lookingforlynda

Embarassing kids

2010-01-04T04:15:00.000-08:00

You've got to love kids for telling it like it is.

After indulging me in my Carpenters Stars In Their Eyes style fantasy for about five minutes, my littlest said "Okay, that's enough singing. My want a bath," and promptly brought me bang up to date with reality...

... in much the same way that they'll tell you if your breath smells, someone's farted on the bus or you've bought the wrong brand of cereal.

They also like to tell complete strangers your innermost secrets, like "Mummy's got smelly toes" or "Mummy likes to squeeze her spots".

And there's the old whoopee cushion trick when someone's sitting on your sofa that you'd eagerly like to impress. You thought it was going so well until you sat down and... fffffffffffffrraapp.

Yep, kids certainly have a knack for showing their parents up.

But I feel smug knowing that someday, when puberty strikes, it'll be their job to sport the red faces.

Oh yes, revenge will be sweet.

Disaster after disaster

2009-11-16T15:21:00.000-08:00

Surely my luck has got to change sometime soon.

I'm a walking catastrophe.

Honestly, I scraped my brand new car in the office car park and frightened someone by calling them "babe" - not mention the fact that my boots are letting in water and I'm grumpy as hell.

And that's just today's minor failings.

For weeks now, I've been thinking my luck couldn't possibly get much worse but I've obviously smashed a mirror somewhere along the line because there's just no letting up.

I'm beginning to feel like Alan Partridge on a good day.

Am I my daughter's primary care giver?

2009-11-05T15:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, I take it back. Tuesday was not my worst day ever because today tops the bill.

My car is off the road and not only is my daughter blaming me for her imminent tonsil and adenoid-ectomies, I have just had a heated tete a tete with my parents.

The deal breaker, however, had to be being asked by my ex what makes me think I am my daughter's primary care giver?!

I mean, seriously, what planet is this guy on?

Is it not enough that I care for her, cook for her, wash her clothes, entertain her and love her endlessly?

Not to mention maternity leave, giving birth, breast feeding and constantly worrying about her welfare?

Did I not spend nights at home caring for my girls while he rehearsed, gigged, went drinking with the lads, sulked in the bedroom, walked out in the huff and played his guitar?

And all this coming from a man who has been too hungover to come and see her on at least two occasions this month.

Pffffft.

A friend just described his views as myopic and, yes, I think that might well be the case.

Just as well I have pizza in the fridge.

Worst day ever and no Monster Munch

2009-11-01T15:23:00.000-08:00

Nooooooooooooooooo! On reaching into the cupboard, after what feels like one of the worst days ever, I make a grab for the last bag of Monster Munch - only to discover it's gone.

And there's no wine left either. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

To put things in perspective - I've just returned from a few hours at A&E with my poorly child and, after witnessing all manner of overdoses, fights, general malaise and puking, we've been given the all-clear.

In fact, since our visit to casualty, my littlest - who had a fever, rash and didn't want anyone to lay a finger on her - seems to have perked up and is now refusing to go to sleep.

I've spent the weekend nursing her through the fever and upset tummy while my family and friends pretty much quarantined me in my house in case it was measles or, even worse, swine flu.

At the hospital, she suddenly came alive - running around the emergency department and hiding from the doctor - and, while I was relieved that she seemed to be okay, I couldn't help but think 'sit down and look ill for god's sake'.

I don't like wasting the doctor's time, you see. Especially when she has so many nutters to attend to.

And I always think they just see me as another neurotic mum when I believe I'm practically a doctor because I've been through it all in the course of motherhood.

Even tonight, I had to point out that her lymph glands were exceptionally swollen, which gave rise to me toying again with my eternal question - should I just sign up for medical school?

It fascinates me, you see. I'm pretty much also one of the few people who find a morgue or funeral parlour exciting.

Not because I want people dead you understand, but because what they do in there it's yet another amazing feat of medical science.

But I'm sidetracking and, thankfully, both my kids are safe and well.

It's just me that feels run ragged and, in truth, a little annoyed.

Why on earth do people, by which I mean men, say they'll call when they have no intention of doing so?

It's such a cliche.

Anyway, I'll get over it.

It's just a lot harder to swallow when there's no comfort food left in the house.

Ziveli!

2009-10-25T14:56:00.000-07:00

I've just returned from a fantastic few days in Serbia feeling well and truly liberated.

It's thanks, mainly, to my good natured travelling companions and, of course, the unfaltering spirit of the Serbs.

I knew the trip would be exactly what I needed to give me that kick up the jacksy and it didn't disappoint.

I ditched my mummy cap on Wednesday for a whirlwind adventure to Belgrade and beyond and, despite my tiredness to the point of nervous breakdown, I'm definitely feeling a new lease of life.

The past week has seen me meeting the country's Crown Prince, performing the national dance, wine tasting at an undisputedly unique - if not a little smelly - rural holding and, above all, laughing and really living again.

It's pretty much down to my new-found friends and fellow journalists - an eclectic mix of creatives with a portfolio of idiosyncrasies to match - who helped to restore my faith in just about everything.

From Russell, our very patient and laid back chaperone, to intrepid Will, who is possibly one of the best journalists this side of Wall Street, my press trip comrades have been amazing.

Think reality TV's Come Dine With Me Serbia style without the point scoring - erm, and cooking - and you've got the idea.

After sharing many a table and traditional European custom with them, this crowd have been a great bunch and I consider myself lucky to have met them.

Saving me from more Bridget Jones-esque moping wasn't in their itinerary, but they joined me on the journey all the same.

And so I say to them (hopefully not for the last time),"Ziveli!"

Ten great things about being single

2009-10-09T14:40:00.000-07:00

1) Having the double bed all to yourself
Being able to lie in the middle of the bed - starfish like. No more wrestling with the covers or having to excuse your snoring.

2) Snuggling in with the kids
The kids can join you under the covers without the fear that it might, ultimately, ruin your sex life when they get too used to sleeping in mum and dad's bed.

3) No more guilt
You can take the kids to McDonald's when you're too tired to cook without the guilt trip afterwards.

4) Being hairy
No more endless shaving, plucking and waxing because no one will notice.

5) Allowing yourself to be less than perfect
Being able to spend all day in your jammies if need be and not having to hurriedly get dressed and make yourself up for him coming home just to look like the gorgeous woman he first fell for.

6) Letting things slide
Being able to leave the dishes all week if you feel like it with no one to point out that you're slacking.

7) Less washing
No more skid-marked and dribbled on boxers, dozens of tops that look the same and socks that you will never be able to pair again.

8) The toilet seat is always down
An old cliche but, logistically, quite a benefit.

9) A good night's sleep
No more worrying about whether he's going to come home in one piece after a night out with the lads.

10) Minus the invasive mother-in-law
Ah yes, no explanation needed!

Blogging to make me feel better

2009-10-09T14:02:00.000-07:00

That's the idea anyway.

Never for a moment did I think that, in my adult life, a bag of gold coins would reduce me to tears in Tesco.

But it did.

The sight of that little net filled with fake bling made me weep so hard that I almost left the store without my £4.99 bottle of Shiraz.

And here's the really pathetic bit - the reason why.

The coins are what I found at the bottom of my red football sock that he'd romantically filled up for me during our first Christmas together.

No traditional stocking was ever complete without a satsuma, 50p and a bag of chocolate coins he used to say.

And that's where I also found the only cuddly toy I own - a little tiger with big, green eyes that I named after the amazing Ravi Shankar - and he sits, to this day, on my bedside cabinet.

Because that's as girlie as I get, you see.

And that's probably as romantic as our Christmases ever got.

Ever since, all the festivities have been fraught with tension and fall-outs - a series of misunderstandings year after year.

I would like to have experienced another together and I had been convinced that this year was going to be different... our best yet.

But now that mummy definitely won't be kissing Santa Claus, at least she's started her Christmas shopping.

I couldn't quite bring myself to buy those chocolate coins though.

Scatologists

2009-09-24T15:21:00.000-07:00

Tonight I'm not having one of my finer moments. In fact, I'm feeling downright sorry for myself.

I had no idea that so many minor things would remind me of him so regularly.

I was researching strange statistics at work and came across some interesting trivia that I wanted to share with him - particularly about scatologists (don't ask).

Normally I would email or send a text about my findings of the day but had to check myself and reaffirm that that's simply no longer part of my life.

I wanted to tell him about all the interesting facts I discovered about hotels, including some of the oddest items left behind.

But no amount of blow-up sheep and false limbs could cheer me up once I realised I had no life partner with which to share my anecdotes.

And now he wants to discuss the finer points of our break-up, from access to the kids to our financial affairs.

Just not sure I'm ready.

The return of Make Do and Mend

2009-09-24T12:28:00.000-07:00

We might be a long way off drawing lines down our calves and staining our legs with gravy powder, but our bid to beat the recession has stirred awakenings in us women that had all but disappeared at the end of rationing.

With frugal fashion now considered chic and maybe even an essential part of surviving the economic downturn, there's never been a better time to revive the wartime motto of Make Do and Mend and that's exactly what we Brits are doing.

More and more women are experimenting with style on a shoestring as we begin to realise that living well and looking good needn't cost the earth.

Harking back to the good advice dished out by our mothers and grandmothers is slowly altering our status from a consumer generation to one that's thriftier and more aware of the value of money.

A mini consumer boom, fuelled by the recession, has helped to catapult the Make Do and Mend philosophy, which pretty much defined an entire generation, into our fore minds once again.

It was the introduction of clothes rationing in 1941 that led the Ministry of Information to publish the Make Do and Mend 'bible' to help families cope with the shortages and, originally printed in 1943, the booklet was reprinted by the Imperial War Museum in 2007, selling more than 5,500 copies.

Sixty-five years on, John Lewis has released a limited number of a modern day version - put together with the help of some 28,000 partners, including its shop floor, call centre and office staff, as well as its many retirees.

So for canny couture, ultimate upholstery and savvy sewing, check out www.johnlewis.com and buy the book.

When two becomes three

2009-09-24T12:20:00.000-07:00

This is an old post I wrote on that fateful night, which was to be the end of my 'married' life:

Today, my partner has been as much use as a chocolate fireguard.

Tired and grumpy to say the least.

Whether or not he got out of bed on the wrong side I really can't say but there was definitely a cloud of gloom hanging over him when I ventured downstairs for my morning cup of tea.

After seldom speaking all morning, he was, of course, delighted when I announced that I thought we should all go for a nice, long walk to blow the cobwebs away.

The drive to the beach was long and I could tell it drove him almost to the point of insanity with the girls bickering in the back.

He was fairly sullen while we got excited about the ocean spray but eventually relented and joined in the hunt for attractive shells to make into necklaces and plop in the bath.

He seemed to really perk up when I handed him a chocolate cone with a double scoop of pistachio ice cream, which - excuse the pun - finally melted the ice.

After that, we headed back to the car and he slept, like a baby, most of the way home.

Then I dropped another bombshell - it was his turn to bath our youngest while I made dinner.

Needless to say it was met with renewed silence, which pretty much carried on through dinner until I offended him once again and he upped sticks and headed out in the middle of our mediterranean pasta.

My youngest was very upset, especially since he had promised to read her Careful Santa - a much-loved favourite every night since June - before bed and I didn't seem to be much of a substitute.

By 1am there was still no sign of him and so I headed to bed for the second time, feeling very tired, confused and very much as if I had a third child.

Nothing ventured, nothing lost

2009-09-23T15:58:00.000-07:00

Half-way through my first week of full-time work - not to mention as a single mum - and I think I'm coping pretty well - thanks to my no housework philosophy.

It's true that my house is a mess but I'd rather my children were happy.

Granted they would rather I was here instead of enduring the lengthy commute from my new office to home but, as long as I'm spending adequate time with them when I get home, surely we'll get by?

Don't get me wrong, there isn't a minute goes by at work where I don't feel guilty and miss my kids like mad, but I keep telling myself it'll be good for all of us in the long run - which I hope it will.

I just wish he was here to share it with us and I still can't quite believe to the extent I've been cut out from his life as if I never existed.

Some of his last words to me will forever ring in my head: "I'm not walking out on my family, I'm walking out on you" and "I don't owe you anything".

It doesn't do much for my self esteem but I think the whole splitting up process has been made easier by the fact I'm not really missing much.

It's not as if he showered me with affection or shared intimate moments, took me out and talked to and understood me - quite the opposite in fact.

So maybe that's why I'm coping much better than I thought I would.

Maybe now I'm just missing the relationship that could've - and should've - been.

First day blues

2009-09-21T15:21:00.000-07:00

The first day at my new job was great.

It was long but fairly relaxed and the only thing to spoil it was the cold, lonely house I came home to.

He wasn't there creating all sorts of fantastic onion and garlic smells and he wasn't there to give me a hug after my first day.

But the biggest loss was not having him there to discuss the day's events and talk creatively - the one thing on which we could actually agree.

I felt increasingly sentimental as the day went on and just really wanted to call him to tell him all about it.

After all, his support helped me to land the job in the first place.

Maybe that's why I was gutted that he didn't call or text to find out how it went.

Starting over

2009-09-18T08:58:00.000-07:00

I left work for the last time today with mixed emotions and a really heavy heart.

While I felt relieved that one chapter is closing and another is starting, I suddenly felt terrified by the complete change of life and lifestyle I'm now facing.

It's as if it's all symbolic in some way.

I know I keep harping on about the rabbit dying, but we got him not long into our relationship - just around the time I found out I was pregnant.

With him passing, me leaving my comfortable part-time job, where my partner - or should I say 'ex' - also worked, him moving out and me starting afresh, it's all a little too much right now.

I feel it's all coming to an end and, in truth, hard as it may have been, I had never been happier.

I was settling in well to my future domestic goddess role and loved nothing more than caring for my family, making a Sunday lunch and settling down to watch a late-night Columbo.

There are so many things that weren't right, but I was prepared to work at it, you know?

I thought I had, in my sights, a future marriage and loving companion for the rest of my days.

That probably sounds a little sad coming from someone in her early thirties, but that's the way I felt.

I could never have imagined - or wanted - growing old with someone else.

The awful thing is that, now, it's entirely out of my hands and I just have to deal with it.

But that's the hardest part.

So who's the weaker of the two?

2009-09-16T14:08:00.000-07:00

It's been more than a week since he ordered me and my eldest to get out.

So what am I feeling now?

The anger has given way to genuinely missing him.

Don't get me wrong; he was an extremely difficult man to live with, but he was MY man.

There are now so many things I can't figure out and, in some ways, the house is far more at ease without him, but this wasn't my choice.

I was in it for the long haul and regardless how difficult he sometimes made things, I would never have called it a day.

What I can't figure out is - does that make me the weak one, or the strong one?

The other side of sick

2009-09-01T15:31:00.001-07:00

It's funny that when your man is ill with even the slightest belly ache all household chores are beyond him and far too difficult for his poorly physique to fathom.

He makes it known, beyond a doubt, that he is far from okay and that any normal duties will surely send him to his death bed.

And we long suffering partners sympathise, tending to their every whim with Milk of Magnesia, Annadin and Pepto Bismol - if only to simulate his mother's nurturing warmth once upon a time.

What he doesn't know is, that the only reason we do it is out of sheer smugness that we could do so much better under the given circumstances.

Perhaps I'm generalising, but most working dads - regardless of whether mum is working - suffer from severe 'poor me' syndrome within the confines of their own home.

Mum could be run ragged with glandular fever but is still expected to deliver great home-cooked meals, ensure the washing's up-to-date and deliver top notch blow jobs regardless whether or not she's at death's door.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not playing the world's smallest violin here but feeling empowered by all the things great women can do.

It's testament to our ability and fantastical capacity to put others before ourselves, of which I don't feel ashamed or devalued by.

Maybe we need to face facts that there were always sexual differences between Adam and Eve and thank god or we wouldn't be where we are now.

Sick

2009-08-20T13:58:00.000-07:00

One of the worst things about being a parent is when you're sick.

Don't expect any sympathy or respite.

This morning, I woke up with a persistent cold that I've had for about a fortnight.

Knowing I had a full day ahead, I just swallowed some aspirin, had a cup of tea and got on with making packed lunches, washing and dressing and doing hair.

Feeling terrible and with 15 minutes to get ready myself, I slapped on some make up - aka Polyfilla - and rubbed Vicks on my chest before heading out the door for work.

I battled through the day, subbing stories and briefing projects into Design, with a throat that felt coated with broken glass and my face feeling like it might implode.

But instead of celebrating five o'clock, I felt filled with dread at going home to my next job as mum of two.

It's just that I knew what lay ahead: making dinner, washing up, tantrums and just generally more work.

So when my partner offered to make the tea, I decided to be selfish and run myself a hot, Radox-infused bath to help ease my cold and soothe my aching muscles.

Two minutes into my bath (I hadn't yet eased myself into the water enough to lie back), the door bursts open, with my eldest shouting "Are you finished yet, mum? I need a poo".

Next, the doorbell rings and there's kids in the hall - hanging about with the front door wide open inviting the draft in while my daughter finishes her 'business' and, of course, leaves the bathroom door wide to the world.

This only serves to remind me that I've asked my partner countless times to fit a new lock on the bathroom door so, through gritted teeth, I start to wash my weary skin.

Cue my younger daughter, who decides she wants to get in and it's a struggle to stop her from clambering into the far too hot water. She's stripped off never-the-less so daddy volunteers me to give her a nice bath once I'm done.

Once she realises she IS getting in, there's no way she's budging an inch.

There goes my nice, relaxing and therapeutic bath.

And so the night becomes about me bathing the kids, chasing them around the living room to get dressed, drying hair and putting them to bed - pretty much how the day began but in reverse order.

That'll teach me to be selfish.

Intro

2009-08-20T12:58:00.000-07:00

So I'm blogging again.

I'd given up after child number two.

They say that one is hard, two is hard and it gets much easier after that but I've no intention of putting it to the test.

Don't get me wrong, I love my girls but nobody told me how bloody hard this ride was going to be.

No one tells you about the immediate sense of responsibility and intense guilt that you feel as soon as you conceive children, never mind giving birth to them.

All the Miriam Stoppard books in the world can't prepare a woman for motherhood - no matter how maternal and how much of a domestic goddess she might be.

They might document how to blend bland purees and give you the ability to spot chicken pox a mile off, but what the books don't tell you is how you will feel a gnawing anxiety for the rest of your life, wondering whether your offspring are healthy, happy, thriving and will grow up to be outstanding pillars of the community.

No one prepares you for the lack of time, money and energy you will now endure, as well as the invasion of brain space, privacy and an all but permanent stop to your previously active - and enjoyable - sex life.

But, hey ho, shit happens.