was innocent enough and the answer was negative, but it made me laugh - back when I was that age, I was worrying about getting served with illicit cider or Lambert and Butler.  Obviously the younger generation of Scouse women are more concerned with their appearances than with destroying their health via White Lightning, which can only be a good thing.  

The second overheard nugget of comedy gold came from a couple of lads stacking shelves in B & M, where I'd headed in search of dry shampoo (how did I ever live without this miracle product?  And WHY hasn't Spain cottoned onto how wonderful it is yet?).  Displaying an enviable level of commitment to the retail trade, one asked the other, "Ay lad, would you rather work in Marksie's or Morrisons?"  His colleague, clearly a thrillseeker, replied, "Nah, I want a job in the Asda - it's MAD in there!"  Luckily enough the Asda was our next stop so I kept my eyes peeled for any evidence of debauchery amongst the staff, but they were all disappointingly well-behaved and offered no glimpse of the wildness that they apparently keep hidden beneath their green polyester blouses.  Sadly, it failed to even live up to the post-Christmas shopping trip when we were in the right aisle at the right time as they knocked the giant Cadbury's Roses Fudges down from a fiver to a pound, though to be fair, that day would take some beating.

The thing I love about Liverpool is that Scousers will talk to anyone.  In the queue at that same B & M, I found out how the lad behind the counter deals with his monobrow (wax - he's not a fan of shaving).  My mum told anyone who'd listen, which was a LOT of people, that I live in Spain and she's coming to visit in July.  I found an alternative to Johnson's tanning moisturiser courtesy of a tip from the fella on the till in Primark, and gave his colleague some hints for his forthcoming trip to Barcelona.  It's just a friendly place.   I miss that.

Quick message to a commentor

I accidentally deleted a comment from somebody who didn't leave their name, while trying to remove the typos from my reply. The comment was something like "Brave would be telling him to his face, not hiding behind a blog." I decided to respond via a new post, in the spirit of taking the rough with the smooth and in the interests of not censoring people just because I disagree with them.

Who's hiding? The blog is no secret to either my family or Mat's and my photo is right up there. If we're Facebook friends, you'll see that I'm not slow to claim and promote my posts under my personal page. He'll see it.

Are you suggesting that I get on a plane to a different country to tell someone who doesn't want to speak to me that I don't want to speak to him either? Seems a little excessive.

But hey, you stay anonymous while talking about hiding and telling others how to be brave. I enjoy a bit of irony.

Oh, I've found my voice alright

If you spend enough time around writers or wannabe writers, at some point you might hear talk of "finding your voice".  That does not appear to be a problem in my house.  All of our voices are present and correct, especially, it seems, mine.

Way back when I started this blog, almost two years ago, I wrote this post which discussed my parenting style, or lack of it.  I didn't and don't feel comfortable labelling my approach to this crazy job in which the rules change constantly, the boss is an adorable tyrant and the wages swell no coffers but threaten to burst my heart every day.  It's too unpredictable when you're dealing with human beings to say exactly how you're going to approach every situation that could arise, to say nothing of the fact that toddlers will throw situations at you that you never imagined possible.  Once you've told someone not to rub his apple on his willy like it's a perfectly normal thing to say on a Tuesday morning, you begin to realise that in the game of parenthood, every ball is a curve ball.  Add to this the fact that the little person you're dealing with hasn't even finished developing the neural pathways in their brain and is effectively still a work in progress (aren't we all?), and how can it be possible to insist that you'll only ever do X or Y, and NEVER Z?  

However, there is one exception to this self-imposed rule, and it's one I feel quite strongly about.  I don't want to enforce harsh discipline on my baby.  I don't want to smack him and I want to avoid shouting at him.  I've been the child cringing in fear at a raised voice or a raised hand, and I never want Dom to be afraid of me like that.  Apparently, this is called "Peaceful Parenting", and it's actually A THING.  If it sounds like it could be your thing, there's more info about it here.

Anyway.  I don't want to get too into the nitty gritty of it, because I'm not interested in or here to preach at people to do things a certain way.  If your kid is loved, fed, clean, warm and cared for, that works for me.  Also, I'm not exactly the best example of peaceful parenting right now, as I'm in the middle of writing a blog post about how I failed miserably at it earlier.  

I come from a large, loud family.  Our time together is interspersed with arguments and laughter at full volume, and I love the chaos of that kind of family dynamic.  Now that I don't live in it any more, I can see how it could be overwhelming to some, but it's a lot of fun to be around.  The only problem is, growing up in a loud family means that if you want to be heard, you have to be louder than every one else.  And my word, did I rise to that challenge.

I've been told various things about my voice - that I am unable to modulate it; that it's not so much the volume as the pitch that causes it to carry across rooms, offices, parks and beaches like I have a megaphone in my throat; that when I think I'm whispering, the family three blocks down would beg to differ.  When I was a kid, my best friend's mum called me Foghorn Leghorn.  I genuinely can't help it - I'm just loud.  What I lack in altitude, I make up for in amplification.

Anyway, lately I've been feeling pretty good about myself as a mother.  Of course, it's a constant guilt-fest about every thought that ever crosses my mind, but I can live with that.  I've been feeling like I'm dealing well with Dom's challenges, or maybe there have just been less of them, but either way I've felt pretty proud.  

Until today, when I gently but firmly told him to stop using his spoon as a catapult to ping rice and stir-fry all over the floor (where do they get these ideas from?).  Afterwards, I thought I might have sounded a bit more grumpy than I intended, so I ran it by Mat.  He answered that I hadn't sounded narky, but that we'd agreed not to shout at Dom.  

I was taken aback.  I hadn't shouted, had I?  I certainly hadn't meant to shout.  Mat, with fear in his eyes (yeah, I'm great at this peaceful lark, obviously), hesitantly mentioned that it wasn't the first time he'd heard me raise my voice to Dom.  I didn't even know and am pretty crushed - I don't want to shout at him even when I'm angry, but it looks like I've been going around bellowing at him like an injured buffalo at the slightest provocation.  Apparently, when I think I'm putting on a firm but kind tone, I'm just getting louder.  

OK, it's not the end of the world.  He's not being abused and it doesn't seem to have affected him.  It certainly hasn't stopped him doing any of the things I was trying to stop him doing.  But it's a wake-up call for me to pay more attention to how I speak and how I'm perceived.  I'm 31, for the love of God - you'd think I'd have learnt to control my own voice by now!

Traumatised, as you can see.

Things T25 Taught Me

You may remember this post, in which I got all fired up about how I was going to lose weight, get healthy and fit back into my clothes.  I wrote the post and promptly went back to my old habits for a couple of weeks, hoping that scowling hard enough at my stomach would make it stomp (or wobble) off in indignation and avoid me having to actually do anything to get rid of it.  That didn't work, so I admitted defeat and stopped buying chocolate croissants, started eating a few more salads and refused to take money to work so I wouldn't be tempted to raid the vending machine.  Sadly, after a few days of this, I still wasn't skinny.  

The only thing left was to actually move my arse (and the rest of me) and do some exercise.  I tried to take advantage of the good weather to get out on long walks with Dom, but he's now at the stage where he'd rather eat his own toes than stay in the pram for more than 5 minutes.  Walking at toddler pace probably burns less calories than sitting down eating chocolate, so I needed a new idea.  Much as I'd love to go swimming, two jobs, one baby and a house which grabs every opportunity to throw parts of itself on the floor mean I'm very pushed for time, and the thought of having to wash my hair more times than I currently struggle to do in a week was off-putting.  Joining a gym was also problematic in the time stakes, to say nothing of the fact that I'd rather set my eyebrows on fire than have other people - fit, thin, healthy people - see me sweat.  I needed something I could do at home, with Dom around, in my own time.  Hello, Insanity.

 A friend recommended starting with the T25 workout instead, which sounded great to me - I pretended it was because of my busy schedule, but actually it was due to my inherent laziness provoking sheer delight at the thought of 15 minutes less of effort.  So, after spending a week and a half threatening to do it, tonight I actually got as far as clicking on the link.  Here is what I learnt from the experience:

*  When getting into your workout clothes feels like a workout, the workout is probably long overdue.

*  My sports bra is not the boss of me.  It WILL fasten if I shout at it enough.

*  Unfortunately, my sports bra is also not the boss of my chest.  I need some sort of binding, like buxom ladies in the twenties used to make themselves appear boyish and flat-chested as dictated by the fashion of the time (see, the fashion world have always been gobshites).  

*  I have no hope of ever achieving an androgynous look.  At this point, let's just aim for contained with low chance of concussion.

*  Likewise, my bobbles are no match for my hair.  Having to pause the video every 2 minutes to scoop up strands of wayward frizz is not making this pass any faster.

*  Remember the whole planking craze?  Remember how it was mostly youngsters doing it?  This isn't, as I thought at the time, because they're the only ones daft enough to do it.  It's because they're the only ones fit enough to do it.

*  I have no core.  There is no point telling me to use something I don't have.  The trainer may as well have spent 25 minutes exhorting me to use the million euros under the mattress for liposculpture instead.  Lovely as the idea sounds, it's no good to me when it's a figment of someone's imagination.

*  Sweating for 25 minutes will not, contrary to my long-held beliefs, actually kill me.  

*  Sometimes, when sweating for 25 minutes, I wish that sweating for 25 minutes would kill me.

*  Stretching is important.  Yes, I stretched before and after.  No, it wasn't enough.  On the plus side, I can see my bedroom from my living room, so crawling back and forth for the next few days shouldn't be too difficult.

*  You know those people who say exercise feels good afterwards?  They're not lying.  The adrenaline rush is great.

*  The adrenaline rush is not great enough to make you want to do the dishes when you've finished.  Next time, do them first.

I'd continue but I'm about to pass out.  That's a good sign, right?

See this snuggly guy with the earring?
See how sweet he looks?
I'm pretty sure I'm going to hate him in the morning.

To All The Friends I've Never Met

We're constantly hearing about the "Mommy Wars" - for some reason, the American vernacular is the one that is always used. The media tells us how breastfeeders feel themselves superior to formula feeders, how the Bugaboo brigade look down on the babywearers and how crunchy "granola" mothers can't bear to be in the same room as those who are more "plastic". (Yes, these terms exist and mean something in the murky world of modern mothering - not parenting, but mothering. I've yet to read an article about one group of fathers criticising another for their disciplinary methods). 

I would have been tempted to believe that these wars existed only in the mind of those who produce our internet entertainment, our magazines and occasionally our highbrow articles in the Guardian or the New York Times, had I not seen them in action myself at times. In our technology-driven world, many parents turn to what I call "mum groups" - MumsNet forums, CafeMom chatrooms, Baby Centre boards and umpteen Facebook groups - for advice, ideas and support. Unfortunately, the relative anonymity of the internet means that the advice often comes with a giant serving of judgement, the ideas are tinged with sanctimony and the support only exists when you do as others do.  In short, the internet can bring out the idiot in people faster than a large vodka and orange, and there's nothing like a thorny parenting issue to call forth the name-callers and the keyboard warriors.  

That being said, these groups aren't all bad.  Far from it, in fact.  There's a group for everything, it seems, and while some of them are hotbeds of viciousness, sometimes you can stumble across an absolute diamond of a group that restores your faith in humanity.  I used to be a member of many different parenting (mostly women-only) groups on Facebook, but I've slowly whittled them down to just two I pay attention to and one I actively participate in.  That group has become a part of my life and I'd be lost without it.

It's almost embarrassing for someone of my generation, the last generation to know life before www., to say it, but some of the people I consider friends - actual, real friends - are women I've never met in real life.  They're the women who've supported me through relationship troubles, who probably know more about the ins and outs of my personal life than people I've known for years.  That same anonymity that brings out the worst in people also allows a certain freedom of expression, where we're not so concerned about bitching online about a boyfriend or husband as we would be about talking to someone who will then have to eat with them on our next double date.  I know I've made the mistake of tearing into my partner when things have been going badly, only for friends and family to be less willing or able than I am to forget the bad parts when things start going well again.  Sometimes just being able to have a rant is enough, to have other people agree that only a complete gobshite would ever do whatever he's just done.   It's a safe space to laugh, chat and blow off steam.  These women have helped me navigate the sometimes terrifying waters of motherhood, all with different insights, various points of view and sometimes opposing principles.  They were the first people I was brave enough to share my writing with and they were the ones who supported me in it.  They've applauded my baby's achievements with as much genuine happiness as my own family.  They've picked me up when I've been down, they've made me laugh until my sides hurt, they've respected my views even when they don't agree with them, they've treated me with tenderness when I needed it and they haven't hesitated to tell me off when I've been out of order.  

And that's just the little stuff, the "can I give carrots to my 10 month old?" stuff.  I've seen these women deal with the big stuff with class and bravery and more balls than a football stadium on Cup Final day.  I've seen them coming together to give advice to a new mother who can't get her baby to latch. I've seen them deal with marriage breakdowns together, cry with mothers we'll probably never meet and mourn their losses like they were our own.  I've see women dealing with the most horrendously difficult situations getting support and friendship from strangers. I've seen mothers who are struggling being offered storage bags, nappies, financial help and advice from people on different continents.  I've seen the strength and hope and power and potential we have, and I'm grateful and proud to be part of it. Thanks, ladies. I'm glad you're here.

Tit Tape Meant Something Different In my Twenties

PLEASE NOTE: This post is quite detailed about nipples. Specifically, mine. If that's going to traumatise or scandalise you, may I suggest trying a different post? I'm pretty sure the rest are safe, though if it's nipples in general that bother you, you might want to steer clear of "Am I Asking You To Put Your Nipple In My Son's Mouth?". But I imagine the title of that one is pretty self-explanatory, and also probably the most graphic part of the entire post. Everyone else, please proceed at your own risk.

Men may still earn most of the money, own most of the land and yield most of the power in the world, but there's one thing we women do that we'll always have the monopoly on.  No, I'm not taking about the miracle of childbirth - frankly, I'd have relinquished that "privilege" to any passing stranger with cleanish nails.  I'm referring to the wonderful moment which is removing your bra at the end of a long day.  It's a feeling of relief with few parallels, possibly matched only by another sensation more commonly reserved for ladies - that of removing tight or high heeled shoes.

(Excuse me while I go off on a tangent.  I don't know what's more infuriating - the oppressive and damaging beauty industry or the fact that we continue to buy into it.  Seldom do men feel the need to squeeze, paint and pluck themselves into oblivion in the pursuit of bodily perfection.  I don't know whether my innate laziness and inability to endure discomfort pushed me towards feminism as a backup against and reaction to the culture that made me feel wrong for not being "girlie" enough, or whether the movement gave me the strength to finally get rid of my heels and "let myself go" in my jeans and my Converse.  Either way, I'm glad my feet don't hurt any more).

Anyway, back to the bras.  Anybody who's ever spent a day with their bosom trussed up in an over the shoulder boulder holder will understand and appreciate the feeling of relief when the girls are finally allowed to swing, roam, drop or flop free.  It's the high point of the day that signifies the slow, relaxed slide into evening for many of us.  So what do we do when that pleasure is taken away?

Allow me to explain.  I haven't superglued my bra to my back or decided to stop wearing one altogether (call me oppressed if you like, but the last thing I need is my boobs in my armpits all day).  My dilemma is a little more sensitive than that.  Literally.  Almost two years of breastfeeding means that my nipples are on constant red alert, seeking for any piece of clothing or matter upon which to press themselves.  They spend their time like meerkats checking for predators or puppies desperate for affection, the constant friction resulting in even more sensitivity, which makes them protrude, which makes them more sensitive... You see my problem.

Please don't misunderstand me.  This is not sexy.  In fact, the sensation makes me want to remove my own skin.  The only thing that puts the brakes on their relentless quest is keeping them tied up like prisoners of their own misguided mania.  But that, of course, means I have to suffer in a bra all evening.  What's a girl to do?

Being an inventive and impatient sort, I decided to tolerate it no longer.  I took inspiration from a time when slashed-to-the-waist catsuits were, thanks to Kylie Minogue, the epitome of style among the young and beautiful frequenting the pubs and clubs of Liverpool. Sadly, given my more buxom figure, this was a look denied to me, but some 13 years later, it's finally coming in handy for something. You see, it's not just us melon-slingers who have titty trouble from time to time. Even the girls with less in their bras can find themselves in a pickle when dressed in low cut, slinky material designed to titillate. Sexy is a sliver of flesh peeking out from above a toned navel, the suggestion of cleavage nestled in folds of whispering fabric. Sexy is not standing on the dance floor clutching at parts of your errant outfit as it tries to make a run for it, leaving you desperately trying to retain some modesty. The answer then, as now, was tit tape.

This is essentially Sellotaped to her body.  Were it not, there's no way she'd dare to lift her arms above her head.

Back then it secured the clothes firmly to the boobs of the wearer, ensuring that they wouldn't slip over a shoulder and down an arm to the floor. Now, the grown up equivalent (hospital tape - seriously, why would I have tit tape now when I couldn't pull off the outfits that needed it in my twenties?) is used to secure little pads of folded gauze over the offending body parts, acting as a barrier between them and the outside world they're so eager to embrace. It looks awful, especially when you first wake up and have forgotten that it's there. It can be quite the shock, having what looks like two deformed boobs grinning up at you in the morning. But my God, it's worth it. Bra off, tape on, and baby asleep is the starting point for a wonderful Saturday night.

Stick a fork in me, then hide it. I am DONE.

Everyone has their price and everyone has their limit. I just reached my limit. It's time for a change.

I've never been a skinny girl - even as a child I carried a fair amount of chub. My weight has bounced up and down for almost two decades, each time increasing a little bit more on the up swing and not quite shrinking back as far on the downward plunge. It's never really been a conscious effort on my part to lose weight, except when I was pregnant with Dom and put on the low-carb, practically no sugar gestational diabetes diet. I just seem to slowly reach a point at which I start losing, closely followed by another gain, like a tranquil seesaw on a spring evening.

Except now I'm sick of it. Now I've gone past "curvy," skipped over "voluptuous," bypassed "buxom" and side-stepped "rounded".  I'm less pleasingly plump than depressingly dumpy, and I've had enough.

I'm sick of worrying about how I'll cover up on the beach this summer.  I'm tired of planning my outfits around what they hide.  I hate that the only clothes I feel sexy in are my boots, and the only clothes I feel comfortable in are my pyjamas.  I don't want to lose yet another pair of jeans to the dreaded thigh-hole that appears when even denim, that most hardy and robust of materials, gives up against the constant pressure of one leg against another.  God knows, it takes long enough to find a pair of jeans that looks good and feels good and doesn't turn into an elaborate strangulation device after being washed.  I don't have time to try on six different tops every night before work, and I'm already bored to death with covering up with the same black cardigan.  I get more marks on my skin from a bra than I did from an entire pregnancy.  The season of less clothes, more flesh is almost upon us and I refuse to spend it in Spanx, which I wear not to hold me in, but to stop the torture of thighs rubbing together on a sticky summer's day.  I want to just smile in a photo instead of manoeuvering myself to the angle that shows, not my best side, but my least bad side.  I almost wore my "old faithful" black trousers for work, despite them being scruffy as hell, because nothing else fits - but they didn't fit. I AM FUCKING DONE.

So it's time for a few changes around here.  I'm not going to kid myself that I'm going to start running 5 miles a day and replacing all the biscuits with kale and quinoa.  I'm not deluded enough to believe that I can be a size 8, nor is my attitude to my body unhealthy enough to want this.  My frame is not a size 8 frame, my bones are not size 8 bones, and I am not a prepubescent girl.  I don't want to look like one.  I'm of hefty Northern stock and I like that - my aim is healthy, not skinny.  I'm not going to set myself up for failure by denying myself the pleasure of some less than healthy food now and again - in fact, I'll probably still be eating more "bad" food than some people who aren't working on changing their habits.  All I'm planning is a bit of a shift in how I manage my weekly food intake, and a bit more movement whenever I can fit it in.  Of the 14 non-breakfast meals I have a week, even replacing 7 of them with a salad or fish and vegetables or similar will make a difference, slowly and sensibly.  I don't have to tell myself that a takeaway on a Saturday night or a Sunday brunch of croissants and coffee is off the cards.  I don't have to stop taking sugar in my tea (because that's not going to happen.  If an Englishman's home is his castle, an Englishwoman's tea is her treasure, and how she takes it should be respected), as long as I'm not making EVERY choice an unhealthy one.  It's time.  I've got the wedding of the century to attend in July and I want to be, or at least feel like, the third most gorgeous woman there after the brides.

I've hit rock bottom and I need to stop eating so I can pull myself up.

What would you zoo?

The last time I went to a zoo was almost 10 years ago, back when I first moved to Spain.  I'd purposely avoided them for a long time, unable to reconcile the proud dignity of some of Nature's finest creations with the bored-looking specimens imprisoned behind glass or wire.  However, I'd just started a new job in a foreign country and the company I'd joined was unsympathetic to my ethical dilemma.  I had to attend a trip to Fuengirola Zoo so that I could then sell it to guests, and that was that.

As a kid, I loved the zoo.  We used to go on days out to Chester Zoo, which I remember as being a huge space with a river and parkland stretching as far as the eye could see.  I'm sure memory deceives me a little and my excited child's eyes weren't the best judge of scale, but I'm also sure that the tiny dimensions of the zoo in Fuengirola would have looked even smaller and meaner next to Chester's 45 hectares of greenery.  A measly 2 hectares in area, the overriding memory I have of Fuengirola Zoo is of a tiger pacing up and down, up and down, up and down in front of gaggles of excited tourists.  I know that pacing is a sign of depression in animals and it weighed on my heart to know that there in front of me was an amazing creature, brought so low by the hands of humans who couldn't even approach it without weapons and sedatives at the ready.  That, for me, was the end of my association with zoos.  I couldn't do it and luckily, I never had to again.

The zoo question hadn't really come up again until recently.  Occasionally visitors would ask what Barcelona's zoo was like and I'd simply tell them I'd never been.  If it seemed relevant or appropriate, I'd explain why and tell them a little about how I felt about the subject, but, to be honest, it wasn't really an issue.  My aim has never been to stop other people enjoying zoos, just as my aim during the 13 years I was vegetarian wasn't to stop other people enjoying meat.  It just wasn't for me.  Speaking to other adults made it clear that the zoo holds a special place in many hearts and that it's the home of as many beloved childhood memories as it is animals.  I'm not out to destroy that for anybody - this is just a personal standpoint. 

I'm not completely disregarding the good that zoos do.  Conservation and breeding programmes have ensured the survival of many species that would otherwise have been lost to us forever, and valuable research is undertaken by scientists affiliated with zoos the world over. But is it too little, too late, and for the wrong reasons? Humankind has destroyed the habitats of many creatures, eliminated their natural prey, systematically decimated their numbers for their teeth or fur or for the ivory tusks that we're so unworthy of, we need three of us to lift them.  We are an infestation on the face of the planet, a scabies-like scourge that no amount of insecticide will cure.  Mother Nature throws natural disasters at us like athlete's foot powder and we ignore her and get worse.  Making a few more animals miserable for "survival of the species" smacks of an exercise in guilt management.   Many of them wouldn't be struggling without the actions of humans, and I can't help but feel that we may be preventing others from following their natural evolutionary path by our insistence on prolonging their life spans.  

Recent events in Denmark have also shadowed my perspective of the conservation aspect.  While I'm sure there's a lot that hasn't been reported and a lot that I wouldn't understand if it were, I can't for any reason justify the killing of a healthy animal when there are viable alternatives.  The fact that the animal was bred in captivity and his genetic make-up was deemed unfit for the purposes of the scientists in charge (who created him) leaves a bad taste in the mouth.  With this in mind, I can't help but liken the "zoos as conservation" argument to a cheating lover confessing their actions to the betrayed partner in order to feel better about their actions.  The conscience of the transgressor is eased at the expense of the person they've hurt and they get to remove "lying" from their sin sheet.  We "conserve" creatures in order to make ourselves feel better, firstly about the necessity of protecting the few remaining examples of the species' we've come so close to destroying, and secondly to salve our consciences at exploiting them.

However, I'm now very aware that my stance on this may prevent my son from ever creating those memories that so many hold dear, and I've had to think hard about how important my feelings on the subject are. Suddenly my principles would have a direct effect on somebody else - on the person most dear to me in the world.  

I talked it out with his dad and I don't think this is something I'm willing to budge on.   I'm not going to put my foot down and refuse to allow him to attend zoos with other family members or his school, if the opportunity arises.  I'm going to have to accept that my personal ethics mean I'll miss out on the gleeful smiles of a child seeing his story books come to life, because he's too young to be forced to miss out on my behalf.  I just can't see myself walking around pointing at unhappy animals with a giant smile on my face, explaining to Dom how they usually live in the jungle with miles of space to roam but have been cooped up here, mired in a mere existence, for his viewing pleasure.  I may be incorrect here, but I don't think it's his God-given right to see a lion or a gorilla.  It would be nice, sure, but it's not something he needs and it's not something he deserves just because he was born on this planet.  Hopefully, by the time he's old enough to question it, he'll want to care for that same planet and the other inhabitants of it enough that he'll share my views.  If not, we'll agree to disagree.

This depresses the shit out of me.  

The Pregnancy Test Gender Gap

Whether you believe in nature, nurture or a combination of the two; whether you think that sex and gender are the same thing or whether gender, to you, is  socially constructed; whether you're a GI Jane or a Susie Homemaker; whether your male role model is Vin Diesel or Sheldon Cooper, it's safe to say that only biological women with fallopian tubes will pee on a stick any time soon and have it say anything other than "Not pregnant."  A conversation with Mat last night showed me just how fully the pregnancy test can emphasise the male/female divide.

Due to a wonderful coming together (or rather going away) of work schedules, bosses and internet connections, we had the opportunity for a rare Saturday night of doing not very much together.  Smoked salmon was placed onto gently toasted - OK, slightly cremated - bread, wine was poured and we settled down to watch a bit of Dara O'Briain.  

Some way into his set, Dara started talking about Clear Blue pregnancy tests.  This reminded me that I'd taken a (thankfully negative!) test that afternoon, so I shared this snippet of information with Mat.  As I prepared to settle into a litany of reasons I'd thought it was necessary to take a test, he turned to me and gently mentioned that not listening to 20 seconds of Dara O'Briain would mean having no clue of what the remaining hour of stand-up was about.  Fair point, thought I, assuming that he'd either pause the show or be dying to hear all about it the moment it was over.  Nope.  Apparently, the only word he needed to hear was "negative."  He didn't even need to see the test.  Weirdo.

Not my actual test.  Good job, because that faint line would worry me if it were.

Where's the fun in that?  Where's the interest in not hearing that I did the test because a common side effect of the mini pill is to stop ovulation, meaning that I no longer have a monthly "Not pregnant!  Woop woop!" moment?  Also, I've put weight on - sure, NOW I know that I've piled the beef on because I haven't stopped eating for three months, but there could have been a more complex reason.  (If I'm perfectly honest, despite not wanting another baby any time soon, there was a part of me that went, "Shit.  Suppose I'd better get off my arse and put the biscuits down, then.").  AND - and this was the clincher - my ribs hurt on Friday.  They've only ever hurt when I was having Dom, so obviously my brain put two and two together and came up with a little one.  Now see?  Wasn't that interesting?

I honestly cannot imagine sitting down with a woman - any woman I get on fairly well with and am pretty comfortable with - and telling them that I did a pregnancy test, it was negative, and moving on to another subject.  It just wouldn't happen.  There's too much to be discussed.  Why did I think I might be?  And I'm definitely not?  What would I have done if I was?  What would they do if they were, right now?  When do I think I'll want to be again?  What would Mat say (clearly not very much)?  How would Dom feel?  Do I want to be?  Do they want to be?  Is anyone else pregnant?  How do they feel about it?  There's hours of conversation to be had around an imaginary pregnancy, for God's sake!  Even some of my male friends would show more interest than Mat did. Come to think of it, only my very gay and squeamish friends would be less concerned about the inner workings of my reproductive system than Mat was.

Cheers, babe.  It's a good job he's generally fabulous, given his lack of interest in his non-existent second child.  And it's a good job that I'm pretty sure that he wasn't clutching at his hair demanding to see the test to be sure it was negative because he actually thinks another baby would be a great idea.  Which is sweet, if deluded.

Bloglovin'

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

The scooter upstairs

We moved into our new place in May last year.  As we settled in, we discovered that the two couples on the top floor of the building were expecting babies - one, a boy due in November, and the other, a little girl due in March.  The couple who were expecting the boy had a little scooter on their balcony ready for the day some 4 or 5 years ahead when their son would play on it.  We laughed with them about it, as we have almost the exact same one, and Dom is still too young to do more than sit on (and fall off) it.  We exchanged grins about the silly whims of parenthood, the toys bought with a heart full of hope and only a vague idea of who the person would be that would one day play with them.

Throughout the pregnancy, they knew that their son would have some heart problems, though they wouldn't know the full extent until he was born.  She wasn't scheduled for a caesarean, which seemed hopeful - after all, if the baby's fragile heart was expected to withstand the ravages that birth placed on it, it couldn't be too serious, right?  

The baby was born on schedule and they named him Max.  I thought my heart would break for the couple when they came home from the hospital without him - he wasn't as healthy as had been hoped and he had to stay in for treatment.  I could barely imagine how it must have felt for them to come home from the hospital to a house ready for a baby who wasn't with them.  I thought then that there could be no worse pain for a new parent.

I haven't seen them lately - we're not close and I haven't wanted to intrude.  I've kept an eye out for the scooter on their balcony, seeing its presence as a sort of talisman, a guarantee that one day a little boy would play on it.  Maybe he'd bring it downstairs to show my little boy, and they'd play together.   I checked yesterday morning and it was still there, still giving me hope that one day soon I'd get to tell Max how long we'd waited to meet him and how much we'd all worried about him, these people he didn't know.

Yesterday afternoon I bumped into the lady who lives in front of them, the one whose baby is due in just 3 weeks now, and she told me that Max wouldn't be coming home from the hospital at all.  He'd had two heart operations in the first two months of his life and his little body couldn't take any more.  He passed away two weeks ago .

It sounds trite and it's all been said before, but I have no idea how people survive this.  I feel like my heart is breaking for a baby I never met - for every baby who doesn't get to come home, or doesn't get to stay.  I don't know how the man who told me, every time I asked how the baby was doing, that "Cada día es una victoria" (every day is a victory), is going to deal with defeat.  I wouldn't know where to begin.  The woman whose smile never quite made it as far as her eyes, the eyes that tried and failed to mask too much pain even before her baby was born - I can't compute how she's going to contain the world of agony that losing her baby has left her with.  I don't think she'd have room for it.  I don't think I could do it.  

It seems so unfair on them that soon their next door neighbour will be bringing home her baby, that newborn cries will be heard through thin apartment walls that never got to protect the little boy who belonged there.  I don't know how they'll handle that.  I can't help crying for them at the realisation that for them, this wound will be stretched and torn even deeper, that they will be up at night listening to the sleepless wails of a baby who is not theirs.  And some of my tears are for their next door neighbour, who I spoke to yesterday and whose happiness is tethered a tiny bit by the knowledge that others who weren't so lucky are right next door with their grief and without their son.  

Most of my tears are for the little boy who never got to sleep in his own bed, never got to play in the sand on a summer's day.  The little boy whose short life spanned less than one winter, but who brought sunshine for such a short time.  

And there were so many tears this morning, after I thought I had none left, when I looked up out of habit and saw that the scooter was gone.  

The Facebook Effect

I've noticed a curious occurrence recently after writing a blog post. Once it's done and posted, and I've looked at it from Google rather than from my own account, and I've either smiled fondly at it with a feeling of shy pride or, more likely, noticed a thousand typos and wanted to scratch off my own eyebrows in frustration (because the typos are only ever visible on my phone in a no-signal zone when I can't fix them), something odd happens.

A strange feeling settles over me, a disquieting air of waiting for something to happen. When I first noticed the feeling, I couldn't work out why it felt slightly familiar. After all, I couldn't quite put my finger on what the feeling actually was, so how did I know it was familiar? It would be like being discreetly eaten by moths and thinking, "Ah! This reminds me of the time when...". If you don't recognise the feeling, how can you claim to have felt it before?

The answer became apparent whenever I posted a status on Facebook that (I thought) was  hilarious. Waiting for people to click "like" or comment some inanity on my inanities, I realised that THIS was the feeling. I was waiting for someone to "like" my blog post! Also, I realised that I'm a skanky online attention whore who gets my validation from strangers on the internet, which probably isn't one of my more attractive character traits, but it is what it is. I like people to like what I write, because by extension, they then like me. Or something. I don't know, I'm not paying for Facebook therapy.

The only problem with this is, for someone to read what you've written, they have to know it exists. I'm probably the only blogger in the world who hides their output from pretty much everyone. Far too thin skinned to be in this game, I live in longing and terror that one day I'll log into my blog to see that someone has actually left a comment. Probably not something I should admit on the internet, notorious stomping ground of the criminally rude and malicious, but given that no one reads my ramblings anyway, I think I'm safe for now.

When a NO is a YES

A friend of mine wants to be a life coach.  Years ago, when we first met, he advised me to draw lines around a central point, one for each aspect of my life - money, career, relationship, home, social life, etc.  On a scale of 1 - 10 and assuming that 1 was closest to the central point and 10 was furthest away, he said to mark on each line where my happiness levels were.  Then, when the lines are joined up from the score marker, it's easier to see which areas of one's life need work.

Here's my graph.  It's pretty obvious what's not working for me right now.

You don't want to know how long I spent making this pretty.

It's not that I don't have a job, it's just that the one I'm doing is so not my thing.  I've been doing it now for 6 years and am surprisingly pretty good at it, but I'm under no illusions.  For me, it's a job, not a career.

With this in mind, I recently applied for another job.  It was a job I thought I'd be good at; a job I thought I'd enjoy.  A job that seemed so tailored for me, it didn't even seem like a real job.  The job spec went something like:

*  Looking for a pedantic, judgemental grammar nerd; 
*  Must be hypercritical and able to pick out the smallest of faults from half a mile away.  In the dark; 
*  Must be prepared to be paid a decent amount of money for something they'd do for free, given half the chance.

Yes, that's almost word for word, exactly what it said.  YES IT IS.  Well, that was what I took from it, anyway.

So, I applied despite them asking for a degree, which I don't have (no, dropping out twice is not almost the same as finishing once), and experience, which I also don't have.  I talked myself up to feeling like a real freelance writer with my little articles about DIY that I've written for an unknown website; and despite the fact that I don't think anyone ever reads the pages that I proofread, I made my input to them sound VERY IMPORTANT INDEED.    I managed to get past the HR interview, which I know is really just a filtering exercise to make sure you're not a complete dickhead and can string a sentence together in the correct language.  I was still pretty relieved that my lack of anything listed in the job specification didn't earn me a bollocking for wasting their time.  I handed in a localisation project for them to evaluate, and waited.  And waited.

I wanted this job so badly that I decided to try a visualisation technique that my friend talks about (surprisingly, not the life coach one.  Evidently I attract a certain, more alternative element of society).  He's bang into the "Law of Attraction" theory made famous and lucrative by Abraham Hicks, and says that you have to imagine yourself in the position you want to be in, as if it's already happened.  Convince yourself that you have got the job, or the boy/girlfriend, or the car, or whatever it is that's holding you back from complete fulfillment.  "Act as if" you're already there and you will put the right vibes out to the universe, which will respond by giving you what you want.

This approach makes me nervous, because I'm more of a pessimist than I realised until I started trying to actively change my thought processes.  I prefer the "hope for the best, prepare for the worst" approach which leaves little room for abject disappointment.  Anyway, I decided to give it a go and was so good at it that the first morning I tried, I convinced myself a little too well and couldn't sleep through excitement.  Oops.  On reflection, it might have been wise to wait until I wasn't on night shift.  

During the waiting period, which was almost a month in total due to Christmas getting in the way, a strange thing happened.  The job that I'd convinced myself I had, that I wanted desperately, that I NEEDED with every fibre of my being, started to seem less appealing.  Actually, that's not strictly true.  The job itself didn't become any less attractive, but the effect it would have on my family life made it seem less and less desirable.  I went from planning my "first day at the office" outfit to desperately trying to figure out how to make approximately 22 days of holiday stretch over the childcare black hole of summer that lasts for two and a half months, to say nothing of Christmas, Easter and the multiple random days that Spain decides to close during the course of a year, just because.  I started telling myself at 6:30 pm every weekday evening that, were I to get the job, I'd just be coming in from work now and almost immediately starting the bath time/bedtime routine.  I started testing my feelings about losing time with my baby, going from 3 day working weeks where I'm out of the house while he's in bed and he goes to nursery Wed - Fri solely so I can sleep, to a full business week.  I worked out that, of the 168 available hours in a week, only 34 of them could feasibly be spent with my boy.  I worried about starting in a company which had no need or desire to be flexible with me for doctor's appointments, baby illness or inconveniently placed nursery holidays.  I realised that working 3 nights a week left 4 nights in which I could move shifts around if needed, but that expecting the rest of the world to adjust their working hours around my baby's teething when they, quite understandably, wanted to do business within the universally accepted time frame of Mon - Fri 9 - 6 probably wouldn't be quite so easy.  

With a heavy heart, I came to the conclusion that now probably wasn't the right time for this career move.  I fretted about what I would do if they offered me the job.  Turning it down would mean stagnating for longer in a job I had outgrown, but accepting it would mean saying goodbye to precious baby time, not being the person to teach Dom the rest of the animal noises, joining the millions of mums fighting through rush hour traffic or crowded public transport to get home just one minute sooner for just one more cuddle before saying goodbye an hour later at bedtime and again the next morning.  Doing that ALL WEEK.  Craving the scent of my baby, the time to just sit down and watch him figure out what the light switch does, the time to see him run around a park.  Despite my exasperation with so many aspects of my job (an entire post on its own), I couldn't deny the freedom it gave me to be a "full time mother" (GOD, I hate that phrase) 4 days out of the week rather than just two.  I had the balance, could I give that up to weight the scales in favour of work?  I know people do it every day, I know this is a normal life for most working mums, but I just wasn't ready for my graph to change so completely. I couldn't sacrifice all the lines for the sake of one. 

Evidently, the company I applied for felt the same way and turned down my application.  It was the most positive rejection I'd ever had - they liked my work, they thought I could do the job, but they ultimately received an application from somebody with more (read: any) experience.  

So now I'm back on the treadmill, keeping an eye out for the perfect job whilst continuing to drag myself through the working week where I am.  The short time that I had the other job (in my head) has given me an appreciation for my time with my family that can't be matched.  I've started turning off the data plan and wi-fi on my phone in the day so I'm not distracted from my time with Dom, because even if nothing in my working life ever changes, he changes every minute.  In no time, he'll be in school all week and I'll be free - free to get whatever job I want, or finally have a clean house, or go for a massage, or join a gym.  Free to give my all to looking for a job that will make me happy, without having to worry it'll simultaneously detract from the best part of my life and make me miserable.  Free to be more than a mama or a call centre agent.  But never, ever free of the craving for sweet baby skin, toddler knees, chubby arms around my neck, one more glimpse of the baby he was, the toddler he is, the boy he's becoming, the man he will one day be.  For the rest of my life, I'll never be free from loving him.  Never that.

*********     I first posted this back on  08/02/2014.  I had to take it down at the beginning of March when I went for a different job at the same company, as I'd stupidly mentioned I had a blog and the recruiter asked to see it.  I still wasn't sure that the time was right but I figured it's better to try anyway.  I didn't get the second job either, so now it can go back up without me having to worry it'll jeopardise my chances    **********