The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for my blog. Thanks for all who have supported me.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 3,000 times in 2013. If it were a cable car, it would take about 50 trips to carry that many people.
It’s hard to believe that 2013 is behind us already and here we are welcoming in 2014. It only feels like last week that I wrote my recap of 2013 https://anounceofmedotcom.wordpress.com/2012/12/31/farewell-2012)
As I started to fill out my 2014 calendar yesterday, that is how rock and roll my New Years Eve is these days, I felt that at least a few months had vanished from my memory, that the year had flown by and that we had been cheated out of a few weeks here and there somehow.
2013 has been a funny old year. It provided us with a pretty decent summer with temperatures staying hot for a number of weeks and not just for a Friday morning like the dismal summer of 2012. Still, we Brits aren’t used to warm weather, as Andy Murray experienced in the Wimbledon Final when the roof was closed to ward off ‘evil sun glare’ and nearly put him off his game. In fact the highlight of the final for me was not just his historic victory, but seeing the nice but dull tennis star get a bit cross about the roof, that and Gerard Butler with Bradley Cooper decked out in pastels looking a bit tipsy in the crowd.
Miley Cyrus made an effort to make power tools more alluring and ‘treated’ us all to the introduction of twerking. I will admit to finding the whole tongue thing she does a bit offensive but can we really be so shocked by her actions at the MTV awards when the biggest selling song of the year was the worryingly titled song ‘Blurred Lines’ complete with a video featuring clothed men alongside fairly nude women and bizarrely a goat. The whole act between Robin Thicke looking like a predator in his Beetlejuice suit and Miss Cyrus looking like an awkward teenager acting sexy with a foam finger was just odd beyond words and I thought Billy Ray’s mullet was the worst thing to be associated with the name Cyrus.
The horse meat scandal was big news in 2013. You can read my versions of events at: https://anounceofmedotcom.wordpress.com/2013/02/19/make-mine-a-veggie-burger-please. But in short, the big shops all pretended to be shocked when somehow it was revealed that cheap meat products contained traces of Dobbin. Despite the fact that the meat in question was a multipack of burgers for £1.50, the British public were shocked that prime cuts of beef were not used in such products. I’m not a meat eater but my children and hubby are and I have always been a bit of a meat snob on their behalf. I grew up as a teenager with the threat of Mad Cows Disease lurking in our burgers and I have a strict vegetarian mother who allowed us to eat meat as long as the animal had been given a good quality of life, decided upon its choice of death and funeral preparations before making it to our plates. We are told that the scandal is behind us and that horse meat is no longer used, just make sure you read the labels carefully in future as a majority of our foods are pre-packaged in Europe where horse is openly on the menu. If the ingredients say ‘meat’ you might want to swerve it for a clearer definition.
There was a fair share of tragic news stories this year. The barbaric slaughter of Lee Rigby on the streets of London demonstrated extremes of human behaviour, from the bloodied sight of the slayers talking to passerbys while brandishing their weapons, to the heroic members of the public who either filmed the events from their phones or tried in vain to help and comfort the poor victim. Other appalling acts of terrorism were seen in Nariobi, Syria and Boston. And Kim Jong-un continued his reign of fear.
The Iron Lady Maggie Thatcher was treated to a state funeral raising questions of whether George Osborne could perhaps be a long-lost son as he blubbed through proceedings, more so than her actual family members. Opinions were divided over whether to feel a loss at her passing, some people heralded an exceptional leader while others enabled the song ‘Ding Dong the Witch is Dead’ to reach Number 2 in the charts. More recently, Nelson Mandela made his voyage to the world beyond. He was a legendary statesman with a catchy freedom song, the world mourned his loss and a fake sign language ‘expert’ showed poor taste while doing his own version of Agadoo at Mandela’s memorial.
There was two weeks of excruciating media coverage outside the doors of the baby hospital where Prince George was to be born, bored news crews filled air time with talk of what Kate would be wearing and if Wills would change a nappy when finally a flawless looking royal couple emerged with the privileged tot. Still, at least George is a traditional name for the royal offspring. Elsewhere in celeb land, there was a competition on for the silliest name for 2013 newborns. Kanye West and Kim Kardashian named their daughter North, Wayne and Colleen Rooney tested their spelling ability with the naming of their son Klay, but my particular favourite is Oscar-winning actress Kate Winslet, whose new husband actually changed his name by deed poll from Abel Smith to Ned Rocknroll and named their son Bear.
Other not so hard-hitting news stories included Cheryl Coles bottom looking set to enter the Chelsea Flower Show next year with its extreme rose tattoo. Justin Bieber pretty much acting like a spoilt brat wherever he went from storming off stage in Brazil when a fan threw a water bottle at him, to showing bad taste with writing in the guest book at the Anne Frank’s museum in Holland that ‘hopefully she would have been a Beilieber’, he has since suggested he will retire at the grand old age of 19.
In my recap of 2012 I predicted that Tulisa would be glad to see the back of that year, in fact, she hasn’t had a great 2013 either. However, I think poor Nigella will be breathing a sigh of relief this morning at a hopeful new start to her new year. In 2013, we saw photographs of her husband appearing to strangle her outside a London restaurant, to her staff rifling through her handbag and outing her alleged drug use, it will be interesting to see if her soft focused cooking shows will see a return to our screens in 2014.
Who knows what 2014 will hold in store. Will Simon Cowell’s baby inherit his Lego hair? Will the England football team manage in the heat of the Brazil World Cup? Will Cheryl Cole have some sort of topiary tattooed across her face? All we can do is strap ourselves in and enjoy the ride. Happy New Year!
In the words of Noddy Holder… “Iiiiiiiit’s Christmas!!!”. Well in a few days it will be, but thanks to marketing mayhem it has been the run-up to Christmas for about a month now! I do like Christmas, I have three children so its hard not to get caught up in their excitement of it all and the impending Santa visit, but I also find it just a little exhausting, frustrating and overwhelming at times.
It seems that the shops are on steroids with their extended opening times that appear to be geared around the eve of an apocalypse rather than a day of celebration. My hubby was up and out at 7.30am this morning to do the food shop and still had to queue for over an hour to get into our normally quiet supermarket car park. Isn’t Christmas dinner just a glorified roast dinner? Why do we see this one day as the reason to eat a huge dinner, buying too much meat per family member along with extra food for leftovers in the evening as part of a buffet, we never eat this way any other time? We have eleven guests for Christmas dinner at our house, along with two dogs and I am really excited about it. I do think Christmas should be about family as it is the only time you can wedge your dining table into the living room and use garden furniture to sit on without it seeming weird.
Santa Chester – Sorry for grainy quality but it was probably the most difficult picture I have ever taken, hence the poised hands after the 50th attempt of getting the hat on his head!
My three children have been in a state of high excitement for about three weeks now, writing their unachievable letters to Father Christmas on the basis that “the elves can make the toys so we can put expensive things such as computers and game consoles down”. I have tactfully looked at shopping websites with them steering their interest to more affordable toys that we can buy on behalf of the man in the red suit. Then it is the yearly dilemma of how to give the presents, which ones are from us and which are from Santa. This is a subject that I think should be covered in ante-natal classes as every parent seems to do it differently. Many parents will say all of the presents are from the big man which I worry will leave us parents looking a bit mean with grandparents arriving armed with toys and that we haven’t bothered. Me and hubby tend to do half and half, we give them a big present each from us and the rest of the achievable part of their lists comes from Santa, but this leaves us quite out-of-pocket having to buy extra.
I don’t wish to come across all Scrooge about it. I love how excited the kids are about the big event. My eldest appeared in two Christmas concerts at our local church and they felt very festive, even though it does make me feel like a bit of a hypocrite every year as I say hello to the local vicar aware that I’m only his house of worship for my own means and not as one of his congregation. This feeling of guilt and awkwardness extends through his opening sermon as I uncomfortably get into my prayer position and mumble Amen at the end of his prayer. As you can probably tell I’m not really religious, I have no objections to other churchgoers as I’m sure it can provide a source of comfort to many but I feel a bit too cynical to believe in a lot of the bible stories. I understand you do not have to take a lot of the stories literally but discover the true meaning behind the lavish storylines, but it all seems a bit too far-fetched a lot of the time. I mean wasn’t Joseph a little suspicious about the whole ‘the baby is the son of God’ story that Mary gave him. Did they even know who God was back then?
The twins also had their Nativity this week and this was a very traditional affair with my son playing a shepherd and my daughter playing the part of a door… well to be more precise she was an innkeeper but had a cardboard door she stood behind amongst other door holders and shook her head when Mary and Joseph came a knocking. She had been in character for days as she is a real method actor and the day prior was mute and would only answer us when we knocked on the ‘door’ first! The nativity was lovely and the minute the children sang their first word I was a mess, trying to stifle a sob and discreetly wipe my eyes unable to speak for fear of bawling. Joseph was a little stage shy and stomped off screaming after they had settled in the stable, leaving Mary a single mother clutching her plastic baby upside down by its feet. Still, as true professionals the children brought home the message of Christmas to a standing ovation, which was actually parents standing up and elbowing each other in a bid to achieve the best photograph they could of their little star. After the children had taken their applause, a couple of young chaps were introduced by our Headteacher as local Christians. The lads then asked that ‘J-dog’ and ‘the main dude’ should not be forgotten at Christmas. It was like witnessing a scene from The Book of Mormon as they ‘got down with the kids’ to try to entice their young impressionable interest into Christianity. As I cringed at their youthful approach to bible studies, I did feel that maybe I should feel a bit guilty, they were at least celebrating the alleged reason behind Christmas when all I wanted was to gloss past that bit and talk more about Santa to my kids. Christmas is more about Father Christmas then Jesus in our house even though both are perhaps mythical beings created in some sort of storybooks.
Our Kids Only decorated Christmas tree. We did have to help with the top half – the out of reach bit.
Whether you celebrate Christmas for ‘J-dog’s’ birthday, or for the sole purpose of having ‘Father Christmas’ deliver presents to your children, it does seem that we all lose the message of Christmas sometimes. Christmas means family to me, a time that we can all spend together, buy things to please each other and try to help others. However, it also means a massive earning potential for huge corporations, a career revival for Cliff Richard and a strong possibility of piling on unwanted weight, but where there’s a Ying, there’s a Yang I suppose. Merry Christmas everyone!
December is a bit of a crazy month in our household. Apart from the main event with the big man in the red suit on the 25th, we also have my birthday on the 19th, our eldest sons birthday on the 24th and our wedding anniversary on the 1st. It can prove to not only be a pricey couple of weeks, but also very limiting trying to squeeze in all the celebrations alongside various nativity plays, Xmas work drinks, etc, etc. With my eldest son’s birthday celebrations now monopolising the nearest weekend before Xmas, I have had to become a bit tactical on the celebration of my birthday. Obviously, with my 30s dwindling before my very eyes I am happy to not make a big fuss, but I also like an excuse for a party or a big night out with friends.
A very dear friend of mine has a birthday on 27th November and we often share a night out to save on our money/time/liver damage and this year we decided to up the stakes in the planning process and organise a weekend away involving me and my hubby and him and his partner. We decided on a European city as the basis for our getaway but hadn’t bargained on how tricky it would be for us all to agree on where to go. Between the four of us, we had visited quite a few of the obvious places already and, of the remaining cities, we couldn’t agree on one in particular. So, my friend decided that the only fair way to agree on the destination would be to let the hands of fate decide, or more accurately we agreed that whichever country won the Eurovision Song Contest would be our destination of choice (providing Easyjet flew there from Stansted that is). After managing the first fifteen minutes of the excruitating and frankly bonkers Eurovision performances, we decided to learn of the winner the following day and Denmark were the victors! This meant that Copenhagen would be our birthday break away and was also a city that hadn’t been on any of our shortlists.
So last Friday, the four of us met in the VIP lounge of Stansted (one of our party is the main man when it comes to guest lists) to start our weekend of celebrations, as well as my self-medicating process of drowning out the fact that I would be getting on a plane shortly. With four adults and six months notice, you would think that we would have had an itinerary nailed for our weekend away, not so. We had managed to book our flights and had opted for renting an apartment rather than booking a hotel, but the only other research we had embarked on is emailing each other songs made famous by the stories of Hans Christian Anderson. And with only 2 nights and 1 full day in the Danish capital we should have really made more of an effort to do some research.
We arrived early Friday evening and showed our apartment address to a cab driver who worryingly raised his eyebrows and then informed us it was opposite the cemetery where Hans Christian Anderson was buried! Thankfully the apartment was lovely, even if two of the beds were in the living room, but we would later discover that the type street it was on – the cemetery was the least of our worries. If you imagine a tourist visiting London and then mistakenly renting an apartment in a really dodgy housing estate which the guidebooks would name the ‘Latin Quarter with an urban and artistic feel to it’, then that is where we were staying. However, once we made it past the 20 or so kebab shops which were obviously a front for some sort of trafficking operation and talked ourselves out of entering some dodgy looking bars, we crossed the bridge and entered the nicer part of Copenhagen.
Our Local!!
When we crossed the river and reached the less ‘urban’ side of Copenhagen, we were in for a treat. Stunning architecture, wide cobbled streets awash with cyclists outnumbering cars, multi-coloured houses adorning the canals and a plethora of quaint bars providing their customers with blankets so they can snuggle under the heated lamps outside and watch the world go by. After a mammoth walk trying to decipher our route through the identically named streets, we found a little Danish bar where the customers were literally spilling out of the door. So with my Scandinavian looking friend (even though he’s a Scouser) leading the way, we wedged ourselves inside to be engulfed by a wall of cigarette smoke and a noisy folk band of pensioners playing their very own Eurovision medley. We ordered some local beer from the barmen (who were also smoking) and stood at various angles in available gaps to watch the band. An elderly gentleman who was sat beside my spot started putting some metal caps on the ends of his fingers, he didn’t strike me as a violent type but when he started to undo his jacket I did feel slightly uneasy. Thankfully, his unbuttoned jacket revealed a metal washboard which he began to play with his metal capped fingers to many whoops from the crowds including us and mainly me from a sense of relief. Next thing, a lady shouted a request from underneath my friends elbow and the band started a rendition of ‘We’ll Meet Again’, to which the whole pub joined in. With the dark smoky interior, the ageing clientele and the rousing war songs, I felt like a member of the resistance in war-torn Europe.
Hans and our iron
The following day was our sightseeing day. We woke at 9.30am (a lie in on a Saturday is such an unusual experience) and made our plan for heading out to see what daytime Copenhagen could offer us. After eating our bodyweight in Danish pastries at the local patisserie, our first port of call wasn’t on the usual tourist route, my friend needed an iron for his outfit that night and so treated himself to one in a local hardware/pawn shop (this was in our part of town). The iron then become the focal point for the rest of the day and wherever we went, the iron was photographed there first. It did encourage some weird looks but kept us four amused!
Copenhagen is a beautiful city and the Danes, despite their lofty height and need for beards (men and women), are a friendly bunch. We walked miles around the city, checked out the Royal Palace (not a patch on Buck House) and washed our Smörgåsbord’s down with plenty of Glögg. We ended the day in the magical Tivoli Gardens, a 19th Century amusement park which has been updated with Alton Towers style rides but still holds the charm of an old-fashioned fairground. The whole place was decked with a billion fairy lights, their Santa’s grotto entrance was via a field of real reindeer with not a string held beard in sight. We did feel a little guilty that we were there without the kids as we were entertained to a Disney style fountain display and queued up for rides. As the park started to close and we completed four loops on the ‘Demon’ rollercoaster, our intentions of going clubbing after were replaced with a couple of beers at a local bar instead.
On Sunday, we headed back to Blighty, feeling refreshed and a little bit more cultured about another part of Europe. We have decided to make this an annual event, to afford us a break from the kids and to learn a little history about another country (and sample their beer and food as well). I will await the Eurovision Song Contest 2014 with anticipation and hope the winning country is as successful a destination as Copenhagen was.
This morning I was held to ransom by my 6-year-old daughter. It was one of those parenting moments when you have to breathe deeply and keep calm (good witch) but what you really want to do is holler obscenities into a cushion as you are feeling infuriated by the stubbornness of the angelic child in front of you (bad witch).
Let me explain what left me feeling this way today. You see, my daughter is ill A LOT, this is due to her abnormally large tonsils and oversized adenoids and constant glue ear condition. In short, she suffers with a LOT of colds and is constantly congested, particularly at night time when her snoring could rival most men after a boozy evening. It is horrid for her and upsetting for us as powerless parents . We have attended numerous hospital/doctors appointments, ever since she was a baby, to try to resolve the issue but have been told to ‘wait for her to grow into them’. Seriously, her tonsils are bigger than mine and unless she is going to morph into a bullfrog I can’t see how that would be possible!
However, this year there has been progress, mainly due to a new GP who was my last-ditch attempt to convince to finally rid my daughter of these pesky tonsils. He was reluctant at first but felt sorry (possibly scared) with my pleading for a permanent solution. So we were referred (again) to the ear nose and throat consultant and this time I was planning on coming over all suffragette and handcuffing myself to his office furniture if he told me to ‘let her grow into them’ again. My little girl was present and as I for the hundredth time explained her symptoms, talking in a muffled nasal tone so she wouldn’t be worried, he responded with a worryingly graphic and loud description of removing said tonsils and adenoids, along with ‘pinpricking and bursting the eardrums to insert grommets’. Our little girl stared wide-eyed at him as he continued his speech, oblivious to the trauma he was causing her and the endless questions we would endure after.
It was a weird moment of elation of finally being told that there would be an end to my daughters suffering along with the realisation that my little girl would actually be put through surgery. I started thanking him then started panicking, quizzing him if her allergy to mosquito bites would mean she would be allergic to anaesthetic as well, suddenly feeling the need to check his qualifications if he was going to be taking a scalpel to my precious child. Hubby sensing my concern thanked the consultant and ushered me out of his office.
That was a month ago and my little girl is now off school with yet another cold. I called the consultants assistant this morning to chase the surgery and was told ‘we are waiting for authorisation’. I said ‘OK no problem, I hereby authorise you to book the surgery’. But no she meant the hospital’s authorisation, isn’t that what the consultation was for? Is there a further masonic type authorisation ceremony that needs to take place? She said she would take a note of my daughter’s name and ‘chase it up’.
However, there is a further problem, the matter of knowing when your child is ill or just pulling a sicky? See my daughter knows she suffers with a LOT of colds, she is a twin and has a lifelong gauge in which to measure herself against, but she also knows what symptoms to give in order to wangle a day off school. She has the makings of a future Ferris Bueller who famously licked his palms to give the effect of clammy hands when faking a fever. Currently, if she throws the ‘I feel sick’ curve ball my way I am sold, I can’t possibly send a vomiting child into school, ‘poorly belly’ is another, what parent can allow a child to be stuck on a school toilet with an upset stomach. These are the kryptonite of illness excuses. With the ‘my throat is sore, nose is blocked, I have a headache’ range of excuses, I can counteract these with ‘you need to eat more fruit/veg/dinner, go to bed on time, get more sleep,’ offering me a chance to lecture on other issues that are outstanding.
Yesterday morning, she had a high temperature, she complained of a sore throat and as her tonsils are in a permanent state of ‘raging’ I agreed she could have the day off. This morning, she upped the ante and it became a virtual poker game. School mornings are a limited time zone so negotiations have to be quick and carefully thought out. She put in the sore throat, I raised her a fruit juice to help it, she took the fruit juice and put in a ‘I feel sick’. I took on board her ‘feeling sick’ and raised her ‘you went to bed late so its tiredness nausea’, she took on board (ignored) that suggestion and begged for the sick bowl. I was beaten. She dealt a convincing hand and I can’t ignore the sick bowl. We dropped her brothers at school, came home and within 37 minutes she was fine again practically doing cartwheels around the lounge.
I’m not normally an indecisive person. In fact, amongst my friends, I am usually the spontaneous one, suggesting nights out/weekends away/themed parties. But for some reason, when an event arises which is solely for my purpose, I will often happily drag my feet and make up a plethora of excuses not to do it.
A perfect example of my ‘folding washing instead of doing something more creative’ current trend of thinking is the upcoming bloggers event Blogfest, organised by Mumsnet. For any readers who are not aware of this event, despite the use of ‘fest’ in the title it isn’t in a field, I won’t have to wear wellies or use a chemical toilet, unless I want to of course. I attended Blogfest last year on its launch and it was a fantastic day, full of interesting speakers from Caitlin Moran to Prof. Tanya Byron and many more, all there to lend advice or opinion on the world of blogging. When the email pinged up in my inbox recently suggesting I book my ticket for this years event, I scan read it (it’s an awful habit of mine) and moved onto something else. But, I kept having that nagging feeling that I was missing out on something.
Don’t get me wrong, I am fairly ambitious in what I do or I wouldn’t be a blogger at all. Earlier this year I attended an intensive writing course on how to write my first novel, unfortunately the said novel is also filed in the ‘dragging my feet’ pile of things to do for myself. I have told friends and family that I have lots of ideas and that I’m making lots of notes, what I’m actually thinking is I need to rent a cottage in a remote setting where my creative juices will flow in an inspirational environment, these things can’t be rushed!
But the Blogfest email was still burning a hole in my inbox and I needed to make a decision. I glanced back on my musings of last years fest in my post Bloggers Day Out and realised that actually I did enjoy myself. I do remember worrying too much about what to wear on the morning of the event, faced with a room full of fellow bloggers many of whom are very successful in their blogging and not just writing for their friends, family and bizarrely a few followers in Brazil like me. I guessed I should look a little literary, bit trendy, not Mumsy and definitely not ‘trying too hard’. I was fairy satisfied I looked more Lois Lane then Marge Simpson by the end of my wardrobe evacuation and trotted (bad choice of heeled boots) to Millbank for the event. I had also selected a pretty handbag which was completely impractical, as even though it looked like a satchel it didn’t actually fit much in it or could I fit the straps over my shoulder so had to hoop it over my arm a bit like Her Madge. On arrival at the venue, The Guardian with a zillion supplements was thrust in my direction as the first freebie of the day. (Note to self – politely decline newspaper this year, not necessary to have it, will not use/read it at any point and cannot dump it anywhere).
I think my indecision stems from that new kid at school feeling I sometimes get in a room full of strangers. Last year, after I had finished wrestling with my Guardian newspaper and entered the room full of bloggers who were quietly sipping their complimentary coffee, I couldn’t help feeling that everyone knew each other. I tried to smile at a few people, whilst pretending that I was looking for someone in a bid to feel less conspicuous. I grabbed a coffee and croissant which I literally had to balance on my bag and hoped that someone would approach me but alas no-one did. I tried my Bridget Jones tactic of sidling up to a conversation in full flow and laughing along until I was included but then wimped out and headed for the loo’s instead. The day improved and I ended up making friends with a lovely blogger and author of http://survivingteenagers.co.uk/ who was as much a fish out of water as I was.
I must remember how much I really enjoyed Blogfest last year and what useful information I gained, although I still have lots to learn this year. Most importantly, I really desperately need to understand what the heck SEO is all about and how to achieve more ‘traffic’. I also really want to hear the very funny Viv Groskop (at blog session – In it for the LOLZ: writing funnier stuff), as well as Jack Monroe (at blog session – in Shaping the debate: how blogging and social media can change our world), and attempting to slightly stalk the superb author of We Need To Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver.
So, as an early Crimbo present, my endlessly supportive parents have bought me a Willy Wonka style ticket. And now I am quite excited really. I am determined to make the most of this years event and I have a uber talented writer friend who is the blogger author of http://kidsgowild.wordpress.com/ attending so at least I won’t be completely Billy No Mates again.
I am in a bit of a slump at the moment. Slump… such an odd word but the only word to pretty much sum up my physical and emotional mode for the last few days. Nothing bad has happened thankfully, other than the fact I have been struck down with a nasty bug and that I have the usual stresses and strains of a busy Mum of 3, but I also seem to have an added problem of feeling a bit ‘Meh’ about everything too.
I am aware that I don’t really have cause to complain. Many people are dealing with a bucket load of agro in their daily lives from serious illnesses to serious debt and I am thankful for all that I have but, on occasion, I also just want to adopt an Ebenezer Scrooge persona and grumble about nothing in particular as well.
I have always been an optimistic person, am always blessed as a shoulder to cry on for many friends as I am told I have a knack for cheering them up, but at the moment I would give Jack Dee a run for the morose crown!
And when I find myself in a slump, gone is my carefree abandoned nature and in return is a paranoid guilt fest of emotions. My reflection in the mirror is met with a tut while I try to fluff up my hair or study my increasing worry lines, I start a myriad of housework duties only to find that whatever I achieve (ironing, dusting, mopping) needs re-doing or goes unnoticed after a day which then leads to frustration.
My work/life balance feels strained at both ends, the benefit of working from home is that I can choose my own hours but when my time is not governed by me, i.e. school runs, afterschool clubs, dog walks, chores, etc., versus deadlines for work, then I find my working day seeping into my evening and weekends and limiting the quality time I spend with my family.
My joie de vivre was seriously depleted yesterday evening so my parents kindly covered the school run so I could take to my sick bed. On their return, I kept them hostage as I felt incapable of parenting solo and/or being a lone adult, something that doesn’t normally bother me. After the kids had gone to bed and I released my parents back into the wild, with hubby on late shifts this week, I found myself alone again. Desperate not to shuffle back into my melancholy mood, I remembered a tactic from during the postnatal/early stages of my parenting days. When I used to feel hormonally challenged and endlessly exhausted it was sometimes impossible to find my inner Mary Poppins, so what I used to do was creep into the kids bedrooms and watch them while they slept. To watch your sleeping baby is a fantastic quick fix on helping you feel that you have achieved something remarkable in the world, to create something so beautiful, you feel forced to buck up your ideas and take notice of your achievements.
So, last night instead of demolishing the kids ice lollies in a bid to satisfy my comfort eating, I crept into youngest son’s bed and watched him snooze, immediately evoking goosebumps on my arms. And although I felt dreadful in myself, I was awash with emotion. It helped me remember how clever I was to make this little man along with his twin sister and big brother.
My parents have the twins tonight straight from school and my eldest son is out on a play date, while hubby is at work. This meant that I could have a whole day to rest and relax, get better and have some me time. And I have done this and I am thankful, but do you know what? It’s so quiet in my house. The peace and quiet and the ‘mini-break’ from my daily toil that I crave all seems a bit bland now. I am actually longing for a return of the chaos, for my three children to be talking over each other and creating a tsunami of toys in my lounge. I was wrong, my slump isn’t being helped by starving myself of the craziness but from pushing the craziness away. I need to be jumped on by the children, become tangled in their little limbs while their eager eyes bore into mine as they excitedly tell me about their day, I even miss my eldest son talking constantly about football or asking me every 15 minutes if he can have a snack.
Without my hubby and kids today, it has left me and my only company, my Labrador Chester, feeling a little bit lost. So I have decided to shrug off my slump, to stop worrying about the little things, the housework, the lack of time in the day. No more moaning about the trivial stuff, but instead count my blessings and appreciate my little realm and the people that live within it. Time to get on with my lucky life and put a search party out for my inner optimist and in turn I will leave you with the words of a true optimist, Mr Ferris Bueller:
“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
I have lots of cookery books adorning my kitchen shelf. Actually, to be more accurate, I have lots of dusty ignored cookery books sitting neglected at the back of my kitchen shelf. They have an airing on occasion when I am feeling ambitious about following a recipe. This results in my cookery book being plastered with double cream, while I stress out realising I forgot to blanch my tomatoes, that I haven’t any fresh tarragon and then give up on the whole idea.
In fact, after purchasing a cookbook I flick through to see all of the lovely ideas, only to realise my ‘cupboard staples’ are looking a bit pathetic. And Mr Jamie Oliver, as much as I admire your cheeky chappie enthusiasm for cooking, I would like to talk about your 15 minute recipes, I haven’t manage to cook one within an hour yet!
Then there is the matter of pleasing your dinner guests. I am a sort-of vegetarian, I eat fish and wear leather (obviously other types of material too!) , one of my friends doesn’t eat carbs, another friend is gluten intolerant and most are often on some kind of fat-free, sugar-free, impossible to cater for kind of diet. So, if I am to embark on a dinner party my cook books do not tend to please my crowd.
So, it was with great pleasure that I discovered that a hugely talented chef friend of mine, Laura Pope, is launching an app for the iPad with lots of healthy, easy to follow and gluten-free recipes. No more trying to balance my cook book on the top of the bread bin while I lose my place, but instead I can upload a recipe from the app and take it grocery shopping with me.
The app, Gluten Free Me, launched this month with a follow-up iPad app scheduled for December in order to satisfy the in-laws over the festive period. The recipes are simple to prepare and full of fresh flavours and nutritious ingredients. None of the recipes contain wheat, the only two with gluten use spelt instead of wheat, how many of you are now googling spelt, its OK I had to as well. Many of the sumptuous recipes are unbelievably dairy-free, sugar-free and therefore guilt free! The app is free to download and there are eight free recipes available, with four further albums of paid-for recipes.
As a taster, Laura kindly provided me with one of her yummy dinner ideas which has given me a reason to actually use the quinoa I purchased a month ago from Holland & Barrett for a recipe that I gave up on and it has since lived unloved in the back of my cupboard. I found this recipe really easy to do and honestly gorgeous to eat, resulting in my toddler type behaviour of ‘not sharing’ once it was finished.
So go download it, give it bash and as Mr Oliver would say its ‘pukka-tukka’!
Yum yum!
WARNING: The following blog contains explicit talk on the subject of mammary glands.
I need to talk about boobs… nope that’s a horrid noun… what other word can I use??? Other suggestions I have googled are hooters (too strip joint), jugs (too derogative), cleavage (too posh), bosom (too matronly), knockers (too Carry On!), or good old-fashioned breasts perhaps? Even saying ‘breasts’ forces me to say the word a bit quietly as it sounds a bit rude, it wouldn’t sound rude if I was referring to chicken breasts but just ‘breasts’ on its own sounds a bit wrong.
My sudden urge to broach the subject is not a need to write the next 50 Shades of Grey but because I have spent my day, with my Mum, at my local breast clinic. Let me explain.
Last month, I found a lump under my arm. I decided to ignore it, convincing myself it was ‘nothing to worry about’. But then I became obsessed with its presence, finding myself having a little feel of it whenever I could, pretending I was scratching a non-existent mosquito bite in Sainsburys to check it was still there. I eventually realised this behaviour was just plain weird and finally booked a doctor’s appointment. Unfortunately, we have a lot of The Big C in my family history and breast cancer particularly (the word breast is not so rude in that sentence funnily enough). So, when I gave my doc a meet and greet with my armpit (lucky him!), he was fairly certain that my lump was fatty tissue (ew) but, after taking a closer look at my family history, decided to refer me for “further tests”.
My Mum, who is a breast cancer survivor, assured me my over-prodded lump felt normal to her and was nothing scary and happily agreed to accompany me for my day at the clinic. We arrived at 1030 today and was led into a waiting room of 15 women and 1 man and was informed that my day could last between 2-5 hours. We stocked up on chocolate and prepared ourselves for the long haul.
First up was my meeting with the consultant, we had a chat about all things mammary and she asked me to make myself comfortable for an examination. She then proceeded to knead my lung protectors as I lay there considering what an excellent loaf of bread she would make. She regarded my lump agreeing it was probably ‘fatty tissue’ to which I felt strangely offended on behalf of my lump. Her attention was then taken by my left boob which she explained ‘had a thickening to one side’, as if I knew what that meant, but assured me it was probably nothing but would send me upstairs for further tests.
Upstairs, we settled ourselves in another waiting room before I was called for my mammogram. For those not knowledgeable on this test, basically its a metal boob sandwich with your chest area becoming the filling. A nurse places your breast on a cold metal plate like she is about to fillet a fish, then instructs you to not move but to allow her to adjust your position for you. So considering I am stood, without top, facing a metal machine, the nurse then moves my arms and hips around in a weird sort of robotic dance leaving me awkwardly hugging a machine with my breast in an excruciating vice like grip.
Next up, just to make doubly sure my lump and new ‘thickening’ was of no concern, I was asked to wait for an ultrasound in our third waiting room/corridor of the day. I considered that as a Mother of three I have had my fair share of ultrasounds so felt fairly relaxed about this test. How wrong was I!
After what felt like a week in the waiting room, I was led into a darkened room by a nurse where a male doctor sat engrossed on his computer screen. She asked me to dismount top again, honestly should have worn a simpler bra, and ‘make myself comfortable’ on the bed with my paper towel dignity cover, nice! After a lot of grumbling coming from the male voice in the room, a little man in a bow tie came to my side of the curtain and sat on the edge of my bed forcing me to ‘budge up’! After I was instructed to remove my paper towel, along with every ounce of dignity, I was then smothered in lube as he proceeded to use the scanner in a windscreen wiper fashion to check out my rack. What made it massively awkward was that not only did he look a bit like Serge the meerkat out of the comparethemeerkat ads but actually sounded like him too! He checked out my lump which he literally scoffed at my suggestion that it was ‘a lump’ but instead said “it is merely muscle, or fat, or vein”. He then checked out ‘my thickening’ which he surmised to be cysts which apparently are ‘normal’. I’m not sure what is normal now! He then almost shouted that ‘your breasts are extremely dense!” and looked at me excitedly for a reaction, to which I wasn’t sure whether to say ‘thanks’ or not, is it a compliment or is he suggesting they are a bit stupid? My breasts are to be renamed dumb and dumber perhaps? He said it was not good or bad but just made the scan easier. I unnecessarily answered “Glad to help!”. Thankfully the ordeal was over fairly quickly and Serge was soon off to fiddle on his computer again.
We then returned to waiting room No.1 to see my earlier consultant. She took a look at my results from both scans and showed me the notes on the computer, which actually said ‘patient has extremely dense breasts’, thanks Serge! She was confident that I had no major concerns but that as I have three female relatives (Mum, Aunt and Cousin) with breast cancer that I should have the gene test, which is my next step. I also had ‘moderate risk’ stamped on my file so I can receive mammograms earlier than most women which I am very thankful for.
I am now cracking open the prosecco, raising a glass to dumb and dumber for their bravery today. I am forever thankful for my health, I have seen first hand the grip of cancer on loved ones and pray for my future health and wellbeing and salute the fight of those less fortunate than myself. We can only hope for future without this terrible disease but for now we have Serge to keep us smiling.
A true fighter friend of mine, who is kicking cancer up the butt but unfortunately by way of her own bank account, is Lauren’s Marvellous Medicine, if you would like to be inspired and to help her cause, please check out her weblink on facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LaurensMarvellousMedicine
Apologies for my late blog post. It has been 4 weeks since my last blog and I confess this is purely due to a lack of time, lack of energy and lack of brain and humour capabilities. With the 6 weeks holidays two-thirds of a way through, I am starting to find myself incapable of stringing an adult conversation together, let alone make an attempt at writing a hopefully witty blog.
I love my kids, honestly I really do and even when us school parents (through gritted teeth) told each other on the last day of school that ‘we are really looking forward to spending time with the children’, I really meant it. However, 6 weeks is a long time for any family unit and rather than finding myself making up little ditties on my guitar like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, as I’d hoped, I instead feel that I am developing more similarities to Mrs Hannigan in Annie, grumbling under my breath about ‘little children’ whilst looking for bottles of Gin in my laundry basket.
But these are special days and no matter how many ‘she said, he said’ or ‘I’m bored/hungry/thirsty’ demands I have dealt with in my slightly manic sing-song voice these last few weeks, we have had fun too. I have crammed my calendar full of events to keep the kids occupied, in order for us to spend ‘quality time’ together and to encourage a separation period between the children and the Wii. I have also organised 3 birthday parties for our twins, yes 3 parties!
Our twins turned 6 on the 8th of August, yet we started their birthday celebrations on the 23rd July. The reason for this is that the 8th of August fell during our holiday to Norfolk so we had to engineer for them to see their friends and family prior to our week away.
Party 1:
The first party was held at a non air conditioned indoor play centre for kids, complete with many forms of airborne bacteria thanks to the masses of kids in a close environment. The day was the last day of school, non-uniform day, so I decided to book it straight from school. What I didn’t bargain for was it happened to be also the hottest day of the year so 10 sweaty overheated kids emerged from their classrooms before the party had even begun. The two hours consisted of the children running around like a bunch of crazed lemmings. My daughter adopted a high-pitched scream on every slide as other parents (including us) tutted at the out of control kid making the annoying noise as I tried to discreetly quieten her without being noticed. The twins enjoyed themselves and we ticked off the first of their celebrations with an amazing cake courtesy of my talented cake maker friend.
Their most excellent cake from my talented friend Anthea Scott.
Party 2:
This was a more sober affair, you probably thought I meant sombre but I was referring to the hip flasks me and hubby always take to a play centre (only joking). Anyway, round 2 gave our family members who were not coming on holiday the opportunity to swamp the twins with presents. I had given up on trying to persuade the twins to wait until their birthday to open their presents as it was still two weeks away! The party meant more cake, more presents, happy twins, party 2 ticked off.
Party 3:
As I mentioned in my previous blog (https://anounceofme.com/2013/05/19/my-neighbouring-set-of-not-so-desperate-housewives/) we have the benefit of neighbours who have also become our friends. As their children do not attend our kids school, nor are they a member of our family or will be coming to Norfolk with us, we had another birthday party for the twins. This was a BBQ, my hubby’s party of choice if ever we are at home, lots of presents, more cake, happy but confused twins asking me whether they are 5 or 6 as they can’t work it out. Must not do this again next year. Party 3 ticked off.
The Twins 6th Birthday:
We had a lovely week away in North Norfolk with our parents which we all really enjoyed. And without trying to sound like ‘Kirstie and Phil’, the location was perfect, the cottage spacious and it was jolly splendid fun (that was the Kirstie bit). On the Thursday of our week away, it WAS the twins ACTUAL Birthday for REAL! We woke the little ones up, excitedly explained it was their Birthday to which they were not overly impressed about despite us decorating our temporary living room with balloons, banners and dishing out party poppers. Another Birthday to celebrate, obviously they soon got into the swing of it with the promise of more presents and cake. We also had arranged to take a boat ride off Blakeney Point to see wild seals, complete with our dog Chester and I even managed to persuade our Captain to lead another sing-song of Happy Birthday with all the passengers joining in, which a fellow tourist bizarrely filmed, whilst Chester growled at passing seals in the water.
Chester the sea dog.
It does feel very strange to say that our twins are now 6. It only seems like yesterday that I sat exhausted in my hospital postnatal bed, staring wide eyed at two little babies in two little plastic cots, feeling a mixture of excitement and sheer terror at the prospect of two babies to care for along with my then 3 year old son. But we survived…. just… but that is a whole other blog… Stay tuned for more and I promise it will be sooner than 4 weeks!
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