Life's Little Unlearned Lessons

Ha Ha! Did you think I'd given up? No, I'm back - a little less stressed with a convenient half hour to write a post. I'm also acutely aware that I'm at CyberMummy in ten days, so clearly need to up my post count pronto!

I haven't been idle tho - I have been mentally gathering a list in my head of all the things I have learned over the years, but still always do. These are the ones I have been getting wrong this month:

1. Do not go to the supermarket in open toe sandals, especially with freshly painted (Dior Aloha no less!) toenails. You will roll your trolley over them at least five times and it is PAINFUL!

2.Do not think that teaching your 3 year old boy to put his socks and pants in the wash is 'job done'. He will religiously do it for four years and then one day simply stop. It's all part of learning how to be a man.

3. Ditto for eating the fat on bacon.

4. Do not allow filthy football boots in the car; always take a convenient plastic bag for said boots and insist that your son removes them before getting in. Also take a pair of plastic Marigolds in order to tug said boots from his feet when your son starts complaining that he can't get them off all by himself.

5. Do not assume there will be plenty of time in the morning for packing school bags/writing the teacher a note about lost swimming kit/creating a French outfit for themed day. There will not, and you will shout at the kids because deep down you know it's your fault (but you knew this didn't you?).

6. Do not send your husband to the supermarket when he is hungry or when you need household products. He will come home with more condiments than you can shake a stick at (something to do with the BBQ effect) and no Parazone. Ever.

7.Do not expect your daughter to take pride in her hair. She will never brush it on her own accord until she is 13. Therefore either keep brushes in the kitchen/car/handbag at all times - or end up shouting (because deep down you knew it was your fault etc. etc.).

8. Always, always return your mother-in-law's phone calls. If she can't get hold of you, she will phone her son - who will return her call. Result = BAD WIFE.

9. Do not ignore the dog's birthday. How dare you be so cruel - and do make sure you make that dogfood cake you promised.

10. Do not get drunk, watch Desperate Housewives and insist that your husband (custodian of the flicker of course) pause/rewind every two minutes so that you can impart rambling rubbish about continuity problems/how much filler the actresses have had.

11. Do not ask your children which questions they got wrong when scoring over 80% in a test. They will hate you.

12. Do not leave washing the spare room bed linen until the last minute - and especially do not turn over the sheet and fluff up the pillows in a desperate attempt to make it look fresh.

13. Do not leave painting your nails until the hour before you have to leave. They will not dry. At least one will smudge, and it will be the one on display when you are holding your wineglass.

14. ...and do not think you can do nail touch-ups/topcoat in the car. It is completely impossible, and your husband will deliberately slam on the breaks at the crucial moment of application.

15. Do not put wine in the freezer because you have forgotten to put in the fridge. If you do, put on the timer, or risk giving your kids an impromptu science lesson on the expansion of liquids when frozen.

16. Do not think your 10 yr old son will be happy running around in plimsolls with 'Mini Boden' emblazoned in lime green on the back.

17. Do not expect 15 little girls to exclaim in wonderment how gorgeous your cupcakes look before destroying them. If you must show off your baking skills (and I must) take a photo and turn it into a party thank you card.

18. Do not spend hours arranging a family holiday in January, scouring the internet for the best deals, only to leave car hire until the last moment and pay through the nose.

19. Do not just wash the outside of your car, and ignore the inside. There will always be that last minute lift you must give Alpha Mum (her perfect feet perched between the empty Lucozade bottles and piles of gravel/leaves from your drive). And do you not think other kids report back about that weird smell coming from your air con?

20. Do not promise yourself (or anyone else) that you will never do the above again.

I'm sure I've only scratched the surface - you must all have your own 'life's unlearned lessons'. Shall I make it a regular spot? I'm sure it will only take me another week to have accumulated another dozen!

What can you teach me?

Hello from my bunker

Here's hoping you've all had a wonderful Easter! Sadly I have had to work most of it - A major report I need to write slap bang in the middle of the Easter holidays has meant being cooped up in my (windowless) office. The poor kids have been farmed out here there and everywhere, and are now entirely accustomed to glimpsing me emerging from my lair with mad hair and staring eyes to throw some food at them before retreating back for further self-flagellation.

I managed to revive myself yesterday in order to make lunch for 13 members of my family, complete with assorted allergies/issues with other family members (present) /intollerances of the weather/drink problems (mine).

Why do I do it to myself? I can honestly say I haven't felt this drained for a very long time. I'm literally adding this post in ten minutes before I go back to the grindstone while the sun continues to bless EVERYONE ELSE outside.

I shouldn't be moaning, because on an up note - I have been nominated for a MAD Award! I have no idea who would be so kind, as I have so few followers, and I'm only posting once or twice a month, but I'm still super grateful!

I shall be back when this blasted report is put to bed and I can breathe again......

X

From Russia with love?

I had 300 page views from Russia last month - why I have no idea! Has anyone else experienced weird stats like this - and if anyone is reading this in Russia - reveal yourselves!

My creativity seems to have vanished by 9pm every night (I'm typing this line after the rest of my post and can't even think of a decent title).

It makes me such a sporadic blogger - I lie in bed in the mornings thinking of witty ( in my half-doze) observations of family life, but the inspiration vanishes by breakfast. Take today. I swear I had a great idea at 7am. Then I got up, made breakfast, moaned at kids, drove 20 miles, hoovered, moaned at Royal Mail for buggering up electric gates, worked, drove another 20 miles, completed Yr 4 geography project, moaned to Mr. G, and by the evening, I've completely forgotten it. Gone.

So, let me bore you with my birthday instead. As I career towards middle age (oh, alright I'm already there), birthdays make me feel slightly subdued, but Mr G. does his best to gee things along, and I'm always hugely pampered. Want to know what I got?

Magimix 4200 food processor - still in wrapping - had no time to play! Mr G. had to be persuaded on this one. He always insists on 'luxuries' for his presents, and thinks this is a boringly functional piece of house-wifery. I don't care. I've wanted one forever, and I can' t wait to whip up my first meringue!

Jo Malone lime & basil soap (identified as a pass-on gift, as there was no ribbon round the box!)

Gorgeous table lamp from my best friend H.

5 bars of Green & Black's chocolate (but no ginger next time please Mr G...how ungrateful am I?)

The Beauty Bible anti-ageing book..... (co-written by the co-founder of the above - who knew?)

The Flavour Thesaurus by Niki Segnit - Fab, fab, fab book. (beetroot & horseradish anyone? - delish)

Glittery glass bracelets in hues of blue (from Sam)

Heart shaped glass vanity boxes (from Lily)

Scarf with dangly baubles on each end (very now, apparently)

Subscription to Conde Nast Traveller (one can dream...)


Mr G. made me his speciality cake (see above - so pretty!)- Nigella lawsons 'store cupboard cake' made with raspberry jam instead of marmalade. Divine! He makes it every time. Its name makes it sound a bit dry & dusty, but it's actually satisfyingly fudgy. Here is the recipe:

Ingredients:
125g of unsalted butter
100g of dark chocolate
300g of good quality raspberry jam
150g of sugar
a pinch of salt
2 large eggs
150g of self-rising flour

Melt the butter slowly in a heavy-bottom saucepan. When it's almost melted, add chocolate pieces, stir and take off the heat. Stir with a wooden spoon, until chocolate has melted. Add the jam, sugar, salt and eggs. Stir thoroughly (it's okay to leave small visible chunks of jam in the batter). Add sifted flour, stir and pour into a buttered and floured 20-22 cm loose bottomed cake tin or 2lb loaf tin. Bake at 180˚C/350.F/Gas 4 oven for 45-50 minutes, until the cake has set (test with a knife or wooden stick). Leave to cool in the tin for about 10 minutes and transfer to a cooling rack. Once cooled dust with a layer of icing sugar or drizzle with melted white chocolate.


I know - I'm lucky, lucky, lucky. Then I got spoiled all over again on Mother's Day. This was a big improvement on last year when Mr. G was away. The kids had been given strict instructions on how to give me breakfast in bed, but got the pancakes stuck in the toaster. After I had got up to dislodge them, I went back to bed to pretend to be asleep again for 'Take 2'. I was 'woken' five minutes later by Lily tripping up over the stupid dog and judiciously flinging orange juice all over my entire face...

A lesson in Passing the Buck

One of my pet hates is when a company fobs responsibility onto a retailer when they produce faulty goods. This happened to us again at the weekend. Lily was reading The Borrowers, when having reached page 35, the book started again, and then skipped 50 pages when it reached the next page 35.

No worries, I said. Let's write an email to Penguin Books customer services, and I'm sure they will replace it for us. She spent quite a while composing it. To their credit, she received a reply today, but which flatly refused to replace it;

'Please note, Penguin cannot replace books purchased from bookshops. This
is because we sell our stock to the bookshops and they are then
responsible for dealing with any faulty products in accordance within
their own returns policies.'

Now, I can understand this approach to a degree, as it takes a lot of admin out of the business etc. and I honestly would do that if I knew where it was bought and by whom! This was a book given to her at xmas, along with various others, and I honestly cannot remember who it came from.

Well, I've replied with this information, and hoping for a (cue drum roll...) Exception to the Rule!

What do you think they will/should do?

Picture the rare scene at 8.30 last Sunday morning:

- whole family lazing smugly around in cosy White Company bathrobes.
- sun filtering through windows for the first time in months.
- kids being pleasant to each other.
- Mr & Mrs G being pleasant to each other.
- croissants gently crisping in oven.
- warm smell of coffee filling kitchen.
- virgin Sunday Times waiting to be lazily perused.
- dog snoring contentedly on bed
- phone call to say football canceled.
- only one job on the list: to change water filter under the sink...

8.45:

- water gushing out of filter in all directions.
- said water filling kitchen at alarming rate and creeping quickly towards new Designers Guild rug.
- Mr G. desperately trying to stem flow and screeching for buckets.
- Mrs G frantically turning stop-cock under sink to no avail (White Company bathrobe and blow dry now soaking wet).
- Lily standing in the middle of kitchen, sobbing loudly.
- dog running round in demented circles
- Sam hopping about in a Rumplestiltskin panic.
- smell of burning croissants.
- drenched Sunday Times.

8.50

- Mrs G tearing down driveway in sopping, flapping bathrobe and wellington boots while flashing lady garden to BT man up a telegraph pole as she leaps over giant muddy puddles.
- Mrs G desperately scrabbling around in dirt to find water meter lid.
- Mrs G realising that BT van is parked over water meter.
- Mrs G yelling at BT Man to please move his van and get out his screwdriver to help open lid.
- Mrs G inserting entire arm into meter hole full of muddy water to find valve and turn off water.
- Mrs G tearing back up drive to see if water had stopped, dragging BT man with her, as if Knight in Shining Armour.

8.55
- Mr G and Sam (having found a role) still bucket filling and emptying while Lily stands in 1 inch of water, sobbing loudly.
- Mr G shrieking at Lily to empty the towel cupboard to soak up water.
- Mrs G frantically looking up Thames Water emergency number while BT man mumbles something about stop cocks.

9.00
- BT man reaches under kitchen sink to turn stop cock. The other way. Water stops.

9.01
- awkward conversation about how strange it was that it didn't work the first time?
- BT man leaves looking very confused - did he just imagine that?

9.05

Mr & Mrs G laugh like drains for rest of the day.

HOW POWERFUL IS PESTERING REALLY?

My daughter has started a new school, and along with other pressures comes the need to be seen as ‘a good mum’.

Last Friday she announced she needed a blue nose. A request like this usually implies an entire costume is required at breakneck speed for an assembly or charity day.

‘What do you need it for? I’m not sure I have a blue eyeliner…’

‘Not a blue nose Mummy! A Blue Nose! It’s an animal with a blue nose – everyone in my class has one, but Emily says if you don’t want to, she will ask her mum to get me one.’

Okaaay. I look slyly at Lily. Does she realise she has just performed the most perfect piece of pester power on me? She smiles sweetly, ‘It’s true – she says she won’t mind!’

Five minutes later we’re at the toyshop. Bluenoses are ugly, unimaginative ‘plush’ creatures with dead eyes. I know it, she knows it. She keeps glancing furtively at the Sylvanian Family section. She’s wanted a Dalmatian baby for a while now….

I suggest a Blue Nose key ring – visible the whole time on her bag but only £1.99. She accepts and I then buy her the Dalmatian baby anyway simply because she didn’t ask for it – bizarrely the second most perfect piece of pester power.

The reason I seem so weak is because I actually don’t have a problem with school crazes – they’re part of school life, and more often than not, they occur organically rather than are brand driven. I’ve asked around – the passion for Blue Noses isn’t replicated at any other schools around here – nor was the obsession with Mighty Beanz last year in my son’s class. Yes, they are designed as kid’s collectibles, but I think it just takes a couple of kids to kick-start it - and the herd follows.

But what happens to my point of view when a pester is clearly brand driven – usually through advertising or a website? I feel my shackles rising. Nothing annoys me more than a request for an obscure item that I must then go and research – only to find more stuff aimed at seducing kids. So how am I feeling about the brand now? What emotions am I attaching to it?

Ultimately, I still hold the purse strings, and nine times out of ten I will say no on principle. Yes, I know I’m tough, but I’m sure those parents who give in do so under duress rather than through warm feelings towards the brand.

By all means talk to the kids – but talk to the parents too. At my agency (1000heads) we go further than that. We will not target kids under 16 at all. [www.1000heads.com/2010/12/is-social-media-marketing-to-children-ethical/] We speak to parents, communities and schools – in a language which seeks to inform, stresses the benefits and ultimately results in a positive attitude towards the brand. Instead of a one-way pester, you get a two-way conversation.

It’s an ethical decision – but a smart one too!

Acceptance

I think I have finally accepted that I am ageing. Notwithstanding the fact that I am the oldest in my office (bar the MD) by some 13 years, I am now fully advertising my advancing years through my latest (and most expensive) fashion accessory - reading glasses. I didn't even know I needed them until my best friend produced hers. Naturally I tried them on and WOW! Suddenly I was acutely aware of how I had been increasingly holding books & papers at arm's length and squinting in that way older people do when they can't read clearly - yes, and now that older person was me...

The next day we were all in town when I decided to pop into D&A to get my eyes tested - they did it straight away, and my fears were confirmed. The kids had a lot of fun helping me choose the frames but drew the line at getting a chain (I was torn - yes I know it really does consign me to old biddidom quicker than comfy slacks and a pair of Van Dals, but I know I will lose them ALL the time).

I eventually plumped for a pair of black Ralph Laurens, which cost the best part of £250, but do give me a certain air of intelligence. I know this price doesn't seem much to those of you who have always worn glasses, but I was a bit taken aback. Of course, I know how lucky I am not to have had this expense before, and anyway, I could easily have picked up a pair from the chemist for £14.99, so more fool me.

I swear most reading glasses are purchased after trying on a pair of someone else's - the minute mine arrived Mr G popped them on, discovered he was in greater need than I was and promptly spent another £250 on his own pair.

He has in fact just arrived back from New York announcing he is going to sit on his glasses and claim on insurance in order to buy a pair of much trendier glasses that he has seen on much trendier people, and why did I make him go to our small-town D&A with a selection suited only to the narrow-minded suburban bores that live here? He's always like that when he comes home from exciting metropolitan places. He'll get over it soon, and realise how perfectly well he fits in.

Answers Please!

I have just spent the last hour on my hands and knees in the freezing cold covered in what looks and smells like regurgitated puke. I have had to strip off down to my undies and relegate my clothes (and coat) to the washing machine. My hands still stink inspite of numerous washes.

What was I doing? Ha ha. If I had enough followers I could just end the post there and have fun reading all the amusing ideas as they came rushing in. As I only have 12 (my own fault; lazy posting & commenting do not followers get), I will reveal that I have been trying to clear a blocked kitchen drain (oh - was it that obvious?). Not just any old drain mind - the one into which pours the water from my kitchen sink - after having taken a trip through the waste disposal unit.

'Please only use the WDU for small plate scrappings' I informed my husband. 'I don't trust the drain with large quantities of stuff.'

Two days later we have to feed five adults and four kids (see post below...). Mr G. (who always does the peeling bless him) saw fit to flush down the debris from all the potatoes and the parsnips (oh and probably the sodding apples too, seeing as we had crumble) down the WDU. Next day I have to pick my way through puddles of pulped Sunday lunch that has overspilled from the drain to get to my car.

'Oh sorry did you tell me not to? Oh well, I'll deal with it at the weekend.'.

I knew this was a long shot. My husband is not one of those men who spends the weekends doing 'jobs' (when he has been known to achieve anything in this department he spends just as long regaling his efforts to me, practically with his head on my shoulder for grateful patting). Just as my father was more than likely to spend the entire time plodding around with a wheelbarrow in his quilted green jacket; his bobbing head above the window sill the only glimpse we got of him all weekend, so Mr G is to be seen in his comfy armchair, lounge gear on ('lounge gear'? can't think how else to describe it...) remote in hand (or playing Uno with the kids - he is a great Dad).

So, two months later and the drain is STILL blocked. It begins to smell. It smells a bit worse. Feeling the pinch after xmas and Lily's impending school fees, I decide to sort it out myself.

Mistake. HUGE mistake.

I committed, in the words of Sam, an Epic Fail. Donning the blue flowery rubber gloves that go up to my elbows (xmas present from the MIL - don't ask), old jeans, ponytail (thank God) and brandishing boiling water, bamboo cane and my best ladle (well - only ladle, but from our posh set) I must admit I felt optimistic. As I spooned out the putrid gunk, my optimism increased. I could feel the bottom of the drain with the cane and it was getting closer! However, the closer it got, the deeper my arm had to go. Whoops! What was that I could now feel squelching around my fingers? What was that now all over the arm of my coat/bottom of my jeans (remember the puddle?).

I'll spare you the rest of the details. Suffice to say my next attempt with soda crystals and vinegar was no more successful and I'm now searching for a drain man who can. And the lavender hand cream.

Well, for once my photo looks current! It was actually taken two years ago - before Lily had the audacity to tower over her older brother. We are very careful now with our photo-taking to ensure the disparity isn't obvious - short of popping Sam onto a box (a la Prince Charles). I'm still convinced he will shoot up when he hits puberty - and if he doesn't, well, so be it. He's gorgeous, and will be in hot demand in an 'Aston from JLS' way!

This has been my first Christmas since starting work, and thank goodness I'm not hosting. I'm a christmas food masochist who needs to make everything from scratch - although I am painfully aware each year that no-one gives a monkeys if your stuffing is from Nigella or Netto. The most effort I made was in 2001 (my first ever 'Christmas at Ours') and made everything from Nigella's 'How To Eat Book'. I had always been deeply impressed with Lidgates Butcher in Notting Hill (posh meat, posh prices, even posher customers) and when I came across her recipe for 'Lidgates Cranberry and Orange Stuffing', I was sold. Shame no-one else was. Hideously bright pink (surely that wasn't the intention?) it poked out of the Turkey's backside like a bad case of piles. I insisted on helping myself to a large portion but struggled to find any merit in the taste either. It was the source of much mirth then and ever since. Please leave well alone if ever tempted!

No, this year the mantle falls to my sister-in-law. She has a very keen cook of a husband too, so I'm hugely looking forward to his grub. My heart always used to sink slightly when we had it at my MILs; she means well, but a frozen Bernard Matthews Butter Ball does not cut the mustard does it? The thing used to come out of the oven swimming in water - not a natural juice in sight. No worries - a quick douse of Bisto (beef) Gravy Granules and Bob's Your Uncle!

What a snob I sound. I hope your Christmas lunch is everything you hope it will be (with a few cold spuds for later). Have a great time!

Last Day

Well, it's all gone pretty smoothly. She loved her day, and can't wait to begin in January. It helps that the uniform is purple (how expensive was that?).

Today is her last day, and she told me this morning that she feels weird. I feel even weirder. I went to the carol service yesterday and felt awkward - I'm sure it's all in my head, but when you move a child away from a school, the implication is that you're not happy with it. I found myself avoiding the glances of the teachers and the other mums, and justifying the decision to those who asked as a 'giving both kids the same opportunities'. Then I wanted to back track and say,'not that this is not a great school, and I'm sure your kids will do really well here, and pass the 11+, and it's not that we have loads of money because we don't, and there'll be no more skiing hols for us for a while etc. etc.' But I didn't. I just felt awkward. Mr G is picking her up today, and just as well actually. There will be tears, and he copes much better with her in those situations. I'm sure a trip to McDonalds will dry those eyes!

I'm in the office today, and meeting up with a couple of old girlfriends tonight. We're going to Benihana - a Japanese restaurant where the chefs cook amazing things at your table. Anyone been to one before? I'm hoping the snow dump that was forecast yesterday doesn't materialise - or I will be stranded in London.....

New School Dramas

My stomach is in a knot as I wait another half an hour before I can go and pick up my daughter after her 'trial' day at her new school. I didn't expect to feel like this, but ever since we told her she was moving it's been a roller-coaster of emotions. One minute she's excited, the next in tears. She has had to do some tests to see if she'll be accepted. I know that she really needs to balls these up to be rejected, but she does suffers from nerves. Will she burst into tears in front of the headmistress when she thinks about the friends she's leaving behind? Will she feel lonely in the playground at lunch? Will she freak out when they play netball in PE, which she has never learned?

Why am I moving her then? Because we already have a son in a private school (there was no place for him in Lily's state school) and I just cannot justify it anymore. I am earning enough to pay for her, and she definitely will benefit from the extra attention and facilities. She is normally super confident in new situations (e.g on a film set, where she knows no-one) so my fingers are crossed.......

From a rock to a hard place?

Look at this - a whole month almost since the last post. How crap is that. I'm so impressed with the bloggers who get something up every day. Could it be that I'm losing enthusiasm since my last post got no comments? Yes, I think that's it - yet I know that it's no good just writing the posts, you have to market yourself to other bloggers if you want an audience, and that takes time - time I just do not seem to have. In addition to work, I have spent November xmas online shopping, sorting out two new cars, researching car & life insurance, driving Lily to extra ballet lessons for exam, home-coaching for said exam, home-coaching for drama presentation, revising Erosion, Tectonic Plates and Volcanoes, having new bedroom furniture fitted, digging out various dirty sportswear from wash bin I haven't had time to wash, entertaining 8 adults and 9 children for Sunday lunch, pleading with my son to do x, y, z without being told......

I watched a great programme on Sky 3 the other day. 'The Real Desperate Housewives'. It made me feel a whole lot better about my life! Basically featuring women who had given up careers which they had thought were crucial to their self-esteem, they found they were more content with their lives having stepped down from the ladder. Most of them were in their 40's and had been brought up in the 1980's, told by their frustrated mothers or academic girls' schools (both in my case) that we owed it to the pioneering feminists to have it all.

I bought into this completely. I had seen what staying in the home all her life had done to my intelligent, opinionated mother. As with most women brought up in the 50's, she married young to get away from home, giving up a place at university to start a family. She missed out on the liberation of the 60's by three years. By the time skirts went above the knee and The Beatles to the top of the charts, she was a housewife in Suburbia with two children and a husband planning a year's trip to Tanzania 'for work'. Why she had me in 1967 I have no idea (well, as a teenager I did hear them arguing once about the merits of that decision - yes, I was a slip up).

I was completely seduced by the media of the day too - Cosmo was forever printing articles about 'How to get Ahead' at work, illustrated with images of beautiful power women with glossy hair and slimline briefcases, knee on desk, perfectly manicured hands around the tie of a weak and feeble male colleague. Advertising was also littered with these depictions of the modern female in charge - Charlie, VW Golf, Clarks, Kenco - this was our destiny, and lo and behold if you even considered the possibility of a family.

I was very good at biology - my mother spent a long time counselling me to go into physiotherapy, chiropody etc. on account of the fact I could do it easily part-time once I had kids. Huh! I wasn't going to work part-time! I wasn't going to have kids! And anyway, I had never seen anyone in the NHS in a shoulder padded suit and heels.

So I took a law degree, began a career in marketing and lived the life. It was no-where near as glamorous as I had been led to believe. There was a lot of stress, not a lot of money, far too much alcohol etc. I still loved it tho' and frankly, felt smug that I had ticked all those boxes.

Then I met Mr G. Now, after a couple of painful relationships, I hadn't had a boyfriend for three years. I was never getting married, or having kids. I was about to buy my first flat, and was interviewing for my next step up the ladder. So getting engaged after eight months, married after a year and pregnant the following winter (just before Millenium eve.....) had definitely not been part of my plan.

Neither had staying at home. But that's exactly what happened. Back in 2000, 6 months maternity leave was the max. I wanted a year with my baby, and my boss said he would have me back part-time any time I wanted. Perfect. Then he moved, there was a re-shuffle, and I was left with no career, and a mortgage we were struggling to pay on one salary. However, the main issue for me was that I was now a full-fledged 'stay-at -home mum'. I had loved my year 'off' from work, but there was no way I wanted to make it permanent! There was only one thing for it - get pregnant again, and at least justify the 'sacrifice' I was making.

And that's the way it stayed for another 8 years. Slowly, slowly, I began to embrace my new role. I was a mother, yes, but a home-maker too. This encompassed all the financial admin, holiday organising, house buying and selling. I hated not having my own money, but I had a husband who never kept tabs, and we shared everything. Money was very tight and we had our fair share of ups and downs adjusting to family life and my role within it. We had always agreed that I would work again, and I'm incredibly lucky to be doing what I'm doing now, but I would be ok with my life if I wasn't. I had a great career and then a family - that is having it all. Bringing up a family is the most important and rewarding job there is, and I really think that it is finally being appreciated as such.

What are your thoughts on this? Are our teenage girls still getting the 'be ballbusters' message or is there now a more measured response to the dilemmas of being a woman in today's workplace?

I know I've only scratched the surface of theses issues - but look at the length of this post! Not the best way of securing comments... I know, I know!

AUTUMN IN PARIS

Well, you'll never guess (well, you would if you knew me better) - Sam's crutches got left on the trolley at Charles de Gaulle airport. I blamed the taxi driver, but clearly the fault was mine. The reason they were on the trolley however, and not on Sam's arms, was because he had made a miraculous recovery that morning and said his ankle was fine. I insisted he take the crutches in case the walking in Paris proved too much, but alas, we now had no choice.

Fortunately, it was all good. We stayed in a traditional French 17 century hotel, The Henri IV, and the kids loved it - especially the winding staircase which stretched up 8 floors. The sun shone and we did the works. My feet have never been so sore - God only knows how Sam coped, but he did great.

Can I make a confession tho'? I'm secretly glad it's all out of the way. The next time I go to Paris I want to spend my time languishing over a glorious breakfast, followed by a spot of boutique shopping (and cook-shops! I had to walk past so many fabulous cook-shops on our way to the next 'must-see' on our list that I almost cried). In the afternoon, it would be back to the hotel (Crillon, with any luck...) for a nap, afternoon tea (there are some English customs I take with me everywhere) and an evening out in a fabulous restaurant or smoky jazz club. I will glance out of the cab window (as I am whisked along the left bank) to spy the Eiffel Tower, admire the Notre Dame as I stroll along the Seine, appreciate the splendour of The Louvre from the outside, but I will never again do the tourist trail. I know it makes me sound like a cultural heathen, and I swear if the museum could be closed just for me I would love it - but the more of an old bat I get, the less I am able to cope with crowds, and I want to simply enjoy Paris for what it intrinsically is, rather than what it has on show. That is hard to do with kids. They are not welcome in good restaurants (the food is too sophisticated anyway), they can't drink and they hate shopping.

I'm so glad we did it tho' - I love creating memories for the kids. I had never seen the Eiffel Tower sparkling like it now does on the hour - especially as we were right at the top when it first happened; it's like a thousand flash bulbs going off. When our plane took off at 8pm on Sunday night, Lily caught it shimmering again in the distance and she instantly had the whole plane ooing and ahing. Brilliant.

CHIPS ANYONE?

It's finally happened - Sam's worst nightmare. He's broken his ankle playing football. Not because he was bravely attempting a sliding tackle or aggressively fending off an opponent while tearing down the wing. No. Sam broke his ankle while stepping on a stationary ball. He has offered up a complicated explanation of how this occurred after a heroic save in the back garden of a friend's house. I have my doubts.

In spite of being in a fair amount of discomfort, he then went to a swimming party, where he was able to climb up and down an inflatable octopus for a good 30 minutes before he realised that the pain was not going away..... This was followed by a trip to A&E where the tiny chip in his ankle bone was magnified for full effect. Fortunately, he wasn't put in plaster as we are going to Paris on Thursday and the doctor felt that an elastic stocking and crutches would suffice. These he found an exciting challenge until the novelty wore off after a couple of hours. I have now had three days of full on whingeing, not helped by Amazon's failure to deliver Fifa 11 which was hastily ordered as a potential distraction, but has merely served as another source of frustration (his and mine - he has just asked me yet again if I did actually order it).

No doubt my next post will be telling you all about Paris and how we got on (and off the Batobus every ten minutes...)

All I can hope for is that it doesn't make him even less reticent on the football field than he already is (see post 'Parental Guilt part 1' below). You never know, it could make him fearless now the worst has happened and he didn't actually die - who knows?

TO BE OR NOT TO BE....

I'm having a wardrobe dilemma. This is nothing new. I have always had problems buying clothes, but now I'm in my 40's, it's got worse. Let me explain. I am not one of those stylish women who effortlessly establish their signature look, which they update each season with the addition of a trend item which says, 'I'm not a slave to fashion, because I have my own unique style, but I do have my finger on the pulse, and will add pieces seamlessly when it works for me'. No no no. If you see me regularly you will know that more often than not my outfit will say, 'yes, here I am again trying desperately to dress with style, but not quite deciding if I am going to embrace my mid 40's and dress at Fenn Wright Manson or cling doggedly to my youth and insist on Top Shop'.

The age problem has not helped the fact that I have started being greedy with styles - one minute wanting to look all rock-chick, the next lady-like in a fifties suit, the next 70's in flares and wedges. I sort of try them all, but cannot settle on one, and it frustrates me. I have read interviews with women who have eclectic wardrobes, and they always say 'I dress to suit my mood; I never feel the same from one day to the next blah blah blah' - and position it as a positive thing. I just end up feeling fake and frustrated that I can't decide on one look and properly invest in it, rather than just bits and pieces of every look that only give me a total of four outfits, because nothing is interchangeable.

You would think that entering middle age would simplify things. You only have two choices really - classic or classic with a twist. Except when you're greedy. And it's very easy to be greedy when fashion is so fabulous and diverse - which let's face it, right now, it is. If you were in your twenties in the 1990's you will get this. It was the worst decade for fashion BY FAR. Look, I like minimalist clothes (as one of my looks of course....) but all we had year after year was dull shift dresses (hopeless on a pear-shape with hollow back), kitten heels (even worse with thick ankles), hipster trousers (flat abs anyone?) tops that barely brushed waistbands, only to reveal a not so tasty muffin top. Clothes were either coma inducing or designed to make your 20-something body feel 40-something. I didn't have the confidence to branch out, but I was desperate for prom dresses, platform heels, sloppy Joe jumpers, high-waisted flares - oh wait, that's what's trendy NOW - right?

So, therein lies my problem. I just want to stick my nose in the fashion trough and suck it up - gorgeous gladiator heels that make you feel fabulously confident (since when did a kitten heel do that?), voluminous layers that are comfy and flattering, whimsical dresses which cinch at the waist (hurrah!), sheepskin jackets that are tough but cosy, military coats which embrace your inner Russian heiress. But there's my perennial problem again - no one style, thoughtfully put together. Just a gluttonous desire to feast without sensible, budget controlled consideration for the merits of the capsule wardrobe. Urgh - even the phrase sends me to sleep. Capsule Wardrobe....snore...

It doesn't help that I am so influenced by my surroundings. I now work in Soho and am regularly exposed to Top Shop Oxford Circus and a myriad of even better boutiques. I buy say, some chunky ankle boots and peg trousers (not too 'mutton') and then won't wear it to the school gates because I'm afraid that the Boden mums in sensible shoes will think I'm trying too hard. Next day I'm in Old Amersham, buried in middle-England conservatism, pop into Phase 8 and find myself buying a nice little waterfall cardie which I wear to pick up the kids but instantly hate when getting dressed for work.

I know I've waffled on, but you can see my problem(s). Does anyone empathise with this double (triple? not sure which) life dilemma or are you all thinking I'm a total flake who needs to get a grip? Better still, and much more fun, just vote for your preferred shoe, and I'll get the picture.

IT'S THAT TIME....

I was having a lovely lie in with Sam on Saturday while reading The Times, which I love, but rarely finish until the following Saturday. I spotted him intently reading the back of the paper I was holding, and I got that warm glow we get when we realise that they do sometimes spontaneously seek to improve their minds all by themselves. After his eyes had left the page, I turned it over to read, ready to have a stimulating discussion about said topical subject:

'I have been faking orgasms for two years - shall I tell my partner?'

Okaaaaaay. Some of you may be aware that in the Times Weekend section, there is a sexual problem page. I was well aware of this, but clearly, in my smugness at having brought up a spontaneously mind-improving 10 yr old, had momentarily forgotten. It crossed my mind that this might be a good opportunity to have 'the chat'. I have been in a slight tizz about this ever since I got wind of a rumour that one of his school friends regularly tunes into the Adult Channel on Sky (yes - really. Apparently just women in sexy underwear rolling around on a bed, but still).

I had already talked about it with Mr. G and he said he was relaxed if I wanted to do it (the chat, not the sexy underwear - don't be ridiculous). Although slightly disconcerting, I welcomed this task as a parenting challenge which could only strengthen our mother & son bond. I now glanced at Sam. He was staring straight up at the ceiling in what I swear looked like slight shock. Then I panicked. I hadn't even planned on getting onto the subject of orgasms at all! I had in fact already sent off for a selection of 'let's talk sex'/'what's happening to me?' type books, but when they arrived I was so horrified at the graphic detail that I hurriedly ordered a 'how are babies made?' type book instead, which I hadn't yet received. Crikey - how could I have the chat without providing the literature for Sam to stare at, thereby freeing him from making eye contact? You see, I really had thought of everything. So I chickened, and put a swift end to our lie-in muttering something about getting Lils to ballet. What a wuss.

The topic remained on my mind all weekend; how I was going to tackle it, phrase my answers to awkward questions etc. However, while we were all lolling on the sofas watching X-Factor on Sunday night, Mr G casually mentioned that he and Sam had had a little discussion about making babies yesterday, and how 'you're all cool with it aren't you Sam?'. I couldn't believe my ears - not only had Mr G unceremoniously trumped me, but then neglected to even bloody mention it! Sam had clearly gone straight to his Dad. Well, I wasn't going to miss out. 'I have a book coming in the post for you Sam - and you can ask me anything you like - anything - you know, give you a woman's perspective and all th...', 'K Mum- whatever' he says, eyes simultaneously rolling while never leaving those of Cheryl Cole....

Have you gone through this parenting rite of passage? How was it for you?

I'M IN LOVE...

...with my gorgeous new toaster from DeLonghi. This was a complete impulse purchase when my 12yr old Dualit began to consistently burn one side of my toast while barely warming the other. It was a wedding present, and I loved it dearly, but I cannot do with rubbish toast 7am in the morning. Funnily enough in a meeting with a colleague last week we were discussing offline word-of-mouth and she was laughing about her evangelism for her toaster. I quickly emailed her and discovered it was this one. Ten minutes later the white version was on its way.

It arrived just in time to do my lunchtime pitta - perfect! My son, who is poorly, likes his less crispy, so I was able to do that for him as there is a dual setting. What do you think? I do feel disloyal to Dualit - 12 yrs is a good run, but it has no bagel setting (toasts one side more than other). Also this one was £60 as opposed to £140 for the Dualit (gorgeous in Azure blue tho' above).

Let's have a poll - which one would you have gone for? (and, yes that is a bottle of voddy next to the toaster - you never know when a hair of the dog will be required!)

PS - This is not a sponsored post, and I doubt I will do them as it may end up being a conflict with my job.

WHAT IS JACK THINKING...?

Had a great night on Friday night with my 1000heads' colleagues Lauren and Roxy, meeting up with some other family bloggers at the Miele Gallery in London. Because I work from home most of the time, I haven't spent much time with my fellow workers, so it was lovely to get to know them better.

We had a cookery demo of the Miele Steam Oven from the lovely Silvana Franco before sitting down to a yummy supper. It was fabulous to meet some of my favourite bloggers and get some tips on increasing my followers - Twitter it is then! Felt weird waking up on Saturday morning; my husband was away and the kids were staying with friends. It must be over ten years since I've had the house to myself in the morning; I thought I would relish it, but when I looked into their rooms I felt really sad to see their empty beds (yes, yes, missed Mr G too!)

My daughter is in a frenzy of excitement - she left at 6.30 this morning on her first day as an extra for the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. We live close to Pinewood, and as she has already decided that acting is her calling, I accepted an invitation to sign her up to a kids' extra agency. I've had to carefully manage her expectations re: becoming Johnny or Pen's NBF. She may not even be in the same scenes, let alone meet them. While she's there she is expected to do homework with a tutor (I wouldn't let her do it otherwise); they are only allowed to work for three hours a day at this age. I was concerned that the school wouldn't be keen, but they are very open to allowing the kids these kinds of experiences. I would love to my son to do it, as I think it would give him a lot more confidence, but he's not interested.

The shoot is taking place at Greenwich Naval College - a two hour drive from Pinewood. The other kids she left with this morning had come from Bournemouth and Swindon, so they've already been on the road since 4am. I'm not sure I would be that dedicated to my child's ambitions - I barely made it out of bed at all. What is your opinion on allowing kids to do this work? I wouldn't be keen on her having a major role, and I definitely will not be taking her to any West End auditions either, but what if it was what she really wanted and she showed real talent? Tricky one.

A RANT

Ok - quick post, need a rant:

My time is precious - I work 10 - 3 for 4 days a week, giving me one hour a day to sort out house, family stuff, finances etc. Fridays come round and I'm putting on the first wash of the week - you get the picture. Why oh why must I spend at least five minutes a day (or 30 minutes a week) tearing plastic wrapping off badly targeted mailshots (my kids are 10 & 8 and I'm still getting brochures from TGLT co. etc) and separating them out into the recycling. Then, come Friday, I spend at least another 30 mins at the tip throwing away said recycling (my council only comes fortnightly and there wouldn't be room to move if I waited. Plus I have to lug it all down our long drive, so I may as well). It wouldn't be so bad if Boden didn't send me catalogues/leaflets/even newspapers every three days.

I always tick the 'don't contact me with carefully selected offers' box, so God only knows how much those people are getting - and do they all recycle?

Today I received this brochure from the (drumroll..) 'House of Bruar'. As far as I can tell, you need to be popping up to the lodge (along with your pack of spaniels, no kids in sight) every weekend to need anything from this company, and only then if you're into theme dressing (see above). So that'll be me then!

Ok - rant over, I'm not drinking this week, so the tension has been mounting somewhat...