Only one bandwagon at a time...

I am not one for fads. Unless you count the whole ‘House of Colour’ thing which, for a crazed month last year, had me throwing out anything olive in favour of blue, blue blue. Or the time I bought spirulina, macha powder, and a whole host of other powders to make a morning smoothie that would energize and cleanse me, only to discover that they are all vile and leave green marks on your teeth. Actually the macha powder was okay, mixed into museli, but I digress. The point is… Um… yes. Fads. I am not one to jump on every bandwagon going. Just every other one.

But one ‘fad’ has caught my attention, and I’d probably try to argue that it isn’t a fad at all, but I always say that, and it’s wearing a bit thin. The fad is sugar avoidance. And I say this as a former sugar junkie.

To say I love sugar is understatement. I have sugar in m tea and my coffee. I have always, always, considered pudding to be the main point of every meal. I like to have one of those huge 800g bars of Fruit and nut in the fridge, and will happily eat an entire row in the space of about twenty seconds. 

But no more. Because I realized that I was getting sugar obsessed. And it didn’t feel good. The more sugar you eat, the more you crave. I wasn’t sleeping well. I had a whole load of small but irritating things wrong with me; my doctor suspected candida.

So I started reducing my intake. On the advice of Kathleen DesMaisons (www.radiantrecovery.com), I upped my protein quota first, making sure that I had protein with every meal. Then, bit by bit, I reduced my sugar. Not carbs, mind; I don’t want to strip all the joy out of life. And I didn't follow her rules about writing things down, or eating a potato before bed. Actually I didn't do anything she said apart from making sure I have more protein. And  bit less sugar. I still have museli for breakfast; I just have a low sugar one, and an egg as well.  I’ll have a glass of red wine, but I won’t drink half a bottle (not every time, anyway). I don’t eat chocolate, but I eat plenty of fruit. I’ve cut out biscuits and cakes, but I’ll have a piece of wholemeal toast smeared with peanut butter if I need a pick me up mid afternoon.

But do you know what? I don’t, usually. Need a pick me up, I mean. I don’t get that mid-afternoon dip anymore, and I’m sleeping like a log at night, too. My skin is better, my digestion is better, and my stomach is flattening.

I’m even less crabby at the weekend when woken up by my 3 year old jumping on top of me at 6.30am. It may be a fad, but I think this one is going to be a keeper.

Until the next one comes along of course…

And we wonder why we drink?

Let me, for a minute, bore you with a day, chosen at random from the past two weeks: Leave house at 7.15am with daughter’s urine sample to drop off at GP's surgery on the way to work – suspected urinary tract infection. Get to work, meetings, reports, call doctor to check on sample, discover has been left with nurse, call back and speak to doctor, reminding her of daughter’s history and urging her to check it and send to hospital, back into meetings, ask surgery to call me on mobile with any updates. Get home, shove piece of bread in toaster and smear peanut butter on it as have ten minutes before having to leave again to attend parent evening at school. With three year old clinging to leg crying ‘Mummy, I want YOU to put me to bed,’ see blinking message on answerphone. Daughter does indeed have UTI; prescription is waiting at surgery. Peel three year old off me, quickly kiss five year old and seven year old, cram toast into mouth whilst grabbing car key and race to surgery, then chemist, to pick up antibiotics. Drive furiously to school and get there just in time. Back at 9pm, shattered, no time to cook anything… Open a bottle of wine instead. Pour a glass. Drink it. Exhale…

I know there are other props. Mindfulness, a hot bath, popping some fresh kale and spirulina into the blender for a delightful smoothie (tried that once. Not so delightful).

But none of them hits the spot like a glass of red. None of them says ‘Okay, it’s your time now. Kick back. Enjoy me. You’re done for the day. Everyone’s alive, the house hasn’t burnt down, and no one has seen through you yet…’

And none of them taste anywhere near as good with stilton, either…

Post-shopping guilt...

I am not a shopaholic. Well, not a really bad one. I mean, okay, so my author sister did write a whole series of books loosely (LOOSELY) based on my ability to find shopping opportunities wherever I happened to be (yes, people, I was a financial journalist who dreaded her credit card bills every month). But I’m not really that bad. I mean, I have never remortgaged the house to pay off my shoe debt, or abandoned one of my children so that I could buy some designer jeans. But I do, if I’m being completely honest, have ‘wish lists’ on a dozen shopping sites, which do, from time to time, move directly to my online shopping basket before I can say ‘mastercard’. Talking of which, I am the only person I know who knows the number (and expiry date) of their credit card off by heart. And I did buy several bodycon dresses whilst pregnant with my third (without trying them on, naturally), because they seemed like a great deal and I was convinced (blame the hormones) that they’d look JUST GREAT once the baby was born (I had evidently blocked out all memory of bra pads, baby sick and, you know, the fact that I would just have had a baby so it would be frickin YEARS before I even considered anything approaching bodycon again…)

The point is, whilst I loathe shopping centres and am like a man (ie grumpy and impatient) when traipsing round shops looking for something that I need, I love nothing more than to swoop like a bird on something that I want. And I also have a commendable ability to justify such purchases afterwards; even to congratulate myself on doing so well, as though no money had parted hands whatsoever.

Which brings me to these:

 

Which I have just bought.

Now, they’re nice. Well I think they’re very nice. Low heel, so very practical. Hanging out with the children comfortable. Perfect for work. Even better for tripping around Florence, say. Which is TOTALLY going to happen. With three children. Frankly I don’t know how I’ve survived without them.

Except they’re also pale patent leather so not really very practical at all.

But come on, they’re very cute. And the strap is just sexy enough to give an otherwise drab outfit an edge. Plus they’re called ‘Gemma’, so how could I not?

I’ll tell you how. By not buying them, By recognizing that I have a cupboard full of shoes, and that mostly I wear trainers not beautiful Miu Miu shoes that look like they should travel in a cab at all times.

But then I tell myself I deserve them. I work hard, I devote myself to my children. I deserve a pretty pair of shoes, right? Of course I do. (And they were in the sale. Half price! Total steal!)

Just like I deserved this: 

And these:

And this jacket (currently in my wish list; let’s see how long I’ll hold out)

 

See the psychology of shopping is hard to unpick. Am I emancipated (spending my own money, making my own choices, 'because I'm worth it'), or subjugated (spending my hard-earned money chasing lifestyle dreams sold to me by glossy magazines which are funded by advertising from these shoe’s very designers?

Have I, a supposedly intelligent woman, bought into the ridiculous notion that pretty shoes will make the winter nights seem less cold and dark?

Except is it so ridiculous? I mean, nice shoes DO make life better. And not just when they’re mine. I love seeing people on the street who’ve made an effort, who are wearing something beautiful. The world can be drab and grey; sometimes we need pretty things to pick us up. Particularly when those pretty things are a result of craftsmanship, of stunning design, of care and attention.

And if they’re wish fulfillment, then what’s the harm in that? I sometimes take out my ‘occasion’ shoes and try them on, prancing about the bedroom like I used to when I was six, trying on our au pair’s dresses and heels, imagining that I was all grown up and had somewhere exciting to go.

Because it’s all about anticipation isn’t it? The getting ready for the party; the build up to Christmas; the preparation for a first date. That’s always been where the magic is.

So am I going to wear these shoes? I hope so. I mean, I’m sure I will. Loads. But if I don’t, at least I’ll have enjoyed imagining myself wearing them. At least I’ll enjoy glancing at them every time I rummage for another pair of trainers.

And anyway, I WILL wear them; I’ll just have to find the right thing to wear them with. Like that jacket, for instance… 

In praise of the early bird

It has come to my attention in the past few weeks, months and years, that the world, particularly the world of work but I think it goes much wider than that, is peopled by late people. Not dead people; don’t worry, this blog isn’t about to take a supernatural turning. I’m talking about people who burn the midnight oil, who arrive for things just a little on the late side, who are always still at work well after 6pm.

And the thing is, that’s fine and everything. But it sets a tone, an expectation. And this culture, this expectation, penalizes those of us who have to leave work on time.

That’ll be me. And, I think I can probably say, the vast majority of working mothers.

I should probably reveal at this point that this is more than just a rant on behalf of working parents, however. It’s more a rant on behalf of those of us who are far better at 8am than at 7pm; whose brains begin to shut down at around 9pm; who would far rather get up at 5am to work than start working on an assignment at 11 o’clock at night.

See, I’m a morning person. An early bird. Always have been. I get to meetings five minutes early, am always the first person to arrive at any rendezvous. I like to start the day early and finish on time.

But lately, being an early bird has been less about choice and more about necessity. I have to start the day early and I have no choice but to finish on time, most days anyway. I plan ahead, have book bags and sports kit by the door every evening so that there’s no mad rush in the morning; I allow time in between meetings at work so that I’m not tearing between them; I timetable each day to ensure I can deliver what I’ve promised.

But generally speaking, that’s not the way people do things. Particularly not the people who head up organizations. I worked for someone once who was unfailingly late every day – she never once made a regular 9.30am Monday morning that she was supposed to chair. But she was always there at 6.30pm, starting long meandering conversations with those still in the office. She also used to take note of those who were still in the office working and those who had ‘left early’ at 5.30pm, even though many of them had been there since 8am.

But how about looking at things a different way? How about conjecturing that ‘late’ people are generally much less efficient, much less organized than early birds? It’s a bit like people who are always late for social engagements. It’s not the traffic, or the babysitter; it’s the fact that they didn’t leave on time. Late people, evidence shows, generally underestimate the time it will take to get ready and/or travel somewhere. Early people, meanwhile, tend to be more realistic and will plan backwards. They won’t pack for a holiday on the morning of the flight; they won’t arrive home five minutes they’re supposed to be leaving for a party and announce that they’re going to have a quick shower. They understand the value of other people’s time and don’t want to waste it. Nor do they wish to squander their own time.

In fact, I would argue that early birds are way more efficient with their time generally. The reality is that if you’re committed to leaving somewhere on time, then you know that your time spent there is finite. You’ve got to pack it in, use your time well. If, on the other hand, you know you can stay late, you can spread out a bit, do things in your own sweet time. It means you don’t have to be so organized; it means that you can drift through the day, letting things pile up, because you have all the time in the world to go through them all later. And all the time you look totally devoted to your work because you’re always last to leave the office.

But it’s time to stand up for those of us who arrive at the office early, who have to be more organized than the CEO of a multinational simply to leave the house on time, children equipped correctly and packed off to school. Who have to multi-task throughout the day, be on top of everything and finish assignments absolutely on time, because there is no luxury of working late, because at 5pm or 5.30pm we have to be out of that door and on the way back home to take over from childcare, leaving a conspicuously empty chair, and facing disappointed glances from ‘late’ colleagues who were hoping to catch up on that important assignment (only they just couldn’t find the time earlier… wonder why?!)

When I rule the world, people will be penalized for working late on a regular basis; I’ll send them on time management and delegation courses. Sometimes of course the work piles up and late nights are inevitable. But on a regular basis? No.

Just… no.

So I watched Pretty in Pink the other night...

... And it made me wonder. Are we really letting our daughters down? And our sons? By we, I mean all of us, but I think mainly I mean writers, and people who enjoy the writing. So yes, pretty much all of us.
Because here's the thing. The Andrew McCarthy character. The way he pitches up at the party at the end, the way he eschews all his friends, tells Molly how much he loves her.
It's total baloney.
I mean, he's meant to be, what, seventeen?
SEVENTEEN, people.
Do you know a single seventeen year old boy who would do that? To feel so deeply, to have such confidence, such sophistication? No, no and no. Seventeen year old boys should be smirking with their friends, growing into their bodies, reprogramming their parents' computers and telling everyone how bored they are. And having sex, possibly... okay, probably. But exploratory sex, or sweet sex, or even embarrassing sex. They might fall in love, even. But act like a thirty year old? Sweep in and save the day like a modern day Mr Darcy?
I don't think so.
Mr Darcy, let's not forget, was a lot older than seventeen.
And I know that Pretty in Pink is an OLD FILM. But there are new ones being made the same, every day. And books. And the trouble is, girls, who often mature earlier, are led to believe that teenage boys do act like this. Think like this. Or at least that they might. And believing that makes them read things into situations, encourages them to make allowances, allows them to wait on tenterhooks for someone to save them when really, they need to be concentrating on themselves, doing pretty much what the boys are doing just with a bit more nail varnish. Possibly.
It also puts a whole load of pressure on the boys.
I don't know, the whole thing left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. I don't want my children being fed a whole load of junk about the world. I'm not saying I want them to watch The Wire aged 6 and get a dose of gritty reality. I just want them to be strong, self assured, confident and to know that if they're looking for a saviour, they need to look inside, not out.
So I guess no more 80s brat pack films. Although the theme tune was pretty good. And she was kind of pretty in pink...

back to school...

How did that go so fast? Summer is pretty much over, in school terms if not in weather terms, and already I'm getting palpitations as I pull together all the various bags of uniform and realise that none of it fits. I'm convinced my kids are part plant; the sun seems to make them grow. Christmas holiday, not at all. Summer holiday, inches all round.
And it's funny, in some ways I'm looking forward to them going back, having them out of the house, knowing they're fully occupied every day and not having to book various camps and activities. But in reality, it feels like I'm the one going back to school. We're going to be back to military regimes every morning, homework after school, checking and double checking school bags each day, working out how to collect three different children at different times/from different places, deciding how many clubs and after school activities they're allowed to do...
It's exhausting even thinking about it.
But more than any of that, it's that they're getting bigger. Birthdays are milestones, but for me September has always been the critical month. Back to school, new academic year, everything more serious somehow. It's exciting, watching them turn into little people. Or, rather, big people.
But sometimes I miss the pre school days, the little bundles running about, happy to spend the morning sorting washing.
Then again, those were the days of sleepless nights and tearing my hair out when, once again, I got little or no work done.
Okay, back to school it is. Now where are all those name tapes?

So how do you cope with the summer break?

We're, what, nearly mid way through? So how are you coping? Who is keeping your children entertained? I've done a straw poll of friends and acquaintances and it seems to be a mixture of grandparents, holiday camps, favours and meltdowns.
As one close friend put it: 'I want my children to enjoy the kind of summers I did - long lazy days spent outside, learning to ride their bikes or something. And instead I feel like I am handing them over to whoever will take them just so that I can get to work on time.'
The truth is that summer is probably one of the hardest times on working parents. Christmas you can take a few days off. Easter, it's usually raining anyway, and the short break can be managed with some annual leave and a few activities. But summer? Summer isn't just a holiday. It's a lifestyle event. It's lifestyle magazine photographs of families lazing around together, freckly children mucking about in the garden with go-karts and home-made lemonade. Summer is when the stay at home mother comes into her own, with picnics and days out, all so much easier when the sun is shining. The working parent, on the other hand, often watches miserably from within their air-conditioned office, wondering if they've made the right choices.
'I always start thinking about giving it all up in the summer,' confides another close friend. 'And it's not just about the children; pre-children I used to spend summers wistfully thinking about going freelance so I could control my own hours and hang out in the garden. But having a family has just intensified this longing. I know it's not realistic, but I have such a yearning to be at home, putting on the sprinkler and watching my children lark about instead of packing them off to yet another activity camp.'
And holidays is where having multiple children can often complicate things further. 'We have a full time nanny,' one friend explains, 'but she's pretty much looking after our 18 month old who needs naps and routine. Our six year old can just about tag along, but our nine year old needs way more stimulation. I end up shipping in each set of grandparents for two weeks each over the summer, as well as arranging activity camps, otherwise I come home to find everyone climbing up the walls. Then my partner and I take three weeks of annual leave, and that pretty much covers it. But I don't know what I'd do without my parents and his.'
And that's with the luxury of a full time nanny. 'I get into work late throughout the summer holiday,' a good friend tells me resignedly. 'I send my two boys to an activity camp but it doesn't open until 8.30am and it's further away from the station than their school. In term time I'm on the train by 8.15am after dropping the boys off at breakfast club; during the holidays I have to get the 9am train. And I have to leave earlier, too, to pick them up. Fortunately my manager is supportive and I make up the work in the evening or at weekends. But I hate it. And I also hate arriving to pick them up and finding that they're the last ones there.'
So what's the answer? An end to the long break? Michael Gove, Education Secretary, certainly wants this. But would it really make things easier or would it just create many more shorter holidays to contend with? And would our children be better off? I'm not convinced. The truth is, maybe a bit of extra hassle organizing activities is worth it. Have a look at your chidlren. Are they happy? Are they enjoying the summer? Are they relaxed and carefree and learning new skills? Good, so stop beating yourself up.
'I love the long holiday,' a friend (who works long hours in an investment bank) tells me, without a flicker of irritation or guilt. 'I feel like I can almost watch the kids grow; they really come alive. They go to a wonderful activity camp that they love, and there's no uniform to worry about, no homework... I wouldn't change it for anything.'
Happy holidays...:)