Tag Archives: parenting

Norovirus vs. the tango – which one would you choose?

A couple – not us – dancing the tango.
Photo credit: Flickr Serge Kuznetsov

“By the way, darling, I’m going to Argentina tomorrow.”

He drops the bombshell on his way out, ensuring he’s put the M25 safely between us before I fully clock the impact his latest business trip will have on my life.

By the time my husband settles in front of his computer with a coffee and I’m halfway through my second load of washing, I’m seething, resentment oozing from my pores like sweat during a hot yoga class.

A single mum

Face it, my inner voice says cheerfully, stoking the internal flame of disgruntlement: “You’re practically a SINGLE mum.”

It’s got nothing to do with being pathetic or jealous, you understand. (But Argentina? Really, why can’t they send him to Finland or Manchester for God’s sake?)

Normally, when he comes home from the office I can take a well-deserved break, handing over the baton of sibling warfare arbitration and toddler taming, while they jubilate over daddy’s daily return from work. (Even when I went away once for a ladies’ weekend did I not qualify for that kind of reception, but that’s a blog post for another day.)

No respite, no Zen

When he’s travelling, there’s no handover, no respite. No time to work, no time to play, no me-time, no yoga, no Zen…

I become Godmother, Mother Theresa: the omnipotent fulfiller of every physical and emotional need three children aged between four and 11 could possibly have over a period of five days. And the need can be considerable, particularly as at least one of them usually comes down with the Norovirus in this time.

Of course my husband knows to choose the grimmest backdrops for our Skype conversations when he’s away and there’s a lot of mournful shaking of the head, bemoaning the ‘bad food’, ‘terrible company’ and ‘total exhaustion’ delivered with an expression befitting a funeral service.

I think he understands I might just change the locks, if I spotted any sign of a stunning sunset, endless sandy beach or Latino woman with killer calves in the background.

5 ways of keeping resentment in check

As you can tell, I don’t like it when my husband travels.

But over the years, I’ve developed a few strategies to keep the resentment under control, which I’ll happily share with you:

Babysitter: I refuse to miss a yoga class or book club meeting: I pay a babysitter. It keeps me sane, which helps everyone.
I do everything I would do if my husband were around – if I’m invited to a dance, I go alone. If his trip coincides with the school holidays, we go on holiday without him.
We go out for a meal (and a few glasses of Chardonnay –for me) or get take-aways at least once, so I get a break from cooking and washing up.
We watch films my husband won’t enjoy, play board games he doesn’t like and listen to music he hates.
I have learned to appreciate my own company again. After the children had gone to bed – I read my book for as long as I want without having to endure long conversations about who’s backstabbing who in his workplace or explain why I need more chocolate or another glass of wine.

I’m not quite at the stage where I look forward to his next trip, but I’m beginning to see some positives in the situation.

And that stops me obsessing about him sipping bubbly in business class or tangoing the night away with a rose between his teeth.

PS. I’m a semi-finalist in the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards in the Writer and Commentary categories, If you like what you read, I’d be so very happy if you voted for me.

Click on the badges below to vote. It’s ever so easy. Thanks.

Travels with my daughter – Paris revisited

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Lunch in Paris on our first day

A very special gift

This time last year my daughter Paula and I travelled to Paris for her 10^th birthday for a weekend.

It was a gift that would provide us both with an endless supply of memories – the kind that form the life support of a mother-daughter relationship.

Paris was the obvious choice for what I hope will be the first of many travels with my daughter because it was where Paula spent the first two years of her life. We moved to Paris from the UK when she was only 10 days old.

A very different journey

As we queued excitedly to board the Eurostar with hundreds of other tourists in the early hours of the morning, I was reminded of a nerve-wrecking trip 10 years ago, when my husband and I transported our fragile, crying little bundle across the channel, guarding over her like hawks.

This time the journey was much more relaxed. Paula and I fine-tuned our itinerary over coffee and hot chocolate, chatting and giggling non-stop.

Our list of must-sees included obvious tourist sites she’d been learning about such as Arc de Triumph and Eiffel Tower, as well as the more obscure haunts of an expat mum determined to enjoy her beautiful baby girl in spite of hostile Parisians and a lack of French.

She had no idea how terrified I was

As Gare du Nord was announced over the speaker system, my stomach tensed. Could I do this? Could I really travel alone in Paris with a young child? Everyone knew I was completely directionless and hopeless at reading maps. How would I find anything without my husband – or a man by my side? My mind seemed to be erasing every French word I ever learned, rendering me helpless.

I looked down at my little girl, who was positively beaming – loving every minute of precious time alone with the mum she usually had to share with two younger brothers. She had no idea how terrified I was.

And so, I gathered our suitcases and coats and with it my courage. We got off, negotiated our way around the Paris Metro to our hotel near Notre Dame with little effort as if this was what we did every day of our lives.

First stop – lunch

After a short stop at the modest hotel to deposit our bags and in my case refresh my face, while Paula inspected every inch of the room and arranged her giraffe soft toy on the bed, we hit the Parisian streets in search of something typically French for our dejeuner.

We took our seats among office workers on lunch and map-reading tourists on the pavement outside a café. The chairs faced the busy square allowing us to observe the noisy and animated street spectacle over our Croque Monsieur and frites.

And so our adventure began…

(To be continued)

PS. If you like what you’re reading, please consider nominating me for a BIB award (see badges alongside this post to find out more) – I can’t afford to pay you, but you’ll make my day…

Spring cleaning? I’d rather pick my nose

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The other day I dropped an earring and it rolled under the bed. When I kneeled down to look for it, I wished I hadn’t.

Unbeknown to me, the forgotten no-mans-land under our bed had turned into a wilderness of dust mites, lost socks, chocolate wrappers, abandoned Happy Meal trinkets and what I suspect was an apple in an advanced state of decomposition.

You would think that this kind of discovery would fulfil any self-respecting housekeeper with enough self-hate and disgust to send her into a frantic fit of hoovering. In my case you’d be wrong.

The problem with this type of discovery is that I have every reason to suspect it is only the tip of the iceberg.

Once I move the bed to hoover under it, I’d be forced to take a closer look at the life forms in other occupied domestic territories in our home, such as the hinterland behind the sofa, the desert on top of my wardrobe, murky corners of kitchen cabinets and the science project that is the bottom drawer of the fridge.

And if I’m not careful, this kind of unprecedented cleaning could spark a full-scale war against grime or so-called spring clean, which would have devastating consequences for my already dwindling social life and frazzled state-of-mind,

It’s not that I’m lazy – I do the odd spot of cleaning, usually after midnight on a Wednesday or just before the cleaners come on a Friday. Yes, I do have cleaners – and I love them almost as much as my husband, but they’re not stupid – they also know better than to actually move any furniture or go where no self-respecting woman has gone before.

Trying to keep a house with three children and a 40-something male dirt-free is like fighting an out-of-control fire with a water pistol.

Some weeks ago, during a weak moment, I mopped the kitchen floor. Exactly four and a half minutes later, Max, 4, helped himself to a jam tart, spilling half a pack of sugar all over the floor in the process.

Not long after I cleaned that up, his sister poured herself juice and promptly dropped the cup, clearly illustrating once and for all the futility of mopping the floor. It would amount to an act of conscience, at best.

The same logic would apply to wiping grubby finger prints off the walls or windows, fighting the rebel armies of assorted crumbs under the kitchen table, dust balls behind the curtains or venturing into the sticky swamp between the sofa cushions.

There is no point. It would be about as effective as trying to persuade Greek citizens to pay their taxes.

I do admire women who fight on fearlessly, finding time not only for a weekly deep-cleanse, but also to iron and fold kitchen towels, dust off lampshades, wipe skirting boards, install military order in a cutlery drawer or label the spice rack alphabetically.

I admire them, but I pity them. Some even say they find cleaning therapeutic.

Call me superficial, but plucking your eyebrows or picking your nose is more therapeutic and rewarding and there’s more of a sense of achievement too.

My kitchen floor will remain in a state of semi-permanent stickiness and the ecologically sensitive habitats behind our furniture will stay undisturbed for some years to come.

But at least, I get to read the odd few pages of a book, watch the news most nights and manage to squeeze a bit of quality time with my children into the maddening schedule of a (sort of) working mum.

Next time I drop an earring, I will write it off without a second thought and go out to buy a new pair.

Finally… Recognition for my late night efforts

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Get a job, wash the car, iron something, cook tea, but stop wasting your precious pre- and post school run hours ranting, raving and rambling in a blog that no-one in their right mind will ever find, never mind read.

The virtual skyline is cluttered with the leftover thoughts of zillions of exhausted, frustrated mummy bloggers in a desperate online search for their former selves.

This has been the abusive line of questioning I’ve been subjected to by my tetchy inner voice ever since I started blogging a few weeks ago.

So, it was with great excitement that I discovered the LIEBSTER AWARD comment last week. (Not that I’m counting comments or anything)

AWARD? I have been nominated for an award: Now, we’re talking! I smirked at my inner voice: “Somebody DOES appreciate me after all!”

I was working out who I should mention in my tear-filled acceptance speech as my main source of inspiration – ruling out God, my dad, my husband and any other man for that matter, before I took a closer look at the small print.

The Liebster award is a blogger-to-blogger award with no winners and no judges and I have been nominated by a kind-hearted online Samaritan who takes pity on bloggers with fewer than 300 followers.

I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I was a little put out at first that I wasn’t going to be able to sell the film rights to my little blog just yet.

But after some soul searching, I’ve decided an award is an award, beggars can’t be choosers and one day when I’m the type of bloggess who doesn’t get out of bed for less than 10,000 comments a day, I will remember with fondness the day I received my Liebster award.

I might even reach out and give my Liebster badge a little virtual stroke from time to time.

So, Thank You Rebecca at The Dissocial Mom – for noticing my late night efforts and bestowing this honour on me, which I will pass on to a few of the blogs I’ve found and liked so far – bearing in mind I’ve not been around long and I’m discovering wonderful new blogs every time I go online (a little intimidating at times)

As a recipient of the Liebster award I should now share 11 facts about myself, answer 11 questions set by Rebecca, nominate a few other blogs and set questions for the bloggers I am nominating.

But because this blog is already too long, I will answer five questions and hope that my audience will not be too disappointed.

What motivated you to start blogging?

A dire lack of intellectual stimulation, a dwindling social life and the desire to see my name in print again.

If you could ask only one thing of your children, what would that be?

That they listen to me, never talk back, never raise their voices like I do and go to bed early so I can have my first glass of Chardonnay at a decent time.

What is your most favourite thing to do during your kid free time?

I love having uninterrupted thoughts.

I love getting to the end of my sentences when talking to other adults without hearing “Mummy! Mummy!”

And my best thing is sitting down alone with a frothy cappuccino in my favourite coffee shop, scribbling ideas and plans in my colourful notebook, while eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

What is one thing that you used to love doing as a kid that you still secretly enjoy doing?

I’m a bit of a fairground slut – flashy lights, blaring music, fluffy pink candy floss, plastic ducks, rows of trashy prizes, bumper cars – my psyche is obviously still dealing with some unresolved childhood fairground issues.

What is the best advice you can give other parents on how to cope with stress?

Don’t sweat the small stuff. Don’t be obsessed with your children and never, NEVER take advice from your husband (or any other man for that matter) on childbirth, childcare or what you should be doing with your life.

And here are a few of the blogs I like – and I have no idea how many followers they have because I can’t figure it out (but does it matter?)

Madame Expat -as a mum who has been (and still am) an expat mum this website talks to me because it’s about following your heart and your passion wherever you are, which at the moment for Madame Expat is creating the most exquisite flower arrangements. Very inspiring.

Liveslifewell is a beautifully written and inspiring blog by someone who seems to know herself and has the confidence to follow her heart and live life well, but has to combine that with the realities of living with a husband, two teenagers and a couple of dogs. She seems to get the balance right most of the time.

Pangaweka – a small collection of simple pleasures- this one is all about food – and Portuguese food in particular, which includes lovely recipes such as Portuguese seafood rice – tasty, exotic, spicy – need I say more?

My questions for the nominees:

1. What do you get out of blogging?

2. Was motherhood what you thought it would be, and if not how is it different?

3. What do you miss most about your pre-children self?

4. What advice would you give to your younger self?

5. As a woman – do you believe it’s possible to have it all

Feel free to add more questions or include 11 facts about yourself and thanks again Rebecca for taking the time to read my blog and nominate me.

Who needs an Oscar – if you can get a Liebster award?