Life is all about phases. Once I was the burning-the-candle-at-both-ends-highly-motivated-successful-career-girl, and then I became the sleep-deprived-slobber-covered-breeding-feeding-weary-worn-stay-at-home-mum. And now, lo and behold, I’m a part-time writer… and TV book reviewer (RTE1, Seoige Show).
Ok, actually the real title is Full-time-mum-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwhiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-time-writer-and-TV-book-reviewer, but when I’m asked I might just stick to the last part. A new phase in our lives has begun, and although I mourn the loss of what we had, I run squealing in wild abandon to a new life. For three years my toddler was mine, and we were free, but now she bounds into playschool without a backward glance into a world without me. I have cared for my baby constantly for the precious 16 months of her life, but now she is minded three mornings a week. I’m scared and I’m a little sad. But, I am also writing – and not just in the stolen moments when the kids aren’t looking. I can hardly contain my joy. I burst little sniggers from my mouth. My mind jumps from list to adoringly written list to decide what to do next. Now I no longer have to cram all my work into the silent hours of lunchtime sleeps, or the dark hours of night. I feel new life breathing into my fuzzy brain. It’s only ten hours a week, but they are MY ten hours. Mine all mine. Ten hours! How many words can I write in ten hours? How many emails can I send? How many blogs can I read? How many blogs can I write? How many articles can I devise, and pitch and write and send? How much money can I earn? Ok, the answer to the last question is probably not very much, but who cares? Who cares when I have ten whole glorious, gluttonous, gorgeous hours to write? My ‘business plan’ shines out like gold on my pin-board, and now I also have a gig reviewing books on day-time TV – which of course is just a gorgeous excuse to go buy some new clothes!
I love being a mum. It’s everything I thought and 1000 times more. But I missed me. And for ten whole hours I get me again. We didn’t have an easy start…. Instead of a week of words, we had a week of weeping. Tears at the playschool door (mine were hidden, my daughter’s were streaming down her face as she clutched frantically to my skirt). Back at home, the new childminder patiently tried to persuade my wobbler to stop burying her head in my lap as she screamed at the indignation of meeting someone new. Everyone was in uproar at the new changes to our life. Better change that title to Full-time-mum-and-wiper-of-tears-and-emotional-wreck-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwhiches-maker-of-my-toddler’s-sandwhiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-part-time-writer. Change is as good as rest they say? They obviously didn’t have kids.
BUT, four weeks in and I shout, “I did it!” quoting my nearly-three year old (a phrase only surpassed by her favourite indignant statement “I do it!”)
OK, I was being very optimistic with those ten hours a week – typically, just as I get an inch, Daisy takes away a mile and drops her lunchtime sleep the EXACT week I get childcare for Poppy. But, I’m not going to moan – Daisy is settled in playschool, Poppy is adapting to the indignation of my minor abandonment, and I have written and I have thought and I have pondered. I feel ten feet tall. I even wear real clothes. Without elasticated waists. Life is almost perfect….
(C) AKG 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Back to school for us all
My husband and I are scared. Very very scared. There is a dark and dirty cloud hanging over our heads and in moments of anxious insecurity we whisper surreptitiously to each other – “Do you know the laws of physics?” While we wash the dishes we mutter under our breath, “Any idea why the sea is salty?” As we get ready for bed, we eye each other up across the duvet and query, “Why do stars twinkle?” Our daughter has just started Montessori and we know the Age of Questioning is going to start soon. The Spanish Inquisition has nothing on the relentless quizzing of a toddler on the cusp of a world of wonder. Are we up to the job? Haven’t a clue.
I have hot flushes just thinking about what I don’t know – and should. Like how things work for instance. Seriously, just how does a computer actually function? This is going to be the mainstay of my kids’ lives, as fundamental to them as food and drink. Yet I’m 38 and have only now just plucked up the courage to join Facebook. I still don’t get WiFii, and after three years with our current computer, we still don’t have connected speakers. How does it all work? Haven’t a clue.
Ok, maybe I can justify not knowing too much about the technical stuff, but what about a clock for example. Pretty basic you’d imagine. But to actually know how it works? I presume it has something to do with finely tuned cogs… but how exactly? Haven’t a clue.
Or how does an airplane actually fly? I get in them all the time but still can’t figure out how me, 200 other people, and all our over-sized baggage actually lift off the ground. We take our girls on lots of flights so I really should figure out the answer to this one soon, but for love nor money I’m stuck. I know it has something to do with big fans on the sides, but really? Actually? Haven’t a clue. As for helicopters? A complete modern mystery of the world as far as I’m concerned. And where do things come from? I have the basics – I can even show my girls a loving variety of vegetables from the garden. But how about pineapples? Watermelon? And why and how do certain things happen? Early this year my daughter experienced her first real snow. It was fun, and ‘cold and wet’ was about as deep as our conversations got. But next year, can I tell her where it comes from and how it is formed? Do I know why every snowflake is different? And who the hell figured that one out anyway? What’s the difference between snow and hailstones? And for the love of god, will someone please tell me exactly how the globe is warming??
With these questions furiously spinning around my frenzied brain, I realize I have some studious cramming to do. Never mind waiting until they bring back homework and I have to revisit the mental anguish of Pythagoras’s Theorem, and multiplying fractions; it’s back to school for us now.
In moments of anxiety, we make all kinds of promises. We could watch desperate documentaries instead of watching Desperate Housewives. My extravagant subscription to Hello could be replaced with an exemplary subscription to National Geographic. And while we currently curl up on the sofa together and watch TV after putting the girls to bed, we could seriously contemplate reading encyclopedias of an evening. Aloud. To each other. If we feel really fun, we could even crack open a bottle of wine and quiz each other!
But as we eye each other up at the dinner table, worried in case one of us has been doing some secret swotting, we come to our senses and chuckle. This is what makes parenting such fun. It’s an ever evolving journey of never-ending learning, and as we prepare our children for the years of study ahead of them, I guess it means we are all going back to school. How does a vacuum cleaner work? Haven’t a clue. But I’m sure I’ll figure it out along the way. In the meantime, I’m off to watch Desperate Housewives. Desperate ain’t the word.
(c) AKG 2008
I have hot flushes just thinking about what I don’t know – and should. Like how things work for instance. Seriously, just how does a computer actually function? This is going to be the mainstay of my kids’ lives, as fundamental to them as food and drink. Yet I’m 38 and have only now just plucked up the courage to join Facebook. I still don’t get WiFii, and after three years with our current computer, we still don’t have connected speakers. How does it all work? Haven’t a clue.
Ok, maybe I can justify not knowing too much about the technical stuff, but what about a clock for example. Pretty basic you’d imagine. But to actually know how it works? I presume it has something to do with finely tuned cogs… but how exactly? Haven’t a clue.
Or how does an airplane actually fly? I get in them all the time but still can’t figure out how me, 200 other people, and all our over-sized baggage actually lift off the ground. We take our girls on lots of flights so I really should figure out the answer to this one soon, but for love nor money I’m stuck. I know it has something to do with big fans on the sides, but really? Actually? Haven’t a clue. As for helicopters? A complete modern mystery of the world as far as I’m concerned. And where do things come from? I have the basics – I can even show my girls a loving variety of vegetables from the garden. But how about pineapples? Watermelon? And why and how do certain things happen? Early this year my daughter experienced her first real snow. It was fun, and ‘cold and wet’ was about as deep as our conversations got. But next year, can I tell her where it comes from and how it is formed? Do I know why every snowflake is different? And who the hell figured that one out anyway? What’s the difference between snow and hailstones? And for the love of god, will someone please tell me exactly how the globe is warming??
With these questions furiously spinning around my frenzied brain, I realize I have some studious cramming to do. Never mind waiting until they bring back homework and I have to revisit the mental anguish of Pythagoras’s Theorem, and multiplying fractions; it’s back to school for us now.
In moments of anxiety, we make all kinds of promises. We could watch desperate documentaries instead of watching Desperate Housewives. My extravagant subscription to Hello could be replaced with an exemplary subscription to National Geographic. And while we currently curl up on the sofa together and watch TV after putting the girls to bed, we could seriously contemplate reading encyclopedias of an evening. Aloud. To each other. If we feel really fun, we could even crack open a bottle of wine and quiz each other!
But as we eye each other up at the dinner table, worried in case one of us has been doing some secret swotting, we come to our senses and chuckle. This is what makes parenting such fun. It’s an ever evolving journey of never-ending learning, and as we prepare our children for the years of study ahead of them, I guess it means we are all going back to school. How does a vacuum cleaner work? Haven’t a clue. But I’m sure I’ll figure it out along the way. In the meantime, I’m off to watch Desperate Housewives. Desperate ain’t the word.
(c) AKG 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Change is as good as a rest... who are they kidding?
Life is all about phases. Once I was the burning-the-candle-at-both-ends-highly-motivated-successful-career-girl, and then I became the sleep-deprived-slobber-covered-breeding-feeding-weary-worn-stay-at-home-mum. And now, lo and behold, I’m a PART-TIME WRITER!!
Ok, actually the full title is Full-time-mum-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwhiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-time-writer, but when I’m asked I might just stick to the last part. A new phase in our lives begins, and although I mourn the loss of what we had, I run full speed ahead to a new life. For three years my toddler has been mine and we have been free, but this week she began playschool five mornings a week. I have cared for my baby constantly for the precious 15 months of her life, but now I will have a childminder to look after her three mornings a week. I’m scared and I’m a little sad. But, I am going to write. I can hardly contain my joy. I burst little sniggers from my mouth. My mind jumps from list to adoringly-written list to decide what shall be my first task. Now I no longer have to cram all my work into the silent hours of lunchtime sleeps, or the dark hours of night. I feel new life breathing into my fuzzy brain. It’s only ten hours a week, but they are MY ten hours. Mine all mine. Ten hours! How many words can I write in ten hours? How many emails can I send? How many blogs can I read? How many blogs can I write? How many articles can I devise, and pitch and write and send? How much money can I earn? Ok, the answer to the last question is probably not very much, but who cares? Who cares when I have ten whole glorious, gluttonous, gorgeous hours to write? My ‘business plan’ shines out like gold on my pin-board and I check and re-check my breakdown of hours.
I love being a mum. It’s everything I thought and 1000 times more. But I miss me. And for ten whole hours I will get me again. But maybe not this week…. Instead of a week of words, I’m having a week of weeping – and that’s just me. Tears at the playschool door (mine are hidden, my daughter’s are streaming down her face as she clutches frantically to my skirt). Back at home, the new childminder is patiently trying to persuade my wobbler to stop burying her head in my lap as she squeals at the indignation of meeting someone new. Everyone is in uproar at the new changes to our life. Better change that title to Full-time-mum-and-wiper-of-tears-and-emotional-wreck-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwhiches-and-maker-of-my-toddler’s-sandwhiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-part-time-writer. Change is as good as rest they say? They obviously didn’t have kids.
(c) AKG 2008
Ok, actually the full title is Full-time-mum-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwhiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-time-writer, but when I’m asked I might just stick to the last part. A new phase in our lives begins, and although I mourn the loss of what we had, I run full speed ahead to a new life. For three years my toddler has been mine and we have been free, but this week she began playschool five mornings a week. I have cared for my baby constantly for the precious 15 months of her life, but now I will have a childminder to look after her three mornings a week. I’m scared and I’m a little sad. But, I am going to write. I can hardly contain my joy. I burst little sniggers from my mouth. My mind jumps from list to adoringly-written list to decide what shall be my first task. Now I no longer have to cram all my work into the silent hours of lunchtime sleeps, or the dark hours of night. I feel new life breathing into my fuzzy brain. It’s only ten hours a week, but they are MY ten hours. Mine all mine. Ten hours! How many words can I write in ten hours? How many emails can I send? How many blogs can I read? How many blogs can I write? How many articles can I devise, and pitch and write and send? How much money can I earn? Ok, the answer to the last question is probably not very much, but who cares? Who cares when I have ten whole glorious, gluttonous, gorgeous hours to write? My ‘business plan’ shines out like gold on my pin-board and I check and re-check my breakdown of hours.
I love being a mum. It’s everything I thought and 1000 times more. But I miss me. And for ten whole hours I will get me again. But maybe not this week…. Instead of a week of words, I’m having a week of weeping – and that’s just me. Tears at the playschool door (mine are hidden, my daughter’s are streaming down her face as she clutches frantically to my skirt). Back at home, the new childminder is patiently trying to persuade my wobbler to stop burying her head in my lap as she squeals at the indignation of meeting someone new. Everyone is in uproar at the new changes to our life. Better change that title to Full-time-mum-and-wiper-of-tears-and-emotional-wreck-and-maker-of-my-husband’s-sandwhiches-and-maker-of-my-toddler’s-sandwhiches-and-housekeeper-and-part-part-time-writer. Change is as good as rest they say? They obviously didn’t have kids.
(c) AKG 2008
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