Is staying at home the same as having a J.O.B?

“Do you work?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, how about you?”

“Oh I’m a teacher… what do you do?”

“I’m a mum – I have two children.”

“Oh no, I mean what do you do for a JOB.”

“Yeh, exactly. I’m a mum.”

Contraversial I know, but this is exactly how the conversation I’ve never had (except in my head) goes about the disconnect that exists between being a stay-at-home-mum, and having a “proper job”.

There lies a question.

A matter for debate.

Or perhaps just another red herring designed to pit parents against one another: is staying at home with the children the same as having a job?

Well now you’ve asked (it’s ok, I know you haven’t…) there are many similarities:

  • from the minute you wake up, you’re on someone else’s clock
  • breaks where you get to sit and stare into space are few and far between
  • time to do the things you want to like read, write, yoga and re-watch all eight series of West Wing on a loop (for example) are limited to a couple of short hours each day
  • there are parts of the job that you enjoy, there are other parts that you HATE
  • there are parts of the day that leave you buzzing and mentally fist-bumping yourself
  • there are parts of the day when you feel like you’re not good enough and you’re sure you’re going to be found out
  • your boss(es) are demanding and at times unreasonable
  • there is never enough time
  • you never get to the end of your to-dos
  • you’re tired at the end of the day

But there are also a number of differences. Some, I’ll admit, are good ones:

  • the fear of sleep deprivation is no longer as strong. The stakes at work are much higher whereas no one gets sacked for putting the car-keys in the fridge
  • small children throwing tantrums are infinitely preferable to the teenagers who threw swear words and the occasional pencil/ ball of spittle-stuck-paper/ chair
  • boredom and frustration sometimes rear their heads but there isn’t the eye-popping, migraine-inducing level of S.T.R.E.S.S that being a teacher entailed

While others are B.A.D:

  • conversation consists of endlessly repeating what the two-year-old said so that he stops, interspersed with lectures on the skin colour of Polar Bears (black, fwiw) from the four-year-old, and asking her if she is hungry/ needs a wee
  • you get followed to the toilet
  • there is no tangible progression, no acknowledgment
  • there is no salary

The question it often feels like is really being asked is, is staying at home easier than going to work?

Its a sticky, tricky one, full of potential flash points and petty resentment, something I’m aware of as I admit that despite all my hand-wringing I find staying at home with my children easier than what I did before.

But then I had a job that sometimes felt like war, 14 hour days and working weekends were not uncommon, and I have enough friends telling me going to work is a dollyhob compared to being at home to be confident this is not the case for everyone.

About as commital as a pre-Amal George Clooney I know, BUT one thing I will insist is that staying at home with the children IS like having a job.

The point is that there is a distinction to be made between keeping children alive, and parenting. Which, incidentally, is why Jeremy Kyle’s sofas are never going to be bereft of guests.

The day-to-day triumvirate of providing sustenance, hygiene and entertainment is not parenting. That is looking after children.

Parenting is about the example you set, the choices you make, the values you instill, the heartache that accompanies all of those, and the hope that the overall outcome of your literal blood, sweat and (lots of) tears will be a Good Human.

It is generally accepted that when mums and dads, through choice or necessity, entrust their children to someone else to look after, they are not abandoning their position as a parent.

And from the other side of the (invisible) coin, if someone else – whether it be a childminder, nursery, nanny or the next-door neighbour’s teenager – gets paid for doing what you do for free, then I don’t see why it can’t be classed as a job?

One that is really hard work.

Just like the job your other half does when he/she leaves the house.

It’s all hard work.

So instead of wasting time arguing over who has the biggest shit-show for a life, why don’t we all just agree that challenge and compromise exist whichever way we turn?

Rather than sticking up the vees behind one another’s back, lets heartily pat each other  instead, because the bottom line is that we’re all doing the best J.O.B that we can.

Why parents are the real losers on V-Day

I’m writing this imagining that we’ll be marking V-Day by sitting on the settee, not touching, while I dick around on my phone and he pretends he’s not asleep.

We might splash out on a takeaway, although if I get motivated the M&S Meal Deal seems the correct amount of lack-of-effort-but-let’s-pretend-we’ve-tried.

To be honest, we probably wouldn’t be celebrating “properly” even if we didn’t have two children running us ragged because (while I’m aware that this is a bit wanky) we don’t like being told what to do by card and flower companies trying to make a bit of extra cash in between the actual “things” of Christmas and Mother’s Day.

If you’re busy planning your celebrations however, and are now annoyed at me for belittling your heartfelt romantic gestures, please don’t be – it’s perfectly possible that I’m twisted because no one ever bought me chocolates, a card, breakfast in bed or flowers on the 14th Feb. (At this point the Mr is going to pipe up with “I have!” in an incredulous tone because last year he bought me some Maltesers).

Given my lack of experience in this field of roses, I’m also uncertain about the etiquette of Valentine’s – is the onus on the man treating the woman, or is the idea that the man and woman are nice to each other?

And if it’s a man and man, or woman and woman, who buys the present/flowers/ card then?

And what if you are (whisper it…) S.I.N.G.L.E on Valentine’s Day? Well, there I do have an answer because every year there seems to be a concerted effort by “the media” to make people who are single on Valentine’s Day “feel better” about it.

Last year a video called Why being single is the best gift you can give yourself did the rounds and, intrigued, I watched.

The assumption of the video, and the numerous articles I read while in freefall down this particular internet rabbit hole, seemed to be that being single is shit and anyone who is single on this particular day feels even more shit than usual, therefore they need advice to make them feel less shit.

Now, I appreciate that I’m not the target audience for these intensely patronising pieces so you’re welcome to shout “what do you know?” at your computer screen, but some of the “advice” was errrr, a bit shit?

One of the articles I read encouraged single people to go out and buy themselves a Valentine’s Day present. Call me a coupled-up clueless fool, but the last time I checked, going and spending your own money on something for yourself, was called “shopping”. No?

Anyway, that’s not really my point. What I’ve actually popped up all half-empty to say is that contrary to popular opinion, single people are not to be pitied on Valetine’s Day, parents of small children are the ones who suffer most.

And no one is making us feel better.

There is a chance that having met a person with whom we have procreated, the people who write these borderline-offensive How to cope on Valentine’s Day features think we have got it sorted. But it seems to me that all of the traditional methods of celebrating this occasion are no-go (or at least hard-to-go) areas for parents.

Romantic meals? Ha.

Special expensive chocolates? Will only be eaten standing up behind a cupboard door lest they be sniffed out, demanded, chewed up and spat out once reality dawns that Belgian Truffles don’t taste like chocolate buttons. You’ll probably be expected to willingly accept the slimy mess, complete with strings of attached saliva into your outstretched palm, and will then have to find somewhere to wipe it without smearing it over handles or drawers. Or you could just eat it.

Flowers are fine as long as you don’t have a small child who likes to eat them.

Candlelight? Four words – Disney Princess polyester dresses.

Basically, all the “romantic” stuff doesn’t just make the single people sad, it’s also a thorny rose in the heart of the average parent.

And all of this, of course, assumes that you’re still in a relationship with the person you had sex with and made another person. Eff me – imagine what V-Day is like for people who are single AND have small children?

Anyway, in a pleasurable backlash against the sappy soppy sloppy flowers and card brigade of which I am definitely not one although perhaps maybe possibly one day someone will buy me a card and some flowers and give me a kiss and some breakfast in bed and take the children away for a few weeks…sorry… there are people out there who take pleasure in marking Valentine’s day in rather less typical ways.

A trip to Ikea? A £5 Superdrug voucher? A cross stitch proclaiming “Come the fuck in, or fuck the fuck off”? Or perhaps some cookies with the words penis, cunt and cock emblazoned across them? No?

Well, perhaps you would like to celebrate by being sick on the kitchen floor at 3am after one too many on a girls’ night out, and gift your husband the pleasure of mopping it up?

Whatever way you look at it though, V-Day for parents is not even close to victorious. Especially when you realise that this year it lands on a Tuesday during HALF. TERM.

Roses are dead

Romance is too

When you have small children

Surviving is sometimes all you can do.

I’ve marched before but this time was different

This time it was personal.

It became even more personal when on my way to the march a man approached me as I was making my way through the Underground carrying my placard. Genial enough at first he asked me what protest I was making my way to. It became apparent that he already knew.

A few steps after I answered he launched into homophobic, misogynist rant that, while it did not quite intimidate me, left me wondering why he felt it was necessary.

Why did he approach me when he clearly already knew why I was there? And why me when there were plenty of other people walking through the underground carrying placards (although unlike me, they were in groups, not alone – explanation provided, perhaps)?

His rant was intense and bizarre in equal measure, starting with the assertion that we had to make a choice between “John Wayne type leaders…real men”, or having “some nancy-boy who’s probably going to bring AIDS into the house”.

As he followed me up through the tunnels and up the escalator he continued that male serial killers in America were murdering women because they had “bossy mothers” or were “sick of women nagging and telling them what to do”. Apparently mass murder is the fault of womankind too.

Just like watching Trump’s inauguration, it felt like a spoof of right-vs-left-wing politics, when the right-wing are stupid/ mad and bad, and yet somehow manage to outsmart the left-wing good-but-ineffectual guys.

I was shocked, tongue-tied, and frustratingly impotent in my efforts to force out a “fuck off” – for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to be rude to this walking, talking definition of bigot.

It felt tempting to dismiss him as “crazy” – he didn’t look mad, but then, what does mental illness look like? – but then I remembered that millions of people have just legitimised similar (perhaps marginally less extreme) views to these, by electing men equally bold about sharing them, to the most powerful seat in the entire world.

And it intensified my certainty that I was in exactly the right place.

I was marching for equal pay; because I feel insulted by the idea of a man who has bragged about sexual assault becoming the most powerful man in the world; because, like many women, I know what it feels like to be heckled, grabbed and groped, followed by aggression when the violation is not welcomed.

grab-this

I was marching because I feel frustrated and personally limited by the relative status and expectations afforded men and women in our society.

I was marching because I wanted to say enough – as much to myself, as to anyone else – to give myself permission to be pissed off.

And I was marching because as parents we are programmed to want better for our children. I’ll be damned if my daughter is going to live her life the same way I have, with insidious limitations papered over with a veneer of “Having it all”, only for them to leap up and takes chunks out of our certainty when we start to make demands.

But in answer to anyone thinking, but he’s not your President, not your country, isn’t this a little pointless, I also marched in solidarity.

Because I am unlikely to ever fail to access an abortion, or birth control, does this mean I should not care about the women who can’t?

Because I was born in a body that matches the gender I identify with, does this mean I should not care about the people for whom this is not reality?

Because I love a man, not a woman, does this mean I should ignore the struggles of those who love differently to me?

And because I have white skin,  does this mean I shouldn’t acknowledge the unearned privilege that this carries with it? Shouldn’t I recognise the even greater struggles that people, particularly women, of colour have to face? Battles that carry even greater resonance because they will be my son’s and my daughter’s.

I’ve marched before on behalf of a passionate, desolate profession, beaten down and desperate about their working conditions and the prospects for the children they taught. But I’ve never marched before from a place of such deep-seated fear for the futures of people I don’t know, don’t love, but who I care about, because they are people.

As the crowds swelled, so did the lump in my throat.

The coming together of people with a common cause has always had the power to move me, but the energy felt sharper, brighter, and more certain of its justness than I have ever felt before.

One hundred thousand men and women marched in London alone, and behind them lie many more wishing them well and that they could have joined. And we wake up this Sunday full of optimism and empowerment that joy, beauty and togetherness were found yesterday in a world that feels so full of hate and division.

That greatest of human comforters was out in full-force yesterday – we are not alone.

Even so, the truth is that we also wake up to the reality that the occasion is over and nothing has changed – nothing has really been achieved.

To see the long road ahead, the reams of progress that must be made, it is tempting to wonder if it is worth it? Is it really necessary? Can I really care so much, for so long? But whenever I feel like this, I look at my children.

My beautiful brown boy and girl exist because of the tireless actions of people that have come before us, and those who continue that fight right up to today.

Things change. When it is right, they have to.

And as if I needed that reminder yesterday, my favourite memory was the young girls and boys, some barely teenagers, waving their signs, chanting and singing.

Their presence provoked the loudest cheers and chanting I heard at any point in the march as their youth bouyed us up with their promise of a different future.

I’m only 36 but already I can see we are too late for now, for us.

But we keep on keeping on because they are the future and we must not let them down.

Five things to do for a friend whose child is in hospital

The smallsmall was admitted to hospital this year on Christmas Day. Sound dramatic, right? Well, it was a bit – breathing is kind of important and he wasn’t being terribly good at it, so in we went and ended up staying for four days.

Shittest Christmas ever, you might be thinking. But actually it wasn’t so bad. The nurses and doctors were immense (and of course were WORKING on Christmas Day – where were you, Mr Cu- I mean, Hunt?…) and even when I fell asleep leaning on the side of the bed the boy was on, they just brought me chocolates and left me face down in a puddle of saliva as they went about their very important business.

Like most British people I moan about the weather and my inabiliity to get a GP appointment but on the whole we know that when the chips are down, the NHS always stumps up.

My mum’s cancer (x2), the instrumental birth of my first child, the midwifery care for my second, the weeks my preemie nephew recently spent in NICU, and now this little episode of festive drama – every time the NHS has proven themselves to be a little bit of ace in a world full of too much shit and Donald Trump.

Having said that, when your kid gets admitted to hospital, the resources are quite rightly pointed in their direction. There is little sleep and no food for the anxious parents (unless you count guiltily hoovering up the cold remains of your kid’s shepherd’s pie while hiding behind a blue curtain).

hospital-food
It would have been a waste, right..? The cake and custard was good too…

So, while I was sitting around in hospital I gave some thought to what would make the stay easier for me and anyone else who finds themselves in this position:

Food. Most children’s wards have kitchens which parents are able to use. One of the most helpful things friends/ family can do is bring/ send in food that can be easily warmed in a microwave.

Just a note of caution – I do mean actual food, not the snacky kind of junk food that we all imagine someone stuck in a hospital will be craving. The chances are that after the first 24 hours, the parent in question will have already consumed Christmas-like quantities of crisps and chocolate and will be feeling a little sick.

Proper food is the one here, folks. And if you have no time to cook (fair enough) then grab a decent ready meal, some soup perhaps, or a sandwich of superior quality to the average hospital canteen’s, and rest assured the gesture will be greatly appreciated.

Slippers, socks, (new) pyjamas. An unexpected hospital stay means no time to pack, no time to think what you need, and there is definitely no time to consider the fact that it might not feel ok to be forced out of your comfort-home while wearing your comfort clothes.

You can’t even fall back on being ill and therefore not caring, because you’re not.

I’m putting on my PJs at home generally means I’ll be donning the tshirts too tatty to wear in public, coupled with a pair of pants. If I’m feeling frisky (said with sarcasm and meaning exciting-but-not-really, not that kind of frisky) I might stretch to a pair of the Mr’s boxers.

Clearly this was not going to cut it on a hospital ward.

When it comes to socks, there was also something embarrassing about taking off my shoes to uncover an unwelcome toe or heel waggling at everyone. People generally were kind enough to pretend not to see it, but we all knew.

I’d change my clothes quicker than a self-conscious teenager in PE, in case the next footsteps swept the blue curtain aside. I worried that the sight to greet three doctors and two nurses “on their rounds” would be me, precariously balanced on one foot, arse in air, midway through changing my pants.

I’d guiltily wolfed down the small’s leftover banana behind a blue curtain as I waited for the Mr to appear with breakfast (see the first item in this list). It was 10am already, and I had considered eating my own arm.

And I’d been holding in my farts way longer than can possibly be healthy.

Having holes in my socks was just an indignity too far.

I really would have welcomed some new ones, a fancy pair of PJs so I could pretend I was in control (I’m totally taking this all in my stride – look my pyjama bottoms match my top) along with a pair of slippers because the Mr kept forgetting mine – no judgement, just a worried dad trying to hold together the other pieces of our life.

Take note.

An opportunity to nap. It’s likely that the parent has had little sleep. The combination of observations, medications, the noises of other children, and snoring of their parents, make sleep on a paediatric hospital ward impossible.

Ear plugs are frowned upon. Should your kid’s various machines starting bleeping and dinging in an alarming way (which apparently is different to the routine bleeps and dings that wake you up all night, or the ones that happen when your kid pulls off the oxometer. Again), I’m imagining the doctors and nurses rushing to your child’s aid would prefer not to have to rouse you from you slumber.

Should you be paying a parent a visit therefore, bring a cup of tea, then sit in a chair while they collapse face down on the bed and doze for an hour or two.

This will be the kind of sleep they will wake from not knowing their name or where they are, but the knowledge that their child is supervised and cannot launch him/herself from the bed will be enough to allow them to give in.

hospital-3
Don’t go to sleep, mummy! I don’t care if I only have half a functioning lung – I’ll land on my head if you go to sleep! I will, I will, I will!

Hand cream. Wash your hands on your way into the ward, on your way out, after nappy changes, after going to the loo, before eating, after eating, and after every time your kid spits their meds all over you (how they ever get better, I don’t know). The hand washing is BRUTAL.

Soon the skin on your hands starts to resemble the heels of your feet (which are hopefully now swathed in brand new socks).

Hand cream will be very welcome.

Bring your best chat. Once you’ve dispensed with the questions about how the small person is, ask how they are. They’ll no doubt tell you they are fine but let them know it’s ok not to be. Be ready in case they cry. And just let them for a few minutes.

Then pull out your phone and do some full-scale bashing of whatever you know floats your mate’s boat. Whether it be football results, the news, politics, celebrity gossip or you’ll never guess what so-and-so-in-the-village has done now, just bring it.

Your mate will relish the opportunity to think and talk about something other than medication, test results, or whether that bleeping is one of the important ones or not. They’ll feel rejuvenated by talking about something normal for once so research it beforehand if necessary, just do your best not to turn up with your head in shed – that’s going to help no-one.

There are about a hundred other ways that you can be useful to parents whose children are in hospital – this is just a start. If you’re really not sure, then why not ask?

And finally, to any parent reading this whose child is in hospital regularly, or who’s stay lasts longer than four days: you are a fecking hero.

 

NB. I’ve purposely said parents in this piece because most people care about their kids. But I also think most of these concerns might be peculiar to women (or maybe that’s my unconcious gender bias rearing its head – I just can’t imagine the Mr being quite so bothered about the sock thing. The food, yeah, but socks…?) What do you think?

The financial fallout of fertility

I’m a child of the 80s, teenager of the 90s, young woman of the noughties, and for My Entire Life the emphasis has been on becoming an independent, empowered woman. A concept inextricably entwined in my mind with earning my own money.

But now, as a woman in my thirties, a mother of two, set adrift from traditional employment by family circumstances that made my career impossible, I find myself battling insidious implications.

Where I was once independent, I am now reliant on someone else to provide me with security. The roof over my head, the food on the table, warmth and light in my home all depend on someone else.

Once empowered, I am now reduced to the financial status of a child.

And I ask myself if, where I was once strong, am I now weak?

How has this happened? This is not where I was supposed to be, I think, and a few weeks ago I reached the sad conclusion that I am not proud of who I am.

Like parents everywhere, I hope I am raising children who will not build walls, nor grab pussies, who will choose acceptance and welcome over fear and division, and I know there is pride to be found here.

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Please don’t grab pussies. I’d be really sad.

But I also want something else. Something selfish (and I’m totally comfortable with calling it that). Something that pays me my own money.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m letting the sisterhood down. Like I’m laughing in the face of the hard-won increments made by the women who came before me, so that we have rights that today we take for granted.

I feel like I’m letting down my twenty-something self who sneered in her certainty that she was not one of those Goldigger’s Kanye rapped about. Instead she certain she was one of Destiny’s Child’s Independent Women who would pay her own Bills Bills Bills and Who Run the World (Girls).

I feel like my feminist ideals have been defeated by the cold-hard inflexible economics of life in the modern world. Like I gave up too soon, I should have fought harder for my job, for my ambition, for my equality.

And I feel embarrassed that I now take money from my partner’s pocket and put it in my own.

Questions that were irrelevant in the first 13 years of my relationship, the first 35 years of my life, have heralded an awkward new dynamic in my used-to-be-a-partnership.

How do I ask for money? Does this make me a kept woman? How much control should I expect to have over the household finances? Can I really decide how money that I haven’t earned gets spent?

Of course I KNOW I shouldn’t feel this way. If any friend of mine came out with such drivel I’d heavily exhale and call bull.shit.

I would tell her that to employ a cook, cleaner, round-the-clock nanny and life-admin-PA would cost upwards of £100,000 a year.

I’d tell her that without women (because it is over-whelmingly women) making the same decision I have, to put themselves in the back-seat of the family wagon, squashed into the tiny space between the fortified buttresses of her children’s padded thrones in a perfectly mundane metaphor for her whole existence, then we’d all be fucked.

I’d be the first to object that the value in an action is not always financial.

But I’d say it all then most likely fall back on an exhausted cliche. Something like, raising the next generation is the most important job of all, would be what I’d say next, but I’d know that in the face of this feeling there are no words that are not patronising and inadequate. That she hadn’t already thought of for herself, and still found wanting.

Like so many women of our generation, the truth is I don’t value the work done in the home.

The mind-numbing mundanity, the repetition and relentlessness, the picking up and putting down, the boundaries placed on the mind by the same four walls, and the constant requirement to put yourself last are not new – I imagine there was plenty of gin-numbed angst in Don Draper’s time.

What is new however is the expectation of more – the chance to have it all we were told we would have, but which turns out to be an illusion.

We have been conditioned to look down on being house-proud in favour of being loud-and-proud about our achievements in work – achievements accompanied by a pay-packet and while (in the words of another excruciating cliche) money isn’t everything, what it represents, is.

On the cusp of being a Millenial I took a crumb of comfort that the pay gap between men and women born between 1981 and 2000 has shrunk to five percent. My initial lukewarm reaction – it’s progress but wtf, there’s still a gap – dropped to freezing the second I read the next sentence, because when those same women turn 30, (and one assumes start having children) the pay gap starts to widen.

Projections in the study by The Resolution Foundation estimate that by the time Millenials hit 40, the pay gap between men and women will be closer to 25%. That’s TWENTY-FIVE percent, a number for which only shouty capital letters will suffice.

As a woman who had a child, took a demotion because my previous role was “too challenging” for someone with a young family, had another child, had a “difficult” return to work, and for who’s career the nursing home levels of flex in her partner’s job rang the death knell, I am a seething speck in this incredible statistic.

cracked-wood-plank
The flexibility of the Mr’s workplace.

And I’m willing to bet my substantially deflated financial worth on the fact that I’m not the only pot quietly simmering away on the stove I’ve unwillingly been tied to.

In the midst of the financial fallout of fertility, I torment myself with the thought that the money I am spending is not “mine”. I contrarily reflect on a simpler time when roles were clearly defined and we had not fallen for the falsehood that men and women are now equal.

Family, lifetime partnerships and those pesky, inconvenient, brilliant, small people are of course more valuable than how much cash you carry in your pocket, but we focus on the money because it’s easy to measure.

This, however is about more than just our bank balance because the money stands for so much more.

It stands for choice, independence, opportunity and freedom and I find myself asking why should we live without those?

Why there’s no Elf on the Shelf in my house and other Christmas musings

Child of the eighties, born in December, and the middle one of three siblings, the twelfth month of every year was defined by increasing levels of anticipation. The longest 25 days of the diary were punctuated by moments of ecstasy every 72 hours when it was my turn to open the advent calendar.

We’d have a new one each year but with three of us sharing the words “my turn” were wet-myself-wondrous. Hopping-on-the-spot levels of anticipation were reminiscent of the need-a-wee-shapes I would break at every summer service station stop.

I’d hold my breath and listen for that tiny satisfying crack that told me this one hadn’t been tampered with by sneaky sibling digits, and with barely contained excitement I’d ease that door open to reveal…

…a picture.

No toy to add to a ready-made scene, no present exquisitely wrapped, not even a chocolate to chew in determined enjoyment despite it tasting upsettingly similar to the cardboard it came in.

Nope, just a picture.

And I bloody loved it.

I’d fend off envy that it was my siblings’ turn by fetching down the previous years’ calendars from the loft. I’d play with them endlessly, pretending it was the first time I’d ever opened those doors, even though their edges would never again meet quite as closely as they once had. Occasionally I’d take a cheeky peek at number 24 way before its time.

We would buy our family Christmas tree on whichever weekend fell closest to my birthday, a tradition which meant we were often more than half-way through December before twinkling lights and tinsel made an appearance in our home.

It’s a tradition that my parents still uphold, although these days I wonder whether it was borne from reducing the necessary daily hoovering in the days before non-drop trees. Every slammed door would be followed by the whispers of branches unsheathing themselves needle by needle, and in a house full of teenagers it’s a wonder it wasn’t bald by the time Christmas Day rolled around.

It is these kinds of memories I have returned to several times over the last few weeks. I’ve been jokingly justifying my decisions not to participate in Elf on the Shelf, not to buy and wrap up 24 tiny presents or books for each child, or to think up 24 festive-fun activities to open each morning.

I’ve called myself “lazy” while not actually thinking I am, and wondered where people get the money, but underneath it all I’ve also spent too much time thinking that perhaps my children are being served the festive equivalent of chicken on Christmas Day – it kind of looks the same but is just a bit everyday.

Whenever I’ve told my daughter that No, the Christmas Elf has not filled the advent calendar up yet because she’s waiting for you to get dressed, I’ve wondered if I’m just being heartless and cruel.

When a crafting-induced fit of rebellion saw me throw the remnants of our creativity out of the back door, I spied an opportunity and used the sprinkling of sparkly stuff and lonely purple pompom as evidence of the Christmas Elf’s visit. My heart broke a little as I watched the girl wander in her socks into the garden shouting for Rudolph, worried that he might be stranded, and I marveled in mildly-appreciative horror at my own manipulative cynicism.

Despite my more machiavellian tendencies however, this year in particular I have felt the pressure of making Christmas “come alive” for my little girl. She’s four now, is really feeling the festive flavour, and her pleasure when The Big Man in red paid a visit to the nursery Christmas party made me kick myself hard for scorning the annual stampede to book tickets to the best grotto in town. It sells out by the end of August.

We call her our “magic”. Originating in the mists of time impenetrably fogged by too many sleepless nights, it’s a pet name which has come to represent the wonder with which we look at her as she spells her own name and other ubiquitous rites of passage that nonetheless stop us in our tracks.

But what if I’m depriving my magic, of her’s?

And so here we are again, caught up in the same old guilt-ridden cycle. Its spidery-tentacles stretch out around us like a creepy hangover from the horribly comercialised Halloween. They’re so transparent they are easily overlooked, until we find ourselves observing what other people are doing, how other people are celebrating, and wonder if we are getting it wrong.

I wonder if I should have done Elf on the Shelf. I’m full of admiration for some of the brilliance I have witnessed on social media (that wily mistress with her kleptomaniac tendencies for joy) but I guiltily feel like I’m under enough pressure as it is.

“Just” this one more thing to do might be the elf that broke the reindeer’s back, and the price-tag of the “real thing” makes me wince at the thought that this is just another idea dreamed up by commercial interests who’re exploiting the lucrative fertile ground of middle class parent’s concerns about being and doing “enough”.

But then I think enough.

Because Christmas will be magical because Christmas is magical.

I clearly remember driving back from my aunt’s house late one Christmas Eve and being convinced I’d seen Father Christmas’s sleigh through the car window. I didn’t want him to know I’d seen him as I knew this meant a lump of coal and an unwelcome satsuma in my stocking the next morning so I shut my eyes tight.

A few hours later, around a parent-punishing 4.30am, I breathed a sigh of relief when my sack of stash was waiting at the end of my bed…

It turns out that I didn’t need to be bought anything, I didn’t even need to be told anything, the magic of Christmas and a child’s imagination was all I needed to give me beautiful memories to look back on.

I didn’t need the personalised stocking – not once did I question why my presents arrived in an old pillow case that I knew for the rest of the year lived in a drawer under my bed.

I didn’t need a box full of presents on Christmas Eve – I’m pretty sure I never thought, “Christmas is brilliant but I really wish all my presents didn’t come on the same day”.

I didn’t need an advent calendar full of gifts as well as those under the tree, and I look back relieved my parents didn’t feel they had to bankrupt themselves to create the acceptable measure of magic.

As always, if you are doing these things because you want to then deck your halls, jingle those bells and eat all the figgy pudding you can manage. But none of the songs sound quite as good if you’re only singing them because you feel you should.

The truth is, I’m sure you’ll agree, is that the lights, music, trees, smells, carols, stories, The Story, food, family, smiles, and the never-ending chocolate, together create a time of year that is already like no other.

There is no need to fill it to overflowing, because just as we will all no doubt say at the end of Christmas Day’s dining, sometimes you need to know when just one more mouthful will make you feel sick, because actually you already have enough.

The Good, The B#ad and The Money

Ten months, 725 posts, £1537.56 raised for PANDAS, giveaways, charity campaigns, immeasurable hours spent “connecting” with new friends while admiring others from afar, and somehow gaining nearly 5000 lovely followers, it’s fair to say that Instagram has solidly featured in 2016 (if by “solidly featured” you mean caused arguments with the Mr and taken up more time than a newborn).

It all started as a soapbox on which to stand shouting, I have thoughts. And I wrote them down. Please read, about the blog I had started pretty much on a whim.

An act of narcissism, a desire to reach out and connect, a need to have something that was mine, that could not be undone with a sweep of a charmingly pudgy limb, or a mixture of all four, the blog was my new baby and oh how it reveled in that role.

Before I knew it, between the gridded streets of Instagram and my amateur-hour WordPress site, my time was no longer my own. Minutes spent away were minutes spent thinking about what I’d do when we were reunited and it was/ is all relentlessly done for nothing but the love.

Much like parenthood, the world of web-logging offers few pats on the back and certainly no pennies paid. At first it’s only your mum and her mate reading the words you wrote, revised, deleted and despaired over late into the night when you really should have been sleeping, so it’s often difficult to justify quite why it feels so important.

But don’t for one second imagine the playing of even the world’s tiniest violin. The beauty of spending time doing something that pays nothing is that were it to be “turned off”, the app dispensed with, and hours each week reclaimed, no one would suffer, no one would starve, no one would be shivering in the cold.

But when all is tapped and posted, I’m attempting the long game.

The over-head-scissor-kick-let’s-make-this-a-hat-trick-goal I really want to score is writing, but while Instagram has leapt out of the gates like an over-enthusiastic hare, the blog and other writing opportunities are ambling along at the pace of a tired tortoise.

We all know how that story ends though…

In the meantime I’m grappling with The Gram as a creature I never expected it to become. It started as a bit of fun like that pint-sized puppy I excitedly borrowed from a mate for a morning before I realised that pushchairs and small confused animals on leads don’t mix.

After a few hours spent tripping each other up and repeatedly cooing, “Come on” in a voice saccharine enough to rot teeth, in that case I was happy to hand her back. But when it comes to Instagram, that most seductive of mistresses – opportunity – had slipped her hot hand in mine and was leading somewhere I’d never even considered.

I’ll happily/ slightly cringingly admit that I started to think about what life could be like if I persevered, because I realised that this funny little hobby that I’m slightly embarrassed about, which most of my almost-millienial mates don’t really understand, could actually help me achieve my aims.

But with that realisation came another, because when it comes to the rules of how to play this gridded game of The Gram, I’m groping blindly in the dark.

What happens, for example, when a person you are following because you enjoy their honesty (as honest as any moment frozen in time can ever be – it’s really the difference between an image captioned “Beyonce throws shade at love-rival Rhianna”, when the video reveals she was actually about to sneeze) takes cold hard cash-money from a brand?

They attach #paid to a post and the questions inevitably surface. Are they selling out? Is this honest? Where is the integrity? Does this mark a change of direction, a departure? Is it only about the money? How much loyalty do people have? Will they be mean? Will they (the horror) unfollow?

And does any of that matter anyway?

Is it good, is it bad, afterall it’s just a little #ad (does throwing some rhyme into the mix lighten the mood?), and surely we all need The Money?

And, with these agonising over-thoughts, questions and the clear paralysis of a mind too eager for approval, have I yet made it clear that I’m talking about myself?

What’s going to happen when you lovely lot realise that over the next three weeks the much-maligned #ad will be making its inaugural appearance across my feed?

Only four times it’s only four posts four posts out of many I’ll make sure the others are good really good so people don’t hate me they won’t hate me they’ll understand it’s an experiment an experience I don’t ever have to do it again don’t worry I’ll keep my “voice” I’ve wankily insisted on that and if they make me change my voice they can do one and on and on and on… the goofy-eyed, desperate hamster running on the wheel in my mind has been squeaking this way for weeks.

Because the hard, unvarnished truth is that it IS (in part) about money. You come here for honesty? Well, that is mine.

So when someone came knocking and offered to pay me to do something I would do anyway, then the slightly stroppy side of my brain stamped her foot and said well why shouldn’t I?

But call it fate, serendipity, bad or good luck, the same week I was approached, the boss of one of Instagram’s favourite families, @mother_of_daughters, was unceremoniously splattered head-to-toe in mud slung by some members of her it-turns-out-not-so-faithful following.

The awareness that around her neck hangs a World Cup winner’s medal while I reside at the foot of the GM Vauxhall Conference, didn’t make the shit in my knickers feel any less lumpy, or smell any better. That tap-fight felt nasty, personal, and ultimately hurtful for someone just trying to make a dime, and I realised there was a lot more to this than I’d thought.

The case of what’s the difference between real people endorsing products and celebrities doing it; the argument of would you really turn down the opportunity to get paid for something you do for free; the question of why should people turn down payment if they provide entertainment and support at a cost to them of time and effort; and the accusations of jealousy and #hatersgonnahate, have already been made by countless followers alongside the inimitable force that is @mother_pukka.

It’s a strong argument it’s true, but lingering in my background is an awareness that the very people (you) who have facilitated this opportunity, are the exact same ones I stand to lose by taking it.

So here is my disclaimer, a contract you can throw in my face should I fail to adhere.

I respect your opinion if you find it distasteful and I’m not going to try to convince you otherwise, I’m just hoping you won’t jump ship just yet.

The vast vastness of vast-city majority of my posts are still going to be written by me with no purpose except to offer a laugh, a thought, or a moment of compadre-ly companionship in those “It can’t just be me” moments.

This (imagine me gesturing wildly, phone in hand, towards my computer screen) is one big experiment, I’m clueless about its direction or destination, but I don’t want to let fear of what people might think stop me trying.

And, not least, if I can earn for four posts on Instagram, what I’d be paid for TWO AND A HALF DAYS as a supply teacher, it seems clear to me that 1. the world is insane, but also 2. ‘gramming, and social-media-managing offer levels of flex previously seen only on the sprung floors of the Olympics, and I think I’d be daft not to make that leap.

In the words of my esteemed leaders, Digital Mums, this really is #workthatworks (#notanAD ;-).

So imagine me now rushing to finish this blog post sat in a branch of Costa (their tea is shite but it’s cheap). Time is doubling-down on me with the imminent death of my battery – I’m many metres and several strangers away from the nearest plug socket – and the clock ticks ever closer to the time the Grandparents down tools and depart.

But having got to the end of this rather long post (soz), I want to leave you with this thought – I’m willing to admit that maybe this #paid tag isn’t all good, but perhaps it isn’t all bad either.

And truth be told, I’m hoping, really, really hoping, you can feel a tiny spark of joy for the oddest of opportunities in this world as I head off into the night to achieve the impossible – getting paid to do bath time.

Behind the smile: the internal rantings of a new mum’s mind

These days I become wildly protective of new mums whenever I meet one. Panting like an over-enthusiastic fat labrador in my efforts it can get a bit embarrassing if the new mum looks at me nonplussed and says she is absolutely loving every minute…Better safe than sorry though, eh…

I do feel bad when this happens though. I feel like the angry person scowling in the corner of the tastefully decorated monochrome gender-neutral nursery, spoiling the ambiance with my CLASHING SWIRLS OF RAGING COLOUR grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, whereas occasionally most of the time, being a mum is easily the best thing ever for me too.

My assumption of the worst for new mums in fact comes only from a good place. I’m several years past those precious early days (treasure every minute, they’ll be gone before you know it bleurgh… sorry just vommed a little – gone soon, you say? Er, yes please) but the memories of the unsettling storm of rampaging hormones, sleep deprivation, uncertainty, anxiety and the pressure of keeping a whole other human alive rocked, rolled and turned my world upside down.

Not least to turn me inside out was the fact that my previously reptilian skin, thickened by years of catering to that toughest of crowds – The Teenager – was not immune to the pummice stone that is motherhood. Like the best exfoliator the friction of parenthood sloughed away cell by cell, layer after layer, my bullshit identity – the person I thought was me – until there was nothing left except a tissue veneer loosely keeping my organs from jelly-like splashing all over the floor.

I might have become a bit “sensitive”.

On one occasion, I cried because a family member wondered whether pregnancy yoga relaxed my first baby so much that she didn’t want to be born. In the fragile emotional state I was in, knowing that this was absolutely bloody bonkers was not enough to have me rolling my eyes and moving on. She continued to wonder whether this was why my labour was so (fucking horrendous – my word, definitely not her’s) challenging and my bullshit-deflectors failed me completely.

I just heard yet another shitty judgement on me, my body and my ability to be a mother. And I cried. And I cried. And I cried.

Part of the problem is that much of the shit that gets fanned in a new mum’s direction often originates in helpful intentions. It’s really hard to say “Oh just fuck off would you” when you know this would be seen as an “over-reaction”, not to mention the fact that lots of the most hurtful things are said by family members (no escape), or (even harder to negotiate) your partner’s family members, or even your friends.

These will probably be the people you have to draft in at some point or other to babysit. Piss them off at your peril.

Instead, tell yourself that they don’t realise their offer of unsolicited advice is not going to evoke feelings of gratitude. That your response might in fact be, “Oh well, if s/he thinks I need to be told this then I must look like I can’t cope”, won’t have occurred to them.

Tell yourself this so you don’t drive yourself crazy, or sad, or both.

The fact is that some people left their sensitivity bone behind back when two cells were becoming four, so protect yourself. Tell the boneless ones “Thanks” or “because I want to”, and entertain yourself by reading some of these internal rants that otherwise will never see the light of day because I need babysitters…

You should/ you must/ you will… Oh just fuck off would you? There is no should, must, will about it. This is my baby and I am going to do it my way. I don’t give two flying fingers of fudge that you have three children of your own, have cared for the entire under-5 population of a small Pacific island, nor that you have a PHD in offering unsolicited advice to anyone unfortunate enough to have ears and a baby, this is STILL not your baby and I’m STILL going to do it my way.

And besides, I have spent the last four night’s at ninety minute intervals reading ev-er-y-thing in the internet so I already know there are approximately seven THOUSAND conflicting pieces of advice out there about how to get my DC/ DS/ DD2 (wtf?) to sleep through the night. AND I’ve already tried eight thousand of them.

What works for one baby, might not work for ten others so please go and file your “expertise” under sh for “shut up”.

You’ve got to be strong now… Ok then, look at me. Look me right in the face – it might be a little drippy right now, but this <circle your head with a very pointy forefinger> has also just grown a person and pushed it out of her body/had it hoisted from the escape hatch.

Do you see me?

I AM the dictionary definition of strength – I am a chuffing HERO.

And if you don’t believe me, take a look at my strung-together under-carriage. Like an abandoned Halloween mask left draped over the pumpkin flame five minutes too long, that thing is terrifying right now, and who KNOWS if it will ever mould back into shape.

Still need convincing? Well how about I flash you my cracked and bleeding nipples – it’s not just milk dribbling out of those butt-ends right now, you know… Was that a WINCE? These are WORDS motherchuffer, just imagine how it FEELS.

I am a WARRIOR – who may be feeling a little unstable because, hormones – BUT Bow. DOWN.

Reassess your judgement of me as WEAK because I am crying a little – I am a GODLY-GOD-DAMN-GODDESS.

The baby is ok – that’s the main thing… Oh is it? So me, mum, the person who changed her life, wardrobe, eating and drinking habits, who has not slept properly for months (sleep in the late stages of pregnancy is a cruel, cruel joke – like preparing for a freaking famine by going on a diet) and who has just had her body torn apart in countless ways so that “the main event” can journey earthside, is not the most important person?

Are you high?

I’m a freaking hero (there may be a theme developing here). And if I tell you that the birth was hard, just fucking listen, people. It was HARD. I have just been through the most traumatic hours of my entire life and you need to make space for me to talk about it.

I might talk about it a lot at first, I might bore the tits off you. But as my tits are being pulled and pummelled, are growing and shrinking, stinging, cracking, bleeding and oh, yes lactating; as MY tits are doing all of this a little bit of boredom for your’s is no big deal.

So no: the main thing is not that the baby is ok – the main thing is that I am ok. An ok mother is an ok baby.

He/ she is/not hungry/ tired… I DON’T CARE. Even if you KNOW-KNOW – you’ve had seven children of your own, bottle fed three, breast fed four and tandem fed two of those, if you’ve co-slept AND cot-slept, sleep-trained AND gone insane, this baby is NOT YOUR’S so BACK OFF.

Let’s face it, there is a VERY small list of things that can go wrong – hungry, tired, wet, poo-y, hungry, hungry, wind, hungry – so even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter because we’ll get there eventually, without being made to feel like a twat for not knowing immediately like you do, apparently.

*Also see You should/ you must/ you will…*

You’re making a rod for your own back… Maybe. But it’s my back, right? I’m not going to actively “teach” my child to sleep nowhere except at a precise angle of 45degrees on top of me, but only when I’m wearing the green pyjamas and have the top two buttons undone so his little shell-like can rest on my pumping life-force, just so I can leave him/ her with you to scream for a few days while I go and party in Ibiza, am I?

So why are you so bothered?

Besides, maybe I don’t care. Maybe right now stuffing enough rods to build Trump’s fence down the back of my breastfeedingfriendly shirt is worth it, if that is all that stands between getting some sleep and getting none.

Maybe picking him/ her up whenever he/she cries makes ME feel calmer.

Maybe carrying him/ her in a sling all day instead of in the pushchair means that no one has to listen to the screams.

Maybe this is all just MY way and is none of YOUR business.

And maybe, just maybe, you do have something valid to add to the conversation.

But maybe just maybe, I’m not ready to hear it.

And maybe, just maybe, you need to respect that, button it, and say “You’re amazing. Well done.”

Say nice things to new mums

It’s a while since I was a new mum, but some of what was said to me back then still lingers, less with the tears attached, but more with the dregs of, Why the fuck would you say that?

There’s a reason why I’ve not said “new parents”, by the way. It’s not because I think dads are unimportant (the contrary in fact – I wish society judged them to be just as important as mums in the lives of their children), but because when a new baby lands Earth-side, I think the role the woman has played in that spectacularly special event should be given the respect it deserves.

In our culture however, it’s all about the baby. Which seems odd when you consider that a bit like Kim Kardashian, he/she has simply turned up: all the hard work behind the scenes has been done by someone else.

Perhaps then, we should spend more time and effort celebrating and congratulating a woman that she has grown a whole person.

She has changed the way she looks, walks, wees, works, eats, drinks and spends her free time (assuming she’s first time mum otherwise, nope) for this mini-dictator but in our haste to celebrate the driver of the vehicle, we forget to marvel at the engineer.

Instead, I would go so far as to say rather than asking the parents how the baby is sleeping/ eating/ feeling, these are the things we should be asking the parents. And they are definitely the ones who need the biggest cuddle.

And all the while that I say this, I’m aware there are people somewhere (I’ve never been), somehow (I’ve never experienced), someplace (I’ve still never been there), something something (who knows, really?), who swear they embrace every second of motherhood as a blessing.

I admit that I want to stab these women in the eye never completely believe people who say this, and so would say that unless someone corrects you, work on the assumption that they too are finding it HHAAAAAARRRRDDDDDDD.

Essentially, just be kind and say…

  1. You’re a (fucking – for some reason, this always makes me want to swear) hero. Whether the baby surged out with the assistance of nothing but some grunting and a Golden Thread breath; whether that brand new human was air-lifted out of the sunroof; or whether the mum had a giant set of spoons shoved up her foof, wrapped around the baby’s head and heaved on like a stubborn cork in a bottle… whatever the story, that woman is a (fucking) hero.

Even more importantly, she needs to be told that. I might even argue that she needs to be told that MORE if she has had a difficult experience, such are the dreadful mind tricks that a new mum can play on herself.

 2. How are you feeling? Asking this and receiving an accurate answer is highly dependent on your relationship with the mother. But even if you’re not that close, you might find that talking openly (but always briefly) about your experiences might encourage someone else to share something they otherwise would have not.

Sharing can lift the burden, not necessarily of the feelings themselves, but certainly of feeling alone with them. It’s easy to feel like you are the only terrible mother/ human being who ever wanted to keep walking past the bins, to the end of the street, onto a bus, to the airport to fly away and never come back.

“She just took out the recycling,” you imagine your confused other half lamenting, and then you dutifully turn around and trudge back into the house.

Sharing means a new mum can realise that these feelings are normal – the adjustment is huge, and it’s ok to struggle with it. And while I don’t wish to insult anyone who genuinely enjoys the weeping (eyes, boobs, wounds) and wiping (hands, bums, noses, floors, your clothes, the baby’s face) of early motherhood, it is my experience that as soon as I venture “It’s a bit shit, isn’t it?”, the floodgates open.

Because it’s NOT easy – for most people – and we need to talk about this, normalise it, so that no one feels shitty for finding it so.

3. I’m going to wash my hands and then I’ll hold the baby – you drink some tea/ use a knife AND a fork/ wave-your-arms-around-in-the-air-like-you-just-don’t-care-just-because-you-can. But read the situation – if the mum keeps staring with intent at the baby, ask her if she wants him/ her back. Some mums feel a fierce protective instinct over their new baby, and seeing someone else hold him/her can provoke anxiety, so if you’re not sure, then check.

4. I’ll change his/her nappy. Say this, sit back and watch as, like a slightly suspicious Labrador hearing the crunch of a crisp, the new-parent’s head lifts at the sound of your words.

Alert, eager, hopeful but slightly confused, they will double and triple check your intentions lest their hopes be dashed, “Really?…Are you sure?… You don’t have to… really you don’t have to…”

A friend insisted she do this at my birthday meal just weeks after my daughter was born, and to this day I remember the peculiar and welcome sense of relief and freedom I felt for a few short minutes.

I stared at the Mr in bemusement as it dawned on me that I hadn’t looked him in the face for weeks, and I resolved there and then to offer to do the same whenever the chance arose.

5. I’ve brought you some food. Especially if you are visiting over a meal time. Under no circumstances turn up and expect to be catered for – at least take pizza. The new mum might be totally on top of her shit and be showered, dressed, with a freezer full of batch cooking and a lasagne bubbling away in the oven, but don’t be the person who expects to be fed.

She might also be the mum who is surviving on bourbons dunked in thrice-microwaved tea – the last thing she needs is someone else to look after, who simultaneously makes her feel shit about her inability to adult.

6. I’ll make the teas. Not knowing where the teabags are is no excuse. Unless you have reason to suspect their kitchen might double up as a set for a remake of Indiana Jones: The Temple of Doom, you should be safe opening some cupboards and firkling around to find all the accoutrements you need.

This manoeuvre is especially welcome should you visit in the first couple of weeks after childbirth when the mum may well have just tried 3487 different sitting positions before she is passably comfortable.

And then has to get up to make everyone a drink.

Let her sit. Make the tea…

Clearly this isn’t an exhaustive list of the nice things you can say to a new mum, but some of them are things that made a difference to me in The Early Days. Some of them meanwhile, are things that I wish someone had said to me.

But why, you might be wondering, is it even necessary? Haven’t babies have been born since the dawn of time – what’s the big deal? Well, in some respects this is true but what our society fails to acknowledge, in contrast to the reverence offered by other cultures around the world, is that this is still not a simple thing.

New life should certainly not be taken for granted, but the mothers who grew and delivered it should also be treated with as much love, gentleness and consideration as you can find.

Basically, mothers are awesome. So don’t be a dick – be the person who makes sure they know it.

Why there is no winner when Home plays Away

I’ve been moaning a bit recently. Mostly about how bored and frustrated I feel being at home more-or-less full time with two small children.

It is true that my job was far from being my dream and, to be completely honest, there were elements of it that made me fantasise I was a unicorn and could stab people in face by nodding I disliked.

But when all is said, done and dusted, I do miss it; not just, but also not least, because there were things that I loved about going to work.

I loved earning my own money.

I have found being “kept” like a pet cat distinctly disempowering. And while cold hard cash struggles to survive the onslaught of childcare costs, a little will hopefully be yours. You earned it. And you earned the right to decide how it should be spent.

Staying at home full time means I feel like a passenger in the financial affairs of my household. My inner voice laments, This is not how it was supposed to be, and stumps up a pathetic defence against the uncharitable thoughts I had in the past about women who did not work (karma btw, is a snippy bitch, sitting on a bench with teething, sleep deprivation and no friends).

My thoughts come back to sneeringly haunt me and even though I fight the good fight not to use the word “just” in front of “a mum”, like the babies I grew who used my bladder as a bed, that feeling is a heavy weight on every penny I spend.

I loved leaving the house alone.

Leaving the house with one bag, one coat; opening, walking through, then shutting the door behind me, without breaking into a sweat or a swear-word, is an under-appreciated pleasure.

So, on the mornings that you get to shower, dress, drink coffee, eat breakfast and leave the house alone please take a second to breathe in the peace. I know you’ll be on the clock, I know you’ll probably be stressing about the day ahead, but please appreciate that the soundtrack to your morning is not Paw Patrol, no one is crying because you wouldn’t let them drink the mouthwash, no one repeatedly slammed the toilet lid as you attempted to complete a thought in the shower, and when you stepped out of its steamy warmth no one asked you why you were wobbling.

I loved sick days (or the ability to take them, at least).

Not that I took many. But I could take them. That is all there is to say on that.

I loved the opportunity to concentrate.

Sometimes I get through the day by thinking of my children as my employers. Choosing between park or soft-play is the stay-at-home-and-feel-my-brain-slowly-shrivel-and-die equivalent of choosing between answering emails or making phone calls – they’re not the things that dreams jobs are made of, but its all part of the job.

Also part of the job when you’re actually at work however, are times when you need to concentrate on one thing for an extended period of time. This is when international office code for Chuff Off comes into play: out come the earphones, in they go, and regardless of whether you actually have anything attached to the other end, you just crack on uninterrupted. Bliss.

Being at home with small people however, means being relentlessly subject to the whims, fancies and bodily fluids of someone else Every. Single. Second.

Even if you snatch a moment of peace behind the fridge door, the universe dictates you’ll be left forcing down a sticky, half-chewed chunk of Dairy Milk because those noisy little fuckers you live with have somehow set to mute, sniffed out your enjoyment, and snuck up behind you with the question, “Wha’ you got?” Your time is never your own.

Conversations not about my children; that buzz of getting something really, really right; being measured, assessed and found to be good at your job; the freedom of being able to call and say “I’m going to miss bedtime”, knowing that someone else is there to keep the small people alive; being me-me not mum-me; are all things that I miss about work.

But I also know the grass ain’t all that much greener on the other side of the fence.

It is tempting to romanticise any situation that is not your’s, especially if the over-riding mindset that accompanies your current position is one of, How did this happen? I don’t want this. But perhaps there are things to be grateful for on this side of the fence too – perhaps the grass isn’t green just yet, but maybe the soil is fertile and there is an opportunity to grow there too.

I love mornings.

Neither of my kids are at school so I know this won’t last forever, but for now I don’t have to drag children out of bed, rattle a toothbrush around their resistant teeth, wrestle them into some clothes, then fling them in the car for the hurtle to nursery. I don’t have to shove them through the doors still rubbing sleep out of their eyes, then drive like a lunatic to get to work five minutes late. No longer having to do this is excellent.

I love the laughter.

Parenting has brought with it an awful lot of tears. Some – stitches, exhaustion, PND – are justified, others – not being able to find the charger for the laptop, the John Lewis Christmas advert, DIY SOS – less so. But goofy happiness and laughter also feature large in the landscape of my parenting.

I laugh so much I sometimes cringe at what my shining-pride-face must look like to people immune to the charms of my children. My face hurts with the effort and while the smile is often turned upside down mere seconds later, it is not long before the full-beam is switched back on.

Whether it’s The Boy saying he is “Bahn memmeh’s baosh [bouncing Mummy’s balls]”, or The Girl informing me that she was going to the toilet to have a wee and a baby (a misunderstanding that arose after I told her that babies “get out” through a woman’s “noonoo”), the lols roll in several times a day and I would hate to miss out on any of it.

I love the flexibility.

Admittedly I’m not able to go to the gym or the hairdresser basically ever, and come to think of it I don’t really get to eat my meals or wee when I want to either, but I do get to go on nursery trips to the seaside. I can take my son to his hospital appointments, and I’m able to visit primary schools for my daughter over the next few weeks without feeling like a burden on anyone.

If I were still working, I know I’d be fighting the guilt that I was prioritising my children over my work, I’d be taking great pains to show how appreciative I was, and would repeatedly reassure anyone who would listen that I would be logging on later to make up the time… I don’t miss any of that.

The truth is that there are good things and bad things in play whichever team you are on. Mentally throwing golf-balls at your partner/ friend’s face because he/ she wears the Home kit, is pointless and self-defeating, because she/ he might be envying the “me-time” your commute to work represents to him/ her.

The reality of course is that attired entirely in Away, you spend way too much time trying to avoid sniffing a stranger’s sweat patches.

Meanwhile his/her days resemble being forced to eat cake all day, every day. She (ok I’m dropping the pretence of she/he, because we all know this mostly affects women…) loves cake it’s true, but if it’s the only thing she ever gets to eat, all day long, and she has to eat it whether she is hungry or not, and she knows she might be startled awake multiple times a night to eat more cake… well, I’m sure you can forgive her for looking a bit sick.

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What do you mean you don’t want to eat all of them? You said you liked cake. God, you’re so ungrateful.

The thing is that this should not be a competition. It is not about winning, losing, or who has it best, worst, hardest or easiest, it’s about recognising and respecting the various difficulties that our journeys represent.

Instead of glaring through green-tinted spectacles, we need to take the glasses off and really see the desperation in one another’s eyes. Then we simply need to give each other The Nod.

Because the over-riding truth in this hardest ‘hood of all is that, when we’re forced to choose between home and away, for many of us there is no winner.