For my first post of 2010 I'd like to think I can write something worthwhile, but at the moment life is just so hectic my time for reflecting and posting on said reflections is limited.
2009 was a difficult year. Not only for me, but for my family. Broken marriage, fixed marriage, heartbroken children, happy children, financial strangulation, financial aid, broken friendships, strengthened friendships, trusts broken, trusts established. A real roller coaster of a year.
So I enter 2010 with caution. Not a pessimistic half glass empty type, but more of a slower paced, take everything in and evaluate it as I go along type of caution. I enter it with a hope of strengthening my family. Having us spend more time together larking around, parenting them wisely, watching my eldest son start senior school, watching my youngest son start infant school and watching my girls spend another year blossoming into beautiful young ladies.
I enter 2010 with a renewed vigour for my faith. I swept a lot of cobwebs away last year and it's time to open the windows and let a bit of sun shine in.
As for resolutions - I don't go in for them now. In the past I've made the usual list of getting fit, losing weight, reading more, start this, give up that, blah blah blah. But now, for myself, I find them foolish. Waiting until a certain day of the year to establish something I should have started when I first thought of it seems a little pointless. If something is worth starting, changing or ceasing, I'm erring towards feeling I'll be much more successful if I do it when it's appropriate.
Therefore today I started the year no different to any other day. Time home with my family, bit of housework, watching tele and generally pootling about. I have no hopes or dreams for 2010. God will lead me through it, give me what I need and what will be will be His will, not mine.
I feel peaceful.
I feel good.
Happy New Year
Showing posts with label Just As I Am. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Just As I Am. Show all posts
Friday, 1 January 2010
Friday, 1 May 2009
Complacent Budgeting
I have been reminded quite often lately of the good provision that is given to me and my family and I have been struck at just how easy it is to become complacent about what you've got and how simple it is to become flippant with money and how it's spent.
The past year, having probably been my most unhappy emotionally, has been steadily improving financially. But for four or so years prior to that, money was incredibly tight. Tight to the point of sometimes having to rely on my mother to buy groceries as I just couldn't seem to get through the last week of the month to put food on the table. Dire, dire times. Times that were out of mine and Andy's control and no fault of either of us.
But tight budgeting became a challenge for me. I'd meticulously look at our incomings, work out the tax credits and child benefit dates of payment, match them to Direct Debits and Standing Orders going out, to ensure that enough money was in the account at various times of the month to meet our financial obligations and then set myself a weekly budget for food and petrol.
As food and petrol prices increased, my disposal income for these decreased in real terms and I found myself becoming more and more thrifty and almost adopting the mantra of the 1950s housewife and slowly turned into the Mrs Beeton of Lower Earley.
I look back now and I see that all through these times we were carried. At times I'd be in tears wondering how on earth I was going to provide packed lunches for the children, how I was going to give them hot meals at night with barely anything in the cupboard and at times Andy would withdraw completely from the problem. I understand now that it wasn't due to uncaring, it was panic and worry. Worry that his family were suffering. But through it all, I'd constantly tell him that I believed we were being looked after, that something would always come along and get us out of the mire we were in. I knew what I was talking about, but I never had the boldness to actively say that I believed God was looking after us.
But I find myself now in a position where financially we're a little better off. Not a lot. We can afford our bills, petrol and food. That's it. We don't have money left over for luxuries. I struggle to send children on school trips, I feel guilty at buying things I don't really need and I feel totally frivolous that a new sofa has been ordered, despite the fact the one we have is uncomfortable and falling apart.
However, it's easy to fall back into the trap of complacency. It's easy to sit back and just take it for granted that you're in a secure job and the pay cheques will follow one after another. It's easy to nonchalantly put things in the shopping trolley because you've just been paid and it's easy to get carried away when you pop into town for one item and come back with three bags full of things you want, but don't really need.
So, I've realised lately I need to get back to budgeting. I need to sit in the study, pull up the accounts and set my priorities straight in the money department. Not because we're struggling, but because I've been stirred by something I heard at church. The money has been given to me to use wisely. It's not really mine and abusing it is abusing the one who has given it to me so generously. It's only right that I pay due respect and honour by responsibly allocating it.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Goodness Through Grief
There is something about this picture that captivates, haunts and mystifies me.
But it also uplifts me.
Here is a woman completely immersed in her grief, being private, yet globally public in her loss.
And through it she's reading the Bible. And whilst I rejoice in the comfort she's finding in those pages, I find it so sorrowful that people only turn to God in times of distress. How much better for people to turn to Him before life becomes sour, to find Him in times of joy and happiness.
I pray her devotion to the reading continues. I pray she finds peace at the loss of her daughter and I pray she finds the God in those pages real and alive, just as I do.
Friday, 27 February 2009
A night off?
As a working mother of four young children I need a little time to myself now and then. But, as a working mother of four young children, obtaining that time is pretty near impossible, even moreso now with my current living situation.
I work late at my office two days a week and on those evenings I enjoy having the freedom to leave work, head out to a friend's house or to the cinema, out for a bite to eat, to a pub for a drink with a friend and just generally unwind before heading back home. Some nights I spend cruising the supermarket aisles doing the weekly grocery shop, purely because I can do so uninterrupted by the pleas of little people to add various treats to the trolley. I can run calculations through my head on offers and whether they really are as good as they seem when the offer is for something packed in 500g boxes and all they have in stock are 750g ones but they're on the buy 3 for 2 offer. I like being able to think without looking in four different directions for people that can't reach the second shelf yet.
Tonight I worked late. Tonight I had a break from the children. I didn't got to the pub, or to the cinema, or to the supermarket. I enjoyed the freedom from little people.
What did I do?
Cooked pancakes with 45 teenagers instead. And the ironic thing?
They were easier to handle en-masse than my four little ones, but considering these thoughts, the conclusion baffles me.
The teenagers were messy. My four are messy.
The teenagers mucked around a lot. My four muck around a lot.
The teenagers ate enough to feed an army. My four eat enough to feed a second army.
The teenagers were cheeky. My four are cheeky.
The teenagers ran riot round the building. My four run riot at home.
The teenagers didn't clear up after themselves. My four don't clear up after themselves.
There is a pattern. I'm thinking maybe it's the fact I'm not going to reach the epitome of my mothering skills until my children are teenagers.
Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that I could flip the pancakes and most of them couldn't and that made me cool, or sweeeet, or awesome, or whatever it is that nerdy parents are when they temporarily enter the Dude Zone.
I work late at my office two days a week and on those evenings I enjoy having the freedom to leave work, head out to a friend's house or to the cinema, out for a bite to eat, to a pub for a drink with a friend and just generally unwind before heading back home. Some nights I spend cruising the supermarket aisles doing the weekly grocery shop, purely because I can do so uninterrupted by the pleas of little people to add various treats to the trolley. I can run calculations through my head on offers and whether they really are as good as they seem when the offer is for something packed in 500g boxes and all they have in stock are 750g ones but they're on the buy 3 for 2 offer. I like being able to think without looking in four different directions for people that can't reach the second shelf yet.
Tonight I worked late. Tonight I had a break from the children. I didn't got to the pub, or to the cinema, or to the supermarket. I enjoyed the freedom from little people.
What did I do?
Cooked pancakes with 45 teenagers instead. And the ironic thing?
They were easier to handle en-masse than my four little ones, but considering these thoughts, the conclusion baffles me.
The teenagers were messy. My four are messy.
The teenagers mucked around a lot. My four muck around a lot.
The teenagers ate enough to feed an army. My four eat enough to feed a second army.
The teenagers were cheeky. My four are cheeky.
The teenagers ran riot round the building. My four run riot at home.
The teenagers didn't clear up after themselves. My four don't clear up after themselves.
There is a pattern. I'm thinking maybe it's the fact I'm not going to reach the epitome of my mothering skills until my children are teenagers.
Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that I could flip the pancakes and most of them couldn't and that made me cool, or sweeeet, or awesome, or whatever it is that nerdy parents are when they temporarily enter the Dude Zone.
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Saving The Best For When?
Being home during half term not only affords the time with the children, but also gives ample opportunity to watch a bit of trashy daytime television. I'm glad I don't watch it all the time as I think my brain would implode! Although I have to admit, some days vegging in front of the television for half hour is just what I need and I do, on the odd occasion, actually enjoy it.
One short programme today, however, debated and highlighted the need for 'best'. Why exactly do we save things for 'best'?
This is a debate I used to have with Andy on a frequent basis. Usually fuelled by his desire to hoard seven shades of rubbish around the house and my equally contrasting desire to rid the house of all things unnecessary and use the good stuff. I'm of the mindset if it's rubbish, get rid of it, if you haven't used it for six months, get rid of it, if it's ugly, get rid of it, if you're keeping it out of loyalty to somebody who bought it for you but you can't stand the sight of it, get rid of it... you get the gist. I live on the theory that you have one life and although there are factors beyond your control that you just have to settle for, there are the simpler things in life that really don't require the waste of thinking time. For instance, I can never understand why people buy good quality wine glasses, put them away in a cabinet and then drink the majority of the time from some piece of cheap tack they picked up in Argos or Woolworths. If wine is worth drinking - drink it well. Maybe there is more chance the glass will break, but at least it's been broken in joyful use and not left gathering dust for an occasion that might not happen.
So, why do people save things for 'best'? Why are we made to feel guilty if we have something nice? If we want nice things, then why not have them? I'm not implying we need buy everything at top range or adorn ourselves and our homes in designer labels, but just having nice things brings a little more enjoyment to life. And I'm not saying that by using cheap stuff it means you yourself are cheap! I merely mean that it's not a bad thing to sometimes enjoy nice things and to have a few 'guilty' pleasures - providing they're within your financial means and not done in an attitude of ostentation. Maybe it's an attitude more of us need to live by - life's hard enough at the moment - why not take some of the simpler things we have and make them just that little bit better - after all, don't we ALL deserve it?
One short programme today, however, debated and highlighted the need for 'best'. Why exactly do we save things for 'best'?
This is a debate I used to have with Andy on a frequent basis. Usually fuelled by his desire to hoard seven shades of rubbish around the house and my equally contrasting desire to rid the house of all things unnecessary and use the good stuff. I'm of the mindset if it's rubbish, get rid of it, if you haven't used it for six months, get rid of it, if it's ugly, get rid of it, if you're keeping it out of loyalty to somebody who bought it for you but you can't stand the sight of it, get rid of it... you get the gist. I live on the theory that you have one life and although there are factors beyond your control that you just have to settle for, there are the simpler things in life that really don't require the waste of thinking time. For instance, I can never understand why people buy good quality wine glasses, put them away in a cabinet and then drink the majority of the time from some piece of cheap tack they picked up in Argos or Woolworths. If wine is worth drinking - drink it well. Maybe there is more chance the glass will break, but at least it's been broken in joyful use and not left gathering dust for an occasion that might not happen.
So, why do people save things for 'best'? Why are we made to feel guilty if we have something nice? If we want nice things, then why not have them? I'm not implying we need buy everything at top range or adorn ourselves and our homes in designer labels, but just having nice things brings a little more enjoyment to life. And I'm not saying that by using cheap stuff it means you yourself are cheap! I merely mean that it's not a bad thing to sometimes enjoy nice things and to have a few 'guilty' pleasures - providing they're within your financial means and not done in an attitude of ostentation. Maybe it's an attitude more of us need to live by - life's hard enough at the moment - why not take some of the simpler things we have and make them just that little bit better - after all, don't we ALL deserve it?
Monday, 16 February 2009
Just being...
Most days I cope well and put a brave face on. Today isn't one of those days.
I need closure, but doors are being prised open. I need to be and I'm not being. I need peace and I'm getting conflict. I need understanding and I'm getting muted confusion.
I'm not enjoying being me at the moment, because I'm not allowed to be.
I need closure, but doors are being prised open. I need to be and I'm not being. I need peace and I'm getting conflict. I need understanding and I'm getting muted confusion.
I'm not enjoying being me at the moment, because I'm not allowed to be.
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Childhood Traumas and Triumphs - Have They Made Me The Woman I Am Today?
Most people look back at their childhood with fond memories. I recently saw a friend I hadn't seen in over twenty years. It was lovely to chat over dinner and wine and just recall people we liked, people we disliked, who was friends with who, who did what and also our childhood perceptions of our peers and teachers. We also talked of the silly things that we did and how looking back on the time it affected who we are today, as well of speaking about where we're at with our lives at the moment.
So, why is it that my memories seem to be of trivial things? I can recall no incident that specifically pinpoints a time in my life where I can confidently say that an event or person influenced me. So, my memories are tragically lame, but for reasons unknown to me, they're as vivid as though they happened yesterday. Here's a small selection.
1. Somebody nicked my Weebles.
I was only 8 and I loved my Weebles. I had the whole family. I even think I had a playground for them with a slide and swing and seesaw. I spent hours playing with them. I was actually the envy of the whole estate as my Weeble collection surpassed all others.
Our house was an end terrace and the outer wall was brick and interspersed were holes in the wall to allow the wind to tunnel through. These holes were perfect look-out posts for my Weebles, so one evening when my Mum called me in for dinner I put them 'on guard', positioned them in a row, gave instructions and headed in for dinner.
To my utmost horror, when I returned, each and every Weeble had gone! I never heard them call for help and I can still recall standing there in the garden welling up with tears wondering where they'd gone. I was absolutely devastated.
I never did get them back and to this day I know the person who nicked them because they were insanely jealous that their mother wouldn't buy them any. To this day she'd deny all knowledge if I confronted her, but I'm kind of figuring at the age of 36 it would be a wee bit immature to settle the score. Actually, come to think of it, she fancied Paul Brandon and I got to kiss him down an alley first, so that's sweet justice.
So, why is it that my memories seem to be of trivial things? I can recall no incident that specifically pinpoints a time in my life where I can confidently say that an event or person influenced me. So, my memories are tragically lame, but for reasons unknown to me, they're as vivid as though they happened yesterday. Here's a small selection.
1. Somebody nicked my Weebles.
I was only 8 and I loved my Weebles. I had the whole family. I even think I had a playground for them with a slide and swing and seesaw. I spent hours playing with them. I was actually the envy of the whole estate as my Weeble collection surpassed all others.
Our house was an end terrace and the outer wall was brick and interspersed were holes in the wall to allow the wind to tunnel through. These holes were perfect look-out posts for my Weebles, so one evening when my Mum called me in for dinner I put them 'on guard', positioned them in a row, gave instructions and headed in for dinner.
To my utmost horror, when I returned, each and every Weeble had gone! I never heard them call for help and I can still recall standing there in the garden welling up with tears wondering where they'd gone. I was absolutely devastated.
I never did get them back and to this day I know the person who nicked them because they were insanely jealous that their mother wouldn't buy them any. To this day she'd deny all knowledge if I confronted her, but I'm kind of figuring at the age of 36 it would be a wee bit immature to settle the score. Actually, come to think of it, she fancied Paul Brandon and I got to kiss him down an alley first, so that's sweet justice.
2. Crawford Duff pulled the bobble off my bobble hat.
Again, a traumatic experience at the tender age of 8. It was winter and my Mum had bought me a new scarf and hat. These were the winters where the playground would ice over and teachers weren't anal about letting you slide around on it. I remember all the girls would tie their scarves together, forming a long chain that everybody else would hang on to and we'd pull them along like a long slithering snake on the ice. Your scarf would end up three times its original length at the end of the day.
But for some reason, Crawford Duff never joined in. He was a big lumbering fellow - absolutely enormous and kind of baffoonish - lovely chap but just clumsy. I was quite nice to him at school, but my kind manner left me vulnerable as one day he walked past me, placed his dinner plate hand on my head, pushed my hat down and in one swift movement, yanked the bobble off my bobble hat. Then he ran off with it. My hat was never the same again and I didn't speak to Crawford for a week after that. I wonder if he still has my bobble....?
Again, a traumatic experience at the tender age of 8. It was winter and my Mum had bought me a new scarf and hat. These were the winters where the playground would ice over and teachers weren't anal about letting you slide around on it. I remember all the girls would tie their scarves together, forming a long chain that everybody else would hang on to and we'd pull them along like a long slithering snake on the ice. Your scarf would end up three times its original length at the end of the day.
But for some reason, Crawford Duff never joined in. He was a big lumbering fellow - absolutely enormous and kind of baffoonish - lovely chap but just clumsy. I was quite nice to him at school, but my kind manner left me vulnerable as one day he walked past me, placed his dinner plate hand on my head, pushed my hat down and in one swift movement, yanked the bobble off my bobble hat. Then he ran off with it. My hat was never the same again and I didn't speak to Crawford for a week after that. I wonder if he still has my bobble....?
3. Got stuck up a cherry tree scrumping.
But this cherry tree had a fork in the trunk so it resembled a giant catapult, so me and one other friend hoiked ourselves up this tree, sat in the divide and merrily picked away, throwing the cherries down to other third friend holding the carrier bag for our spoils.
Then the owner came down the garden and saw us. But we were wedged in. Try as we might to get out of the 'V' we couldn't move. Even our friend yanking our legs to try and extract us didn't work, so we had to stay put and incur the wrath of the cherry tree owner.
As luck would have it, they were also the days when home owners understood mischief in children and didn't assume they were little vandals. The guy laughed so hard and ended up getting his ladder out to help us down and for our sheer cheek he let us keep the cherries, but with a stern warning that if he found us up there again he'd frogmarch us back to our parents for a clip round the ear. Top bloke he was! I can't actually recall what my Mum did with the cherries.
4. Two school friends carrying my books and pushing my bike home.
I think I was about 14 for this one. These two schoolfriends were boys I grew up on my estate with and subsequently went to school with. Both of them were little buggers at school and were renowned for messing about, roughing up other boys and generally being little pests. But I liked them and whilst other people shunned them and ignored them, I had a good time with them.
One of these guys came over for dinner this week. This is the guy mentioned at the beginning of this post. I asked him if he remembered at the age of 14, with another friend, suddenly running up behind me on the way home, grabbing my book bag off me and pulling my bike away from me. He handed the bike to his friend and between the two of them, walked the mile home to my house with me carrying my books and pushing my bike for me.
The only trepidation I had was that these two were practical jokers and I can clearly recall wondering on the way home that at any moment they would both break into a sprint or hop on my bike and ride off with my belongings. They never did. They even came up to my back gate, opened it for me and put my bike in the shed and took my bags to the door. Then promptly turned on heel, said they'd see me the next day and walked off!
I asked him this week why he did it and he said, 'you deserved it'. Apparently I was one of the few girls in school that treated him normally and spoke to him as though he were a normal person and gave him the time of day. And he recalled it as vividly as I had - 22 years after the event.
It's funny what sticks in your memory over time and these are memories I know will stay with me till my dying day, even though they are completely random and insignificant.
I think I was about 14 for this one. These two schoolfriends were boys I grew up on my estate with and subsequently went to school with. Both of them were little buggers at school and were renowned for messing about, roughing up other boys and generally being little pests. But I liked them and whilst other people shunned them and ignored them, I had a good time with them.
One of these guys came over for dinner this week. This is the guy mentioned at the beginning of this post. I asked him if he remembered at the age of 14, with another friend, suddenly running up behind me on the way home, grabbing my book bag off me and pulling my bike away from me. He handed the bike to his friend and between the two of them, walked the mile home to my house with me carrying my books and pushing my bike for me.
The only trepidation I had was that these two were practical jokers and I can clearly recall wondering on the way home that at any moment they would both break into a sprint or hop on my bike and ride off with my belongings. They never did. They even came up to my back gate, opened it for me and put my bike in the shed and took my bags to the door. Then promptly turned on heel, said they'd see me the next day and walked off!
I asked him this week why he did it and he said, 'you deserved it'. Apparently I was one of the few girls in school that treated him normally and spoke to him as though he were a normal person and gave him the time of day. And he recalled it as vividly as I had - 22 years after the event.
It's funny what sticks in your memory over time and these are memories I know will stay with me till my dying day, even though they are completely random and insignificant.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Shrink Request
Dear God,
yesterday the heating at our office went kaput. The effects of this were noticeable, not only through my discomfort at having to sit in a corporate igloo, but also by the fact that when I tried those lovely shoes on, my feet had shrunk a whole half size.
So, please dear God, can you extend the condition to the remainder of my body? It's been a while since I slipped into a size 12.
Amen
yesterday the heating at our office went kaput. The effects of this were noticeable, not only through my discomfort at having to sit in a corporate igloo, but also by the fact that when I tried those lovely shoes on, my feet had shrunk a whole half size.
So, please dear God, can you extend the condition to the remainder of my body? It's been a while since I slipped into a size 12.
Amen
Monday, 9 February 2009
I Only Went to Get a Sandwich
Tesco sells nice hoisin duck wraps and I love them. My inability to get out of bed this morning meant I had to go into town to buy lunch.
But Tesco also sell these
But Tesco also sell these
and right next door in NEXT they sell these (my emphasis at the moment being on the shoes).
So, the equation: Sandwich +/- chocolate bar +/- rather pretty shoes = woman with dilemma.
I'm a woman and I've only got a limited amount of willpower.
I'll give you a clue - I didn't buy the chocolate ;-)
Monday, 2 February 2009
The Good Childhood Enquiry
The following has severely cheesed me off. Quoted from the latest survey probably carried out by peoplewith no children of their own. I'm off on one already!!!
What gives anybody the right to suggest that as a working mother I am damaging my children? What right does ANYBODY have to even merely suggest the fact that my having to work is psychologically damaging my children and how dare they suggest that by my working I am contributing to them having behavioural problems.
Complete rubbish!
I've always worked. From the day I was 15 and got my first Saturday job, right until the present day. Apart from taking time off that was due to me for maternity leave and sick absence I have never shirked a day's work in my life. My children have grown up with a mother they know goes to work. They have grown up knowing that my income has kept a roof over their head, paid for their school trips, bought the extra DVDs and sweets they want and also paid for birthday presents and Christmas presents.
My children have grown up knowing that women have the ability to use their brains outside the home rather than be stuck in doing the cooking, cleaning and other chores. I am sick and tired of hearing stay at home parents bleating on about how hard their lives are because of the demands of their children. They're lucky and they're priviliged to be in a situation where they can stay home. I didn't get that luxury bestowed on me.
My daughters know that their education will be worth something. They know that when they leave school, hopefully with good grades, they can use them to their advantage, not tuck them away to rot and fester for 10 years while they stay home bringing up their children.
I am angry that by working I'm accused of wanting economic independence. Of course I do - it's called being able to pay the bills!!! It's all part of being my own woman - why should I have to stand cap in hand in front of a man waiting for my housekeep cheque? I'm capable of earning my own money - what was the point of me getting my education if I couldn't use it to the advantage of my family?
And as for the behaviour problems. Know what? It makes no difference whether a woman works or not. It's how she brings up her children that counts. It's about making the right choices about who you leave your children with, who you let them play with and how you bring them up in the home. There are unfortunately unpleasant who and between them have both working mothers and stay at home mothers. Equally there are some fantastic children and again, some have working mothers, others stay at home.
So, if I'm such a bad mother because I abandon my children in pursuit of my own economic and selfish pursuit of self fulfillment, why is it that EVERYBODY comments to me how lovely my children are? Why am I always being told they are polite, friendly children who engage in conversation freely and have impeccable manners? Why is it that my children often get invited to parties and to play dates at other houses?
I'll tell you why. Because between us, their father and I have used the time we do have with them to maximum benefit. We have taught them manners. We have taught them right from wrong. We have taught them that it's OK to be angry about things and how to behave when you're angry. We've taught them that it's OK to have a laugh about things and we've played with them. We've taken them out regularly and we've taught them things. We have answered their questions when they've asked and we've helped with homework. We have played puzzles and hide and seek and ghosts under the duvet - all the things that stay at home parents do.
In fact, I've probably made MORE of an effort to engage in these things with my children, because of the limited time I have with them, but I'm now beyond being apologetic for working. My children are doing just fine thank you very much. In fact, I'd be curious to see these some parents even manage to attempt to fit in what I do in a day and bring up four children.
It's a very, very sensitive subject to me.
Working mothers
It cites research suggesting that three times as many three year olds living with lone parents or a step-parent have behavioural problems compared with those living with married parents.
"Children with separate, single or step parents are 50% more likely to fail at school, have low esteem, be unpopular with other children and have behavioural difficulties, anxiety or depression," it argues.
"Child-rearing is one of the most challenging tasks in life and ideally it requires two people," the report concludes.
It also suggests that having many more working mothers has contributed to the damage done to children.
"Most women now work and their new economic independence contributes to levels of family break-up which are higher in the UK than in any other Western European country."
What gives anybody the right to suggest that as a working mother I am damaging my children? What right does ANYBODY have to even merely suggest the fact that my having to work is psychologically damaging my children and how dare they suggest that by my working I am contributing to them having behavioural problems.
Complete rubbish!
I've always worked. From the day I was 15 and got my first Saturday job, right until the present day. Apart from taking time off that was due to me for maternity leave and sick absence I have never shirked a day's work in my life. My children have grown up with a mother they know goes to work. They have grown up knowing that my income has kept a roof over their head, paid for their school trips, bought the extra DVDs and sweets they want and also paid for birthday presents and Christmas presents.
My children have grown up knowing that women have the ability to use their brains outside the home rather than be stuck in doing the cooking, cleaning and other chores. I am sick and tired of hearing stay at home parents bleating on about how hard their lives are because of the demands of their children. They're lucky and they're priviliged to be in a situation where they can stay home. I didn't get that luxury bestowed on me.
My daughters know that their education will be worth something. They know that when they leave school, hopefully with good grades, they can use them to their advantage, not tuck them away to rot and fester for 10 years while they stay home bringing up their children.
I am angry that by working I'm accused of wanting economic independence. Of course I do - it's called being able to pay the bills!!! It's all part of being my own woman - why should I have to stand cap in hand in front of a man waiting for my housekeep cheque? I'm capable of earning my own money - what was the point of me getting my education if I couldn't use it to the advantage of my family?
And as for the behaviour problems. Know what? It makes no difference whether a woman works or not. It's how she brings up her children that counts. It's about making the right choices about who you leave your children with, who you let them play with and how you bring them up in the home. There are unfortunately unpleasant who and between them have both working mothers and stay at home mothers. Equally there are some fantastic children and again, some have working mothers, others stay at home.
So, if I'm such a bad mother because I abandon my children in pursuit of my own economic and selfish pursuit of self fulfillment, why is it that EVERYBODY comments to me how lovely my children are? Why am I always being told they are polite, friendly children who engage in conversation freely and have impeccable manners? Why is it that my children often get invited to parties and to play dates at other houses?
I'll tell you why. Because between us, their father and I have used the time we do have with them to maximum benefit. We have taught them manners. We have taught them right from wrong. We have taught them that it's OK to be angry about things and how to behave when you're angry. We've taught them that it's OK to have a laugh about things and we've played with them. We've taken them out regularly and we've taught them things. We have answered their questions when they've asked and we've helped with homework. We have played puzzles and hide and seek and ghosts under the duvet - all the things that stay at home parents do.
In fact, I've probably made MORE of an effort to engage in these things with my children, because of the limited time I have with them, but I'm now beyond being apologetic for working. My children are doing just fine thank you very much. In fact, I'd be curious to see these some parents even manage to attempt to fit in what I do in a day and bring up four children.
It's a very, very sensitive subject to me.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Sunday, 25 January 2009
25 Random Things
I was tagged recently on my Facebook page from a friend in America. I haven't got round to doing it on there yet, but thought it was a good place to start with a thread on here. So, here goes; 25 random things about me.
1. I'm 5'6" tall. With a Dad who's 6'2½" and a Mum who's only diddy at 5'2" I thought I'd be in the middle and hit 5'8". I've been done out of 2".
2. I love wearing high heels. All my friends know that!
3. I am a prolific reader - when I get the time - I'll read anything. But, I can not stand to be read to. Even as a child I would rather read alone at bedtime than having a story read to me.
4. I'm right handed but eat left handed.
5. I have a birth mark the shape, colour and size of a hen's egg at the middle of my left thigh.
6. I can touch-type.
7. I'm a good cook. A day of relaxation for me is an undisturbed day in the kitchen baking. Don't ask me to make you a cup of tea though as my tea is awful. I drink coffee.
8. The top of my right ear is folded over slightly where I lay on it in my Mum's womb.
9. I love listening to piano music. It's one instrument I'd love to learn to play.
10. There are three things that frighten me. Not girlie frighten, but REALLY frighten me. Dustbin lorries and refuse collectors, clowns and spiders. Dustbin men because as a child a refuse collector jokingly picked me up and pretended to throw me in the cart. My screams brought my Dad out of the garden and the scene was not pretty! I've been scared of them ever since and I shake when I'm near them. I can't walk past them without being scared out of my wits. Clowns are sinister and make me feel uncomfortable. Spiders are spiders - I'm a girl, no other explanation needed. Wierd thing is, I can happily pick up Daddy Long Legs though.
11. Any form of regurgitation makes me heave. I can't watch people on television eating if the camera is close up to their mouth. I can't watch people brushing their teeth and I can't watch nature programmes where birds feed their young. I even run the tap and close my eyes when spitting out toothpaste as it makes me gag. Footballers who spit on the pitch are vile.
12. I always put my lipstick on before brushing my teeth, then reapply it.
13. I wanted to join the CID when I was young, but was too young to join Hendon, so stayed on and did A'levels instead. I'm not sure why I didn't join after doing them. I still regret not working through and getting my degree so I could do it.
14. I have four children. I wanted more than two and couldn't stop at three because three didn't feel right. I am the youngest of three and it didn't work.
15. I believe in God. I can't accept that the world around us was caused by a chemical reaction. I have a friend who is a staunch Darwinist - there have been many a night where me and him have debated the whole issue into the early hours.
16. My favourite novel is Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronté. I've never read a story so haunting and captivating. I love it.
17. I'm a neat freak. Everything has to be tidy - even the larder - with four children I daily lose the battle and it drives me nuts. I can't cope with clutter.
18. My favourite colour is purple.
19. I love facial scars and imperfections on men. Lines are good too. Pretty boys need to stay home with Mummy.
20. I have blue fairy lights around my pc screen. I love fairy lights.
21. I enjoy ironing. I find it therapeutic.
22. I'm a tecchno-numpty. Half the gadgets I've got I can't use properly.
23. I started smoking when I was 11. I smoked on and off throughout my teens and gave up when I was 19 after having my fourth bout of bronchitis. With an auntie and grandparent both dying of oesophagus cancer and having a Mum who had pleuracy a lot, it dawned on me that I was probably signing my early death warrant. I have a weak chest anyway and suffer frequent bouts of costal chondritis.
24. My eyes appear different colours at times, sometimes they're blue, other times green, other times grey.
25. I like things that a lot of women would like to admit to liking, but don't, for fear of criticism.
Oh blow it, I've got a lot to say. Here's a few more!
26. I can't breath properly through my nose.
27. I like doing logic problems.
28. My biggest dislike of people is those who have to have an audience to humiliate somebody. In my opinion, that's the lowest you can go.
29. Penguins make me laugh.
30. I have no sense of direction. I can't understand GPS, have no idea how to read a map and don't understand road layouts, - I'm totally useless. I have enough of a job finding somewhere, but having to get back doing it backwards is beyond me - it's a long standing joke with my friends.
1. I'm 5'6" tall. With a Dad who's 6'2½" and a Mum who's only diddy at 5'2" I thought I'd be in the middle and hit 5'8". I've been done out of 2".
2. I love wearing high heels. All my friends know that!
3. I am a prolific reader - when I get the time - I'll read anything. But, I can not stand to be read to. Even as a child I would rather read alone at bedtime than having a story read to me.
4. I'm right handed but eat left handed.
5. I have a birth mark the shape, colour and size of a hen's egg at the middle of my left thigh.
6. I can touch-type.
7. I'm a good cook. A day of relaxation for me is an undisturbed day in the kitchen baking. Don't ask me to make you a cup of tea though as my tea is awful. I drink coffee.
8. The top of my right ear is folded over slightly where I lay on it in my Mum's womb.
9. I love listening to piano music. It's one instrument I'd love to learn to play.
10. There are three things that frighten me. Not girlie frighten, but REALLY frighten me. Dustbin lorries and refuse collectors, clowns and spiders. Dustbin men because as a child a refuse collector jokingly picked me up and pretended to throw me in the cart. My screams brought my Dad out of the garden and the scene was not pretty! I've been scared of them ever since and I shake when I'm near them. I can't walk past them without being scared out of my wits. Clowns are sinister and make me feel uncomfortable. Spiders are spiders - I'm a girl, no other explanation needed. Wierd thing is, I can happily pick up Daddy Long Legs though.
11. Any form of regurgitation makes me heave. I can't watch people on television eating if the camera is close up to their mouth. I can't watch people brushing their teeth and I can't watch nature programmes where birds feed their young. I even run the tap and close my eyes when spitting out toothpaste as it makes me gag. Footballers who spit on the pitch are vile.
12. I always put my lipstick on before brushing my teeth, then reapply it.
13. I wanted to join the CID when I was young, but was too young to join Hendon, so stayed on and did A'levels instead. I'm not sure why I didn't join after doing them. I still regret not working through and getting my degree so I could do it.
14. I have four children. I wanted more than two and couldn't stop at three because three didn't feel right. I am the youngest of three and it didn't work.
15. I believe in God. I can't accept that the world around us was caused by a chemical reaction. I have a friend who is a staunch Darwinist - there have been many a night where me and him have debated the whole issue into the early hours.
16. My favourite novel is Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronté. I've never read a story so haunting and captivating. I love it.
17. I'm a neat freak. Everything has to be tidy - even the larder - with four children I daily lose the battle and it drives me nuts. I can't cope with clutter.
18. My favourite colour is purple.
19. I love facial scars and imperfections on men. Lines are good too. Pretty boys need to stay home with Mummy.
20. I have blue fairy lights around my pc screen. I love fairy lights.
21. I enjoy ironing. I find it therapeutic.
22. I'm a tecchno-numpty. Half the gadgets I've got I can't use properly.
23. I started smoking when I was 11. I smoked on and off throughout my teens and gave up when I was 19 after having my fourth bout of bronchitis. With an auntie and grandparent both dying of oesophagus cancer and having a Mum who had pleuracy a lot, it dawned on me that I was probably signing my early death warrant. I have a weak chest anyway and suffer frequent bouts of costal chondritis.
24. My eyes appear different colours at times, sometimes they're blue, other times green, other times grey.
25. I like things that a lot of women would like to admit to liking, but don't, for fear of criticism.
Oh blow it, I've got a lot to say. Here's a few more!
26. I can't breath properly through my nose.
27. I like doing logic problems.
28. My biggest dislike of people is those who have to have an audience to humiliate somebody. In my opinion, that's the lowest you can go.
29. Penguins make me laugh.
30. I have no sense of direction. I can't understand GPS, have no idea how to read a map and don't understand road layouts, - I'm totally useless. I have enough of a job finding somewhere, but having to get back doing it backwards is beyond me - it's a long standing joke with my friends.
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Fancy a Pint?
I felt quite good today because I was finally allowed to give blood. I've been prevented up until now due to body piercings and pregnancies.
I felt even better when I found that one of the staff was an old friend I hadn't seen for twenty years and he's just the same lovely guy I knew then. And he's still just as crazy because he's still climbing without ropes even after falling off a mountain years ago and breaking both his legs.
Then I felt good coming back to work, because if more people gave blood, more people would survive nasty accidents like my friend who came off his motorbike years ago, skidded fifty feet on his head, landed head first in railings and tore our souls apart by staying in a coma. Then I felt good about giving blood because the people who gave him their blood saved his life and instead of being in the vegetative state the doctors warned us he'd be in the for the rest of his life, he survived the brain operation and walked out of the hospital thanking the nurses as he went. I feel good because I still see him and it's great to hug a person who makes you laugh who you thought you'd never see again.
And now I still feel good because one of my closest friends has gone a clear year since having the cancer removed from her liver after collapsing on her son's birthday. I feel good because the night I received the phone call to say she was likely to die, the people who gave all the blood to her because her own liver was bleeding so profusely saved her life too. She was sad a while ago because she's 42 next month. I reminded her she nearly didn't make it to her 40th and that I was glad she was 42 because it meant I still had my friend.
It's only just under a pint and it doesn't take long. Why don't more people do it?
I felt even better when I found that one of the staff was an old friend I hadn't seen for twenty years and he's just the same lovely guy I knew then. And he's still just as crazy because he's still climbing without ropes even after falling off a mountain years ago and breaking both his legs.
Then I felt good coming back to work, because if more people gave blood, more people would survive nasty accidents like my friend who came off his motorbike years ago, skidded fifty feet on his head, landed head first in railings and tore our souls apart by staying in a coma. Then I felt good about giving blood because the people who gave him their blood saved his life and instead of being in the vegetative state the doctors warned us he'd be in the for the rest of his life, he survived the brain operation and walked out of the hospital thanking the nurses as he went. I feel good because I still see him and it's great to hug a person who makes you laugh who you thought you'd never see again.
And now I still feel good because one of my closest friends has gone a clear year since having the cancer removed from her liver after collapsing on her son's birthday. I feel good because the night I received the phone call to say she was likely to die, the people who gave all the blood to her because her own liver was bleeding so profusely saved her life too. She was sad a while ago because she's 42 next month. I reminded her she nearly didn't make it to her 40th and that I was glad she was 42 because it meant I still had my friend.
It's only just under a pint and it doesn't take long. Why don't more people do it?
Monday, 19 January 2009
The Gym
I dragged my sorry butt down there today for the assessment I've been meaning to do for the past two months. But why, oh why, did I book it for the busiest time on the busiest day of the week so that I could look a completely gormless novice gonk in front of everybody?
I really don't know how I'm going to get through the next 12 weeks. My doubts being further exacerbated by the trainer's insistence that I'd get quicker results if I visit 3-4 times per week. Hello dude, it took two months to get this visit in - are you having a laugh? I've promised I'll do 2-3. After all, if I want the results, I've got to put the effort in.
Then there's the ball. I don't think he quite appreciated my apprehension at using that, considering the last time I used one I was giving birth. Big giant bouncy balls = intense pain. But then, maybe that's the point. Then I'm asked if I can lift my body weight. UH HELLO!!!! I struggled to do 15 reps with a 4kg weight in each hand - do I look like Hercules?!!
And please. What's with the blokes in front of the mirrors? They claim it's to check their posture, but do they really need four other blokes round them admiring their finely honed physiques? I've come to the conclusion that girls visit the toilets in pairs, men go down the gym in pairs. Maybe the boostering testosterone levels call for the pack effect.
Also, apparently I have high calf muscles - caused by wearing high heels. His advice; wear lower ones. I don't think so. I like my heels. Come up with another solution Buster cos it ain't gonna happen. So he did. Sadist. Rolling my calf musles over a stiff foam pad to stretch out the knots was just plain cruel. Then I had to do the other leg!
But the one thing I did go for - I'm not allowed to do at the moment. Abs. Anything abdominal causes intense pain in my lower back, so the muscles have to be strengthened. The solution being that somehow using the ball again, pushed with feet flat against the wall I adopt an Eddie the Eagle pose and somehow push up to work the muscle. That hurt!
I really don't know how I'm going to get through the next 12 weeks. My doubts being further exacerbated by the trainer's insistence that I'd get quicker results if I visit 3-4 times per week. Hello dude, it took two months to get this visit in - are you having a laugh? I've promised I'll do 2-3. After all, if I want the results, I've got to put the effort in.
Then there's the ball. I don't think he quite appreciated my apprehension at using that, considering the last time I used one I was giving birth. Big giant bouncy balls = intense pain. But then, maybe that's the point. Then I'm asked if I can lift my body weight. UH HELLO!!!! I struggled to do 15 reps with a 4kg weight in each hand - do I look like Hercules?!!
And please. What's with the blokes in front of the mirrors? They claim it's to check their posture, but do they really need four other blokes round them admiring their finely honed physiques? I've come to the conclusion that girls visit the toilets in pairs, men go down the gym in pairs. Maybe the boostering testosterone levels call for the pack effect.
Also, apparently I have high calf muscles - caused by wearing high heels. His advice; wear lower ones. I don't think so. I like my heels. Come up with another solution Buster cos it ain't gonna happen. So he did. Sadist. Rolling my calf musles over a stiff foam pad to stretch out the knots was just plain cruel. Then I had to do the other leg!
But the one thing I did go for - I'm not allowed to do at the moment. Abs. Anything abdominal causes intense pain in my lower back, so the muscles have to be strengthened. The solution being that somehow using the ball again, pushed with feet flat against the wall I adopt an Eddie the Eagle pose and somehow push up to work the muscle. That hurt!
Sunday, 7 September 2008
Who Owns Me?
I don't carry a donor card. I used to but over the years I seem to have misplaced it. I used to give blood until I was told to take a year out due to my body piercing. Time has rolled on and I've done nothing to revert back to carrying the card or offering my blood again.
I had a rethink this week when the government rolled out plans to consider the opting out of organ donation. Transplant waiting lists are long and people are dying every day who have perfectly good organs that could save a life or many lives in some cases. In the UK we have a poor rate of organ donation as opposed to our European neighbours. To this respect do we have the right to retain ownership of our bodily parts after we die, or is it ethically right for the medical profession to harvest them after our death if we have not specifically barred consent?
So, if the legislation goes ahead, do I opt out and prevent them taking what they want, or do I remain as I am and allow them to assume that as I haven't opted out, I'm happy for them to have whatever is needed at the time? It's an emotive decision as it doesn't just involve me. Or does it? When does my body not become my own anymore? I like to think that my body is just that, mine - to do with as I please. But at some points in my life legalities have taken that right away from me. Up to 24 weeks of pregnancy I retain ownership of a baby growing inside me. At any point until then I can destroy that life and have it removed from me without any recompense or worries of legal action being brought against me. After 24 weeks, no matter how I feel, I have no option but to accept that a part of my body is now 'owned' by a national establishment. When the baby is born I resume ownership as I then have the choice whether to keep the baby or give it up. In cases where mothers are mentally incapable of bringing up a child the decision is made for them, but my argument here is with people who are fully in control of their mental faculties and completely aware of the decisions they are facing with regard to ownership of their bodies.
So, where is the line drawn? If I choose not to opt out, I'm giving permission for the surgeons to open me up and take what they like. Can I choose to specify what they can and can't take? Would it be judicious for me to do this? For what reason would I be selective? My husband has always said that he would allow my organs to be taken, but not my eyes. It's a part of me he doesn't want removed from me. When speaking to him earlier this week about his feelings regarding this I asked him whether it was fair to allow this sentimentality to prevent somebody else from having the gift of sight. After all, they're no use to me or him when I'm gone - so why not let somebody benefit from them - surely it would be better for a part of me he loves to live on in another person?
I firmly believe that when I'm dead, that's it. I have my own thoughts about my soul, but my organic body - what use is it to bury me complete? Why waste me? By allowing the state to claim ownership of my body prior to burial makes sense. It relieves my family of responsibility. Their job after my death is to dispose of me - not drag out ownership. Does it really matter that they bury only 60% of my physical body or whatever is left of me after my useful bits have been removed? Surely their obligation in their memory of me is to the person I was when I was alive, not what's left remaining in a box.
Developing this thought further, I do believe the opt out scheme is feasible. Many people oppose it. They worry that doctors will declare deaths much sooner knowing they can get in there and harvest organs. They worry that the extent to which a life will be fought for will diminish and life support machines will be turned off earlier than they would have been in the past. I don't believe this. There is rigid set of tests to confirm the presence of brain death and I truly believe these will still be adhered to, no matter where the law stands with regard to organ donation.
For relatives I believe the pain of having to make the decision during a time of unimaginable grief will be lifted. It's hard enough to deal with losing a loved one, especially unexpectedly, without having to be rational about somebody cutting them open and removing bits from them. Knowing that your loved one could be increasing somebody else chances should bring comfort, especially as with the current system of opting in the percentage chance of being a match via a random selective process is minimal. Imagine the increased percentage match if more people were deemed to be suitable.
But where does suitability lie? Do we live our lives knowing that one day a surgeon will be looking at our organs making choices as to whether they're good enough to put inside someone else? Will this make us aware of what we're doing to our bodies? Will it make us look after ourselves? Will it give people with low self-esteem a bit of a boost knowing that some day they'll be invaluable, even when they're not aware of it? If you feel good giving blood, imagine your euphoria at knowing your body can save at least six people. It certainly gives incentive to stop people abusing themselves.
The debate is continuous. I could ask about ownership of my childrens bodies. Do I have the consent until they are legally able to take that decision for themselves? What if I'm mentally ill - does the person with power of attorney over my affairs have the moral and ethical right to make that decision on my behalf? Where does ownership lie? If I'm pregnant and lie brain dead does my partner have the right to insist on me being kept alive to allow my child to grow and then relinquish ownership when the child is born? Where is the line drawn?
But one thing I am certain of. If I choose to opt out and deny another person the right to increased life expectancy, then I have absolutely no right to expect to receive an organ during my life should the need arise. If I opt out of donation, then by association I believe that should be viewed as opting out of receiving and I forfeit the right to organ transplantation.
I had a rethink this week when the government rolled out plans to consider the opting out of organ donation. Transplant waiting lists are long and people are dying every day who have perfectly good organs that could save a life or many lives in some cases. In the UK we have a poor rate of organ donation as opposed to our European neighbours. To this respect do we have the right to retain ownership of our bodily parts after we die, or is it ethically right for the medical profession to harvest them after our death if we have not specifically barred consent?
So, if the legislation goes ahead, do I opt out and prevent them taking what they want, or do I remain as I am and allow them to assume that as I haven't opted out, I'm happy for them to have whatever is needed at the time? It's an emotive decision as it doesn't just involve me. Or does it? When does my body not become my own anymore? I like to think that my body is just that, mine - to do with as I please. But at some points in my life legalities have taken that right away from me. Up to 24 weeks of pregnancy I retain ownership of a baby growing inside me. At any point until then I can destroy that life and have it removed from me without any recompense or worries of legal action being brought against me. After 24 weeks, no matter how I feel, I have no option but to accept that a part of my body is now 'owned' by a national establishment. When the baby is born I resume ownership as I then have the choice whether to keep the baby or give it up. In cases where mothers are mentally incapable of bringing up a child the decision is made for them, but my argument here is with people who are fully in control of their mental faculties and completely aware of the decisions they are facing with regard to ownership of their bodies.
So, where is the line drawn? If I choose not to opt out, I'm giving permission for the surgeons to open me up and take what they like. Can I choose to specify what they can and can't take? Would it be judicious for me to do this? For what reason would I be selective? My husband has always said that he would allow my organs to be taken, but not my eyes. It's a part of me he doesn't want removed from me. When speaking to him earlier this week about his feelings regarding this I asked him whether it was fair to allow this sentimentality to prevent somebody else from having the gift of sight. After all, they're no use to me or him when I'm gone - so why not let somebody benefit from them - surely it would be better for a part of me he loves to live on in another person?
I firmly believe that when I'm dead, that's it. I have my own thoughts about my soul, but my organic body - what use is it to bury me complete? Why waste me? By allowing the state to claim ownership of my body prior to burial makes sense. It relieves my family of responsibility. Their job after my death is to dispose of me - not drag out ownership. Does it really matter that they bury only 60% of my physical body or whatever is left of me after my useful bits have been removed? Surely their obligation in their memory of me is to the person I was when I was alive, not what's left remaining in a box.
Developing this thought further, I do believe the opt out scheme is feasible. Many people oppose it. They worry that doctors will declare deaths much sooner knowing they can get in there and harvest organs. They worry that the extent to which a life will be fought for will diminish and life support machines will be turned off earlier than they would have been in the past. I don't believe this. There is rigid set of tests to confirm the presence of brain death and I truly believe these will still be adhered to, no matter where the law stands with regard to organ donation.
For relatives I believe the pain of having to make the decision during a time of unimaginable grief will be lifted. It's hard enough to deal with losing a loved one, especially unexpectedly, without having to be rational about somebody cutting them open and removing bits from them. Knowing that your loved one could be increasing somebody else chances should bring comfort, especially as with the current system of opting in the percentage chance of being a match via a random selective process is minimal. Imagine the increased percentage match if more people were deemed to be suitable.
But where does suitability lie? Do we live our lives knowing that one day a surgeon will be looking at our organs making choices as to whether they're good enough to put inside someone else? Will this make us aware of what we're doing to our bodies? Will it make us look after ourselves? Will it give people with low self-esteem a bit of a boost knowing that some day they'll be invaluable, even when they're not aware of it? If you feel good giving blood, imagine your euphoria at knowing your body can save at least six people. It certainly gives incentive to stop people abusing themselves.
The debate is continuous. I could ask about ownership of my childrens bodies. Do I have the consent until they are legally able to take that decision for themselves? What if I'm mentally ill - does the person with power of attorney over my affairs have the moral and ethical right to make that decision on my behalf? Where does ownership lie? If I'm pregnant and lie brain dead does my partner have the right to insist on me being kept alive to allow my child to grow and then relinquish ownership when the child is born? Where is the line drawn?
But one thing I am certain of. If I choose to opt out and deny another person the right to increased life expectancy, then I have absolutely no right to expect to receive an organ during my life should the need arise. If I opt out of donation, then by association I believe that should be viewed as opting out of receiving and I forfeit the right to organ transplantation.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
Tidy Desk - Tidy Mind
I am a bit alarmed that I may have a case of Bloggers Block. I simply can't find anything useful to write about. I've been busy lately, met lots of people and done lots of things but my ability to write about it all at the moment seems to have left me bereft of all literary musings.
I do notice a pattern with this. A pattern I've lived with since childhood. My state of mind is in symbiosis to my surroundings. If everywhere around me is a mess - I'm a mess. For me, visual order = mental order.
The house is a mess. The children are home from school. I can't expect them to keep it tidy, but I do have trouble coping with keeping an even keel when I'm tripping over lego bricks, stepping over hospital beds made up on the sofa with duvets and pillows and picking up bits of play-dough pancake from the kitchen floor.
I need a retreat.
The retreat is my study. Usually a nice, organised, orderly adult area. I relate to the tidy desk, tidy mind theory. This morning it looked like this. Not only did the desk look like a car had crashed into it, but the entire room.
I feared my head might just cave in at this point.
But cleaning for me is not a swift task. I'm not a tidy up, shove it in one corner, wipe a duster over it kind of woman. It's deep clean or nothing.
And this deep clean took me 3 hours.
But amongst the piles of papers I found the children's school reports and whilst talking to an old friend on the phone found myself comparing notes and exchanging well dones as she read off the reports for her children. I found receipts that needed to be spiked for when I do the household accounts each week, scraps of paper with e-mail addresses for Joshua's friends that he claims to have lost, photographs of me as a toddler and my own school reports.
So, not only did a good clear-up of my study make me feel better in that it left me a virtual zone of peace and tranquility, it also brought back memories of old.
But I'm happier now. My zone is clear, my retreat is mine again and try as I might to make promises never to let it clutter up again, I know it will end up the same in about a month and then the whole process will start again.
I do notice a pattern with this. A pattern I've lived with since childhood. My state of mind is in symbiosis to my surroundings. If everywhere around me is a mess - I'm a mess. For me, visual order = mental order.
The house is a mess. The children are home from school. I can't expect them to keep it tidy, but I do have trouble coping with keeping an even keel when I'm tripping over lego bricks, stepping over hospital beds made up on the sofa with duvets and pillows and picking up bits of play-dough pancake from the kitchen floor.
I need a retreat.
The retreat is my study. Usually a nice, organised, orderly adult area. I relate to the tidy desk, tidy mind theory. This morning it looked like this. Not only did the desk look like a car had crashed into it, but the entire room.
I feared my head might just cave in at this point.
But cleaning for me is not a swift task. I'm not a tidy up, shove it in one corner, wipe a duster over it kind of woman. It's deep clean or nothing.
And this deep clean took me 3 hours.
But amongst the piles of papers I found the children's school reports and whilst talking to an old friend on the phone found myself comparing notes and exchanging well dones as she read off the reports for her children. I found receipts that needed to be spiked for when I do the household accounts each week, scraps of paper with e-mail addresses for Joshua's friends that he claims to have lost, photographs of me as a toddler and my own school reports.
So, not only did a good clear-up of my study make me feel better in that it left me a virtual zone of peace and tranquility, it also brought back memories of old.
But I'm happier now. My zone is clear, my retreat is mine again and try as I might to make promises never to let it clutter up again, I know it will end up the same in about a month and then the whole process will start again.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
Because We Can
Pay the bills, sort out the diary for the week, cook the dinner and make the phone calls.
All at the same time.
Women - Masters of Multi-tasking.
We simply rock.
Saturday, 9 August 2008
It's A Woman Thing.. Or Is It?
Before I go ahead with this post I am putting forth my disclaimer that this is meant in a totally lighthearted fashion and is in no way an opening round of mysognists verses misandrists. If you are sensitive about the roles of men and women, log off. If you like a laugh about your own gender and that of the loveable opposite, read on.
It's a long established fact that women do certain things and men do certain things. Sometimes it's nature doing it's wonderful job and other times it's each other expecting the other to do what nature intended to be the other's job.
You with me?
From my point of view I believe that in a co-habiting household (so don't shoot at me if you're on your own holding down a home and bringing up children - to me you are worthy of an Olympic gold), women are quite OK to do the following jobs without compromising their position of equality on the planet (a notion I actually think is complete rubbish as I am a bit of a traditionist and think women are women and should act so and men are men, and equally act so).
I digress.
Women and what we're better at:
Dusting and ironing (simply because men take too long and are no good at it).
Food shopping (because men put extras in the trolley and quadruple the original food bill, women budget better. Shoes and lipsticks are exempt from the budget).
Buy presents and cards for family and friends (because men simply don't remember those things and it's no point us trying to nag them, it's an X dominated chromosome thing).
Interior decorating (men are functional when it comes to decor and women are homely).
Men and what they're better at:
Mowing the lawn (because mowers are heavy and awkward to handle and because men are stronger, they're better at it. Plus there's something quite sexy about a man's muscley toned forearm pushing a mower.)
Putting out the bins (because bins smell - nuff said).
Fixing the car (as a woman I consider even checking out the oil pokey thing a tad too messy so greasing up with barrier cream before diving into an oily dirty engine - no way!)
Making a cup of tea in the morning (I've only added this because Andy has, without fail for the whole of our 11 year marriage, with the exception of the odd Christmas, his birthday and few Sunday mornings - made me a cup of tea in the morning.)
Driving (I know some women will hate me for this, but I speak purely for myself - I'm dire at it. I have zero sense of direction and I admit to even phoning Andy from the NEC to ask if I really should be heading towards the M6 or would the M42 be a better option? And yes, I really did drive around the roundabout three times reading the signs out to him just to make sure.)
Now, while I've been posting this, my children have got in on the act too and these little gems are purely their own words.
Maddie's contribution: Men can only cook bread - women can cook anything.
Joshua's contribution: Women can't resist changing the furniture around every two months.
Make of it all what you will people If I've missed anything off that you feel worthy of a mention, put your case forward.
It's a long established fact that women do certain things and men do certain things. Sometimes it's nature doing it's wonderful job and other times it's each other expecting the other to do what nature intended to be the other's job.
You with me?
From my point of view I believe that in a co-habiting household (so don't shoot at me if you're on your own holding down a home and bringing up children - to me you are worthy of an Olympic gold), women are quite OK to do the following jobs without compromising their position of equality on the planet (a notion I actually think is complete rubbish as I am a bit of a traditionist and think women are women and should act so and men are men, and equally act so).
I digress.
Women and what we're better at:
Dusting and ironing (simply because men take too long and are no good at it).
Food shopping (because men put extras in the trolley and quadruple the original food bill, women budget better. Shoes and lipsticks are exempt from the budget).
Buy presents and cards for family and friends (because men simply don't remember those things and it's no point us trying to nag them, it's an X dominated chromosome thing).
Interior decorating (men are functional when it comes to decor and women are homely).
Men and what they're better at:
Mowing the lawn (because mowers are heavy and awkward to handle and because men are stronger, they're better at it. Plus there's something quite sexy about a man's muscley toned forearm pushing a mower.)
Putting out the bins (because bins smell - nuff said).
Fixing the car (as a woman I consider even checking out the oil pokey thing a tad too messy so greasing up with barrier cream before diving into an oily dirty engine - no way!)
Making a cup of tea in the morning (I've only added this because Andy has, without fail for the whole of our 11 year marriage, with the exception of the odd Christmas, his birthday and few Sunday mornings - made me a cup of tea in the morning.)
Driving (I know some women will hate me for this, but I speak purely for myself - I'm dire at it. I have zero sense of direction and I admit to even phoning Andy from the NEC to ask if I really should be heading towards the M6 or would the M42 be a better option? And yes, I really did drive around the roundabout three times reading the signs out to him just to make sure.)
Now, while I've been posting this, my children have got in on the act too and these little gems are purely their own words.
Maddie's contribution: Men can only cook bread - women can cook anything.
Joshua's contribution: Women can't resist changing the furniture around every two months.
Make of it all what you will people If I've missed anything off that you feel worthy of a mention, put your case forward.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)