tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54502037430769941422024-02-03T07:10:59.844-08:00The Baby Juggler: Three kids, two jobs, one lifeWorking Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-3527286559704363362010-01-27T13:27:00.000-08:002010-01-27T13:50:46.483-08:00Big Pink TaxiTomorrow seemed so far away when the consultant told us in the new year that Ava had to have another eye operation. But it's already upon us.<br />At work, the week has been a bit frenetic. I was helping to oganise an industry seminar on top of my usual workload, which, combined with some late night business negotiations meant I was asleep on Paul's shoulder, snoring into his ear before 10pm last night. And then there's been all the frenzied speculation and, finally, the revelations about Apple's new iPad, which promises some interesting competition for Amazon's Kindle with its iBooks platform. Just keeping on top of all the news in digital technologies and their impact on books and reading would be a full time job for anyone.<br />It's all fading fast now as I try to stop my stomach churning, thinking about how tomorrow I'll have to look on again while my little girl is wheeled away under general anaesthetic to the operating theatre. At bed time, I reminded Ava we'd be off early tomorrow morning to the hospital. 'You're going to have another magic sleep, remember?' I said gently as I stroked her long, fine brown hair off her forehead. 'And they're going to have another go at fixing your broken eye.' She stares at me and does a big pout. Then she starts reading her Alice in Wonderland book again.<br />'We'll be going in a big taxi again, early in the morning! And you'll be able to play with all the lovely toys at the hospital while we wait for the doctors!"<br />"I want a pink taxi," she insists. "And I don't want eye drops."<br />I am laughing now.<br />"You must look after me and never leave me," she suddenly says, and her eyes are wet. So are mine.<br />"I never will," I say. I take a deep breath and kiss her head and I leave the room quietly.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-27875533556896468612010-01-25T13:32:00.000-08:002010-01-25T13:39:39.062-08:00Of Iron Man and other Super HeroesBlimey. January is one looooooong month. It takes the will of a superhero simply doggedly to navigate ones way through all the never-ending days: the cold, the severe shortage of available cash, the numerous lurgies (all involving copious runny noses and accompanying face rashes), the challengingly long 'to do' list that appears every New Year inspired by a Christmas holiday in which one spends a great deal of time thinking about how 'next year, I will get more organised.'<br />Whilst at work, it simply feels like someone hit the accelerator while I wasn't looking. Did January always feel this busy? How can I still have so much to do when there are just so many damn days in this month?<br />If January feels this excruciatingly long to me, I wonder how long it seems in kid time? To keep January blues at bay, the whole family is looking towards Spring, when we will be undertaking an epic adventure: three weeks 'down under', one in Sydney (I'll be talking at the <a href="http://www.swf.org.au/">Sydney Writer's Festival) </a>and two travelling the coast north of Sydney in a camper van. Nath (nearly 5) is particularly excited about the camper van idea, evidenced by the fact that he asks me every morning as he raises his tousled head from the pillow, 'Are we going in the camper van today, Mummy?'<br />'Not today, darling', I apologise, daily. 'It's a few weeks away yet.' I have sixteen more weeks of this, and wonder whether it was wise to show him maps of Australia and pictures of kangaroos, koalas and the rolling Blue Mountains quite this far ahead of the trip.<br />More immediately, his 5th Birthday is fast approaching. This is his other daily topic of conversation. As in, 'Mummy, is it my party today?' 'Not today, darling', etc. Nath would dearly love an <a href="http://www.moviewallpaper.net/w/Iron_Man_Wallpaper_8_800.html">'Iron Man' </a>party, which we rashly promised we would produce (well, what could be easier?) Except since <a href="http://www.marvel.com/">Marvel</a> sold out to <a href="http://www.disney.go.com/">Disney</a> all the merchandising licenses are clearly in some sort of corporate buyout limbo so that every web site promising 'Iron Man party packs only £29.99!', thus getting you all excited (I know, s'funny what gets me all excited these days) actually takes you to a page announcing 'This range has been discontinued.'<br />Paul (husband), at the same time as feeling justifiable rage at the impact some stupid greedy corporation can have on an ordinary boy's innocent desires, enthusiastically suggests we could 'make our own Iron Man party gear!' then looks at my face and starts to back peddle, fast.<br />So, I am fed up with January and desperately seeking Iron Man Party Accessories, on which the happiness of my nearly-five year old depends. Any Super Heroes out there willing to help?Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-26361191152619395862010-01-08T04:15:00.000-08:002010-01-08T06:20:49.664-08:00Not waving but drowning. And some news.It's 2010 and I'll be the first to admit it. The blog was, how shall we put it, a little thin on the ground in 2009. I have no particularly convincing excuse for this other than the fact that 2009 was quite possibly my busiest and most stressful year ever. This was partly due to the ongoing situation with Ava's eyes, her surgery and the lengthy aftercare that involved, but also to do with my news. See below.<br />At several points between October and December I held ideas in my head for blog postings for ooh, minutes at least, before something else popped up to bite me on the backside and demand my attention more urgently. At one point I said to a friend that I felt I was 'careering' towards Christmas, half-crazed, and I held up my hand at a 45 degree angle to illustrate how, metaphorically at least, I felt I was running at an insane tilt towards the holiday season. In 2009, I arrived at the week before Christmas faintly surprised to have survived the year, and shocked to find that somehow I had bought everyone a present and even baked some cookies to give to the neighbours. It was almost as if someone else had occupied my body and done everything that had to be done, whilst I looked on like a vacant old lady, wonderingly.<br />Anyway. The good news is that it appears quite a few people really missed Babyjuggler, and so it is that in response to the many emails I've had asking whether I might take up my blog with a little more gusto again this year, I have made just a single New Year's Resolution: blog more!<br />But now for my news.<br />No. I am not pregnant (Yes I still do think about it sometimes, but that's about as far as it gets).<br />But I am bringing a different kind of baby into the world: a book! Of course, being the Digital Director at a trade publishing house, my baby will be born digital. It will be published on 29th January this year as an audio download (available via iTunes and Audible, amongst others) and an ebook. And yes, I am pathetically excited (and terrified of bad reviews). I feel like a proper, real life author!<br /><em>The Babyjuggler</em> is being published by a fabulous company called <a href="http://www.creativecontentdigital.com/index.htm">Creative Content</a>, and the audio edition has been read by the wonderful <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adjoa_Andoh">Adjoa Andoh</a>. Watch this space for news on publication, and don't tell me if you read a horrid review.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-9926048604680778232009-10-25T10:13:00.000-07:002009-10-25T10:42:22.069-07:00Having a smashing timeOne of the phrases friends use about me most is 'spinning plates', as in, 'Sars, I know you're spinning plates right now, but do you think you could ... [insert appropriate request / favour]'. This year, the plates seem to have been spinning faster, and there seem to have been more of them, so that rather than spinning 'em I feel more like I've been smashing them all over the floor. Everyone assures me I'm doing an okay job, but I'm sure I can still hear the sound of tinkling china echoing in my ears. I can hardly recall everything we've been up to since I last uploaded a blog post, though I can say it has involved new beginnings - Ava learning about life through seeing eyes; all of us becoming camping addicts (even Paul!!); Ava returning to nursery, Nath starting in reception and lots, lots more. I can't believe it is already half term, that Nath is now firmly settled into life at school, that Ava is properly on her way to a normalised existence, and that we have all emerged from a pretty hellish first two thirds of the year relatively unscathed. I still feel tears spring to my eyes every time I cut up greens (don't ask me why, but the action of doing it, the sight and the smell of chopped, raw cabbage just reminds me of the particular way my Nan used to chonk it down in the collander with a plate, one of the plates I have now inherited, and carries associations with all the roast dinners dished up to me, and then my family, by my Nanna, who died this year in April) and I still find myself peering into Ava's eyes every time I dress her to check they look okay... But yes, I think to myself, basically, things are okay again. Paul and I passed a milestone in July with our fifteenth wedding anniversary, and now, belatedly, we are going to celebrate, with three days in Madrid... without the children. Of course, there is no such thing as unadulterated pleasure. The organisation and planning to enable three small children to spend three days with their grandparents seems phenomenal, and then there's the guilt about leaving them and the wondering how we'll manage just the two of us, away for only the second time in eight years for more than a night on our own.... But surely, it's got to be good, hasn't it?Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-79321848379123013532009-07-19T12:22:00.001-07:002009-07-19T12:28:59.424-07:00Naughty but niceI'm sure it wasn't quite proper to be SO excited about spending an afternoon with eight other chicks (okay, I know 'chicks' is a stretch, but indulge me, just this once) topped off by an evening singing along excessively loudly, waving one's arms, scream lasciviously and generally behaving like lunatics let out of the asylum for a day at the TAKE THAT GIG AT WEMBLEY the other weekend.... But to hell with it. Yes, verily, I kid you not, I went to a Take That gig, something I would never have done when they really were a boy band, but now seem to think is perfectly acceptable. The first time they came round they crossed my radar only so far as for me to sniff at them; I still pretended a certain amount of musical snobbery. Now that I'm nearly forty and have three kids, I have developed this ability basically not to give a shit what anyone else thinks of my taste, just as long as I am having fun. For having fun, as Paul rather sweetly pointed out to Eden the other night, is not something Mummy often gets time to do; not in an independent, non-child-related kind of a way (this was in the context of reminding her she shouldn't moan about Mummy taking one afternoon and evening off in about, ooh, five years or so). And when the eight not-so-secret-anymore Take That fans got together on Saturday, we all agreed that it was just this kind of feel-good pop that we all needed, along with an excuse to compare notes on which of 'the boys' we thought was dishiest and compete for the loudest scream prize.<br />And as antidotes for two or three months of stress go, it was just perfect.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-32532299519074557742009-06-30T13:12:00.000-07:002009-06-30T13:56:45.914-07:00Phew.Ava made it through her two operations. She has emerged ever bouncier, seemingly energised by the ability to run with her head held high, looking to the horizon, rather than peering at the ground to check her steps; even chattier (if that were possible) as she engages even more energetically with the world around her, and, importantly, able to take her rightful place on the (new!) enormous family sofa, Simpsons-style with the rest of us, to watch TV, instead of standing directly beneath the screen, staring intently upwards. Whether I have emerged with my sanity is debatable (ask Paul, or my team at work, but please don't tell me what they say) and I definitely failed the numerous tests on my patience which Ava managed to pass with flying colours. Waiting with a two year old forbidden to eat and drink before an operation is possibly the longest wait you'll ever endure, except for the wait once you've kissed them goodbye as they fall asleep at the hands of the anaesthetist. But try helping four nurses and doctors to hold your baby down while they kick and scream and cry and almost faint with the hysteria as their eye is cleaned out if you really want to feel like you're finally cracking up. Ava's right eye had a harder job healing than the left. The stitches became inflamed and we spent a nail-biting couple of weeks as we and the doctors tried to ward off the now high risk of infection. Infection that would lead to her sight being irreparably damaged. I'm not prone to flights of fancy but I swear I began to imagine things every time I looked at her eye. And when Ava fell down the stairs - all the way from top to bottom - between the two operations, guess who cried harder, me or her? Yes, Ava has been a trooper, and I have been a certifiable flake. She's bounced back after every setback and charmed every nurse, surgeon and optometrist in the place. Last Monday, she started to turn a corner and by the time we went for her check-up on Tuesday, she got the thumbs up. The eye patches are still on, but we're down to only four lots of eye drops a day (!) and one of ointment (which I quickly learned to administer after she had fallen asleep at night). Her eyes, when they flash with fun, sparkle darkly, the cloudy patches gone. Importantly, her shiny, new, magenta pink, square-framed glasses will be arriving later this week. She will be the envy of all her friends.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-15955438651942162552009-05-27T13:08:00.000-07:002009-05-27T13:16:03.172-07:00Entering the frayAva is soundly asleep and joyously unaware of exactly what's in store for her tomorrow. She has a very chic new 'princess haircut' (ie one which involves a fringe which won't go in her eyes), a bright new bunny rabbit to hold (thanks to our very lovely neighbours) and is looking forward with great excitement to "going in a taxi to the hopital to fix my broken eyes." Meanwhile, I am half way through my second glass of red wine and wondering why all rational powers of thought seem to have deserted me. So, think of us tomorrow, as we set off towards Moorfields Eye Hospital in the grey of dawn, and pray that I won't actually be sick when they apply the general anaesthetic.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-23870989077427302002009-05-20T05:16:00.000-07:002009-05-20T05:21:08.578-07:00Shit hits fan x2It has been difficult to find an appropriate post to follow my last. I set myself up for a fall, really, with this blog, always trying to keep it lighthearted and a little bit witty, for there isn't very much lighthearted or witty to say when your Nanna dies. Somehow maintaining blog silence has seemed the only appropriate response to the passing of one of the most important women in my life. My gorgeous, kind, funny and serene Nanna was a constant in my life, and, I now realise, she will always stay with me. I hear exactly what she would be saying to me now, for instance, as I begin to grapple with my latest challenge, which is how to stay emotionally sane, not make myself sick with worry, and appear fearless for my little Ava, who is about to go through double eye surgery to remove the cataracts that have been slowly deteriorating her sight over the last few months. What Nanna would be saying is, "Don't worry dear, just think about how much better it will be for her after it's done! Isn't it marvellous what they can do these days?" Which would be her generous spirited and kindly way of telling me to pull my socks up, lift my chin and remember how good we really do have it these days. Perspective is a wonderful thing, and my Nanna always delivered it in bucketloads.<br />PS: To help me through my current exercise in maintaining perspective I have been reading what ought to be hailed as one of the best books of this year. <a href="http://www.panmacmillan.com/titles/displayPage.asp?PageTitle=Individual%20Title&BookID=411547">The Flying Carpet to Baghdad by Hala Jaber</a> (full disclosure, my company publishes it) is one of those books that you tend to become evangelical about after you've read it, because it does something to your insides at the same time as speaking to your intellect. It is an insightful war memoir, a gut-wrenching look at the impact on ordinary lives of the war in Iraq, but also an incredibly moving, tear-inducing story of a woman facing the ultimate clash between her professional life and her personal mothering instincts as she attempts to rescue just two small children out of the thousands affected by the chaos of war. If anything can help to put your own problems in perspective, this book can. All I can say is, please try to read it, even if you don't read anything else this year.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-17077699260972705512009-04-17T07:40:00.000-07:002009-04-17T08:38:39.250-07:00Nanna13 April 1917 - 16 April 2009<br /><br />Death is nothing at all<br />I have only slipped away into the next room<br />I am I and you are you<br />Whatever we were to each other<br />That we are still<br />Call me by my old familiar name<br />Speak to me in the easy way you always used<br />Put no difference into your tone<br />Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow<br />Laugh as we always laughed<br />At the little jokes we always enjoyed together<br />Play, smile, think of me, pray for me<br />Let my name be ever the household word that it always was<br />Let it be spoken without effort<br />Without the ghost of a shadow in it<br />Life means all that it ever meant<br />It is the same as it ever was<br />There is absolute unbroken continuity<br />What is death but a negligible accident?<br />Why should I be out of mind<br />Because I am out of sight?<br />I am waiting for you for an interval<br />Somewhere very near<br />Just around the corner<br />All is well.<br /><br /><em>Canon Henry Scott-Holland<br /></em>Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-15511692718108418982009-03-30T01:55:00.000-07:002009-03-30T01:57:20.261-07:00ImaginationYou'd forgive me for thinking I'm living in a parallel universe in which no parents exist, the drink of choice is pink milk, and the children are called things like Charlie, Lola, Lotta and Marv. In this universe it is ever so extremely important that you intone, gigglingly, in slightly pretentious toddler speak, putting a lot of extra emphasis on certain words in order to convey their importance and to show off that you know them.<br />Yes, my life is currently ruled by <a href="http://www.charlieandlola.com/">Charlie and Lola</a>, Nath's current obsession and one eagerly adopted by his sisters. This means that when I return from work I am greeted by three small faces momentarily turned in my direction and then back to the TV screen, which is always showing one of Nath's new collection of Charlie and Lola DVDs. It also means that whenever I ask anyone to do anything I am treated to a very loud, "Sorry, I am just too very extremely busy", and whenever we eat a meal together (ie every day) I am regaled with a list of foods that will never be eaten ("I will never not ever eat a tomato"...etc) but whose fantasy counterparts are completely acceptable ("Ah, it's a moonsquirter - that's okay then.") Whilst in the shower the other morning I could hear a quite vocal discussion taking place between Nathan and Eden. They were speaking in unnaturally high voices and guffawing at each other conspiratorially. As I stepped out of the shower I could hear the words more clearly and realised they were reciting word for word an entire Charlie and Lola show, play acting the parts and enjoying themselves immensely.<br />You might wonder if all this is more than a little irritating but there are a number of things to be grateful for, here. At least Nath's captivation with Charlie and Lola has taken sway over his obsession with killer robot wars, and at least this all goes to demonstrate that TV doesn't kill children's imaginations, after all. Well not exactly, anyway. It just slightly warps them. It seems to be doing quite a lot of good for their memory and recall abilities, too.<br />Yes, the imaginative streak seems alive and well in the entire family at present. Whilst changing Ava's nappy in a restaurant's baby room over the weekend, she suddenly whispered, a propos of nothing, "Ssshhh, we're in a dark forest!"<br />"Oh gosh, are we?" I asked. "Are there any creatures in the dark forest, Ava?"<br />"Yes." She answered, in a stage whisper. "There are dark tigers and dark ducks."<br />And that was that. Funny girl.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-54290531024941527192009-03-19T02:41:00.000-07:002009-03-19T02:46:47.119-07:00Ava grows upIt's official. I don't have any little people in the house who could realistically be classed as babies. Ava, our youngest, started nursery on Monday morning, and with that small step, off she went on a journey that gradually takes them further and further away from you and closer and closer to independence. Looking at her, all innocent and unaware of what she was about to encounter, in her little, blue, nursery-branded sweatshirt, was enough to make me yell hysterically, 'Don't go!' grab her up into my arms and try to hold onto that umbilical link, just for a few days more. But no, just as my Dad always counselled me, it's our job as parents to teach our children how to manage without us. But Dad, why is that sometimes so very hard?<br />Monday morning I was due in the office early. We had a big day ahead of us including an important author presentation. Quite apart from trying to rein in my hero worship of the guy I needed to be sure I didn't fluff my part of the presentation and let down my colleagues. But the butterflies in my stomach were all about this little picture I had in my head of Ava in her blue sweatshirt wandering around the big, new nursery looking for her Mum and Dad and wondering why we'd left her with all these strange people. Thank God it was Paul who was going to have to handle the drop-off. I was simultaneously relieved, guilty about feeling relieved, and somewhat sad that the job wasn't mine this time. That's not just a paradox - that's, like, a three-dimensional paradox. Or something. No wonder my stomach was in knots.<br />Paul called me at 10.10am. He had arrived at the nursery with her at 10am and he was already leaving! She had launched herself in to the thick of it the minute they had arrived, trying out the activities at every table in the course of a few minutes and settling at the painting easel with a look of disbelief that someone could have laid out all this fun stuff and noone was stopping her from playing with it all. She had more or less ignored him when he had told her he was leaving. His voice sounded a bit wobbly.<br />'Oh, phew,' I said, 'I think.'<br />As I went into the presentation my butterflies had disappeared. Ava was going to be okay. The small matter of a major author's happiness would be peanuts.<br /><br />P.S. Do not allow this post to full you with sentimentality and sympathy for poor little Ava. Both her brother and sister are this week sporting bruises over their eyes after 'combative encounters' with their 'cute baby sister'. If I wasn't already certain she was growing up fast that should be physical evidence enough!Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-37766424895714777902009-03-04T13:06:00.000-08:002009-03-04T13:47:37.238-08:00Juggling, in extremisNathan's birthday party was craaaaaaayzeeee. 14 four year olds (mainly boys) in our very small living room, plus most of their parents, too. Next year, the local soft play centre it is. It was however very, very nice to see placid, low maintenance, non-attention-seeking Nath, the quiet and gentle and slightly dopey one of our three, taking centre stage and even enjoying it in his own little way. Have to admit, was slightly embarassed by his guest greeting manner (airplaning down the hall, yelling at the top of his voice, 'PRESENT!', yanking the front door open and snatching the present from each unsuspecting guest's grip before running back down the hall and into the living room without so much as a 'hello', 'how are you?' or 'come in'. Hmm, maybe not so quiet). Still, he made up for it later by joining in the party games (after a bit of persuasion), NOT crying when someone else won the pass-the-parcel, and, importantly, RECOGNISING WHAT HIS CAKE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE - YIPPPEEEEEE! So, yes, the cake worked out okay, and with the indoor sparklers going for the jet engines it really looked quite spectacular. Most importantly, Nathie loved it.<br /><br />But here, you can judge for yourselves:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL5NRgehRAhOJCda0XNZiqKjc5SN7fvZn4mEp5-TYc8mZ0KlyHAZni7Ayz0Y7Esaj_I9YCaslCHYqh3a5FH-NsoXOBYNJtoGJmjmBJnp5OQ7p_U3UJw9MdHkSaw_XooGevbCLcepvxRh4/s1600-h/Nathcake.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309446472938576114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 291px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL5NRgehRAhOJCda0XNZiqKjc5SN7fvZn4mEp5-TYc8mZ0KlyHAZni7Ayz0Y7Esaj_I9YCaslCHYqh3a5FH-NsoXOBYNJtoGJmjmBJnp5OQ7p_U3UJw9MdHkSaw_XooGevbCLcepvxRh4/s320/Nathcake.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The day I wrote my last post, as I laboured over this cake and hoped against hope that Nath wouldn't take one look at it and say, 'Err, what is it, Mum?' I had to laugh at the Extreme Sport that is Working Motherhood. Here I was, sticking bits of Victoria Sponge together with jam, licking a bit too much of the icing off the spoon, and wondering whether I'd got the gun metal silver effects right on the Fighter Jet Wings, when only 48 hours before I'd been stepping off the red eye from New York where I'd been at the annual <a href="http://www.toccon.com/">TOC conference</a> speaking to an audience of 1000 people about 'The Future of Publishing'. (See embarassing pics, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/x180/3270983508/in/set-72157613574718319/">here</a>).<br /><br />With all this flipping between such frankly silly extremes, it's a wonder we don't get more mixed up and confused than we already are, and no surprise that so many of us develop a bad case of Imposter Syndrome. I can't work out whether I think I'm more of an Imposter-Future-Gazer or Imposter-Mother, but I'm probably a bit of both.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-46355820492486036912009-02-14T05:19:00.000-08:002009-02-14T05:28:29.911-08:00Use the forceI know you're awaiting an entertaining post about my whirlwind, cocktail-fuelled trip to New York, but the thing is, it's Nath's fourth birthday party tomorrow and I thought it would be really fun to make him a Jedi Fighter Cake. As if I really need to say anything further on the matter, I am just starting to wonder if I have bitten off more than I can chew, so to speak. Putting the jet lag aside, however, I am boldly going where no mother has been before. Wish me luck. I'll post some pictures of the end result later on which, I am sure, will make up for my apparent lack of witty prose.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-19961996510007708012009-02-06T06:42:00.000-08:002009-02-06T06:49:44.835-08:00ColdAs if to echo my sentiments entirely, Eden (7) came home from school today with a snowflake cut-out, mounted on black paper and bearing a poem she had written, in her neatest handwriting, entitled 'Cold.' I am reproducing it here with all her cute little spelling errors intact, just because I absolutely love it. This is said with full acknowledgement of my intense bias. But this is my blog, and I can post what I like on it. So there.<br /><br />Cold<br /><br />Cold is<br />Silver and white to mack a snowy pictur.<br />A poaler bear that stomps around.<br />A white igloo in the North Pole.<br />When you get sad you tremmble with cold nise.*<br />January in a cold blizzard.<br />A sofa, next to a ice pond with a frog on it.<br /><br />[* knees, I think.]<br /><br />Totally surreal and wonderful.<br /><br />On another note, I am off to New York tomorrow until Thursday, so the blogging may be sparse. I nearly wasn't going, but now I am. That's another story for another post. Maybe tomorrow.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-91089366001213769402009-02-05T13:16:00.000-08:002009-02-05T13:23:06.028-08:00SnowathonI have been getting really quite cross with all those people grumping about the snow.<br />"It's pathetic, isn't it, how the UK grinds to a halt when there's a bit of bad weather?"<br />"Businesses will lose three billion pounds over the next few days of snow!"<br />"It's great for the kids, but not for anyone else."<br />And I nearly blew my lid when I heard about so-called Parenting Groups complaining about school closures. That is just Boringness gone mad.<br />Well, yah, boo, sucks to the lot of you for being so very glass-is-half-empty and not embracing the inner snowman-builder and snowball-thrower in you. Snow is like Christmas. It is so much better if you embrace your inner child and just bloody well jump right in and enjoy it.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-3660681608838870882009-01-26T13:18:00.000-08:002009-01-26T14:10:27.323-08:00SwimathonIt felt good when we finally got round to booking swimming lessons for the kids. It had only been on my 'To do' list for, ooh, about three months. Actually, it was Paul who actually rang up and did the booking, in a burst of enthusiasm for Organising Stuff That Sara Has Finally Admitted She Can't Manage All On Her Own And Has Decided to Delegate (this is a novel idea that has only just occurred to me because, whilst effective delegation is a primary skill of mine in the workplace, I only just seem to have got to grips with it at home).<br />The idea of 9am swimming classes on a Sunday was starting to feel slightly less appealing as we staggered up to bed a little drunkenly at 1.30am after a dinner party with neighbours, and was proving an even less attractive prospect as we peered out of the window into the rainy darkness at 7am the following morning when the alarm went off. On a Sunday. Did I already mention that?<br />However, I was still feeling smug because, for once, it was not my fault that we were Doing Something Slightly Insane and I could therefore not be grumped at with any shred of credibility by my husband. Instead, Paul was behaving in an unusually chirrupy manner for someone who professes to detest the hours before 10am and who is equally unkeen about jumping willingly into cold water, even at the best of times.<br />The children, of course, were even more chirrupy and in fact positively leaping with joy and into their swimming costumes, all the time treating us as if we were heaven-sent Parental Beings for taking them swimming, which really made us feel rather good about the whole enterprise.<br />We should have known something wasn't quite right when we turned up at the poolside to find that Nathan and Ava weren't on the register for the 9am Aquatots class, but the teacher hurriedly explained that it was probably an administrative error and encouraged us all to jump in regardless. Meanwhile, Eden sat on the side giggling at Ava as she screeched in terror at the idea of a Swimming Lesson and peered sideways at the teacher with that Damionesque look she assumes when incredibly suspicious of someone. According to the booking form, Eden's 'Beginners 2' class started at 9.30am, so she was sitting this session out, drawing quietly in her notebook and waiting her turn. I looked up at her from the pool where I was singing 'The Wheels on the Bus' and pedalling Ava's arms up and down in the water, and thought how proud I was of her ability to sit patiently and quietly without fuss while the others had fun in the water.<br />The end of the class came round and we dragged Ava and Nath out of the pool and into their towels, simultaneously propelling Eden towards the lady with the clipboard who looked like she was in charge so that she could register for her lesson.<br />Half distracted by trying to contain Ava in her towel I suddenly became aware that Paul was walking towards me with a John-Cleese-in-Fawlty-Towers-When-He-Loses-It face on. There had been an Adminstrative Error (technical term for Total Cock-Up) and the long and the short of it was that Eden wasn't going to get a swimming lesson that day. Her class had begun at 9am and was now over. It was not at 9.30 as we had been informed. Eden was looking at the teacher, across to Paul and then at me, her eyes wide and teary with disbelief and repeating over and over again, "Am I really not going to get a swim?"<br />And I felt so very sorry for her in that moment that of course the words just came out: "Don't worry, darling. Mummy will make sure you get a swim today, whatever happens."<br />So it was that about an hour or so later I found myself at another swimming pool across town, climbing back into my already wet swimming costume to take Eden into the pool for a hastily convened Mother And Daughter Swimming Session. As we walked towards the pool we bumped straight into two of the neighbours who had been at our dinner party the night before.<br />"What happened?" they asked, wondering why I was at another pool with Eden, an hour and a half after our scheduled class at the local leisure centre.<br />As I briefly downloaded the events of the morning, they both shook their heads. "So this is the <em>second </em>time you've gone swimming this morning? And you've just put your cold, wet swimming costume back on again? And you've got a hangover? That's Hardcore. You're a Hardcore Mum!" they marvelled. And Eden laughed and said, "Isn't my Mum great?"<br />No. Not really. Not even slightly. But I didn't mind them saying it. Not one bit.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-62071960581065891272009-01-12T04:07:00.000-08:002009-01-12T04:11:35.017-08:00More New Year's Resolutions1. Count to ten and breeeeeeathe deeply before yelling or snapping at the kids - or Paul.<br /><br />2. Get back into skinny jeans (err, yes, said items were rather balking at the idea of taking on my new Mince-Pie-Thighs on January 1)<br /><br />3. Stop leaving it until the morning to work out what to wear. The hasty decision making process can result in some disastrous and clashing consequences. The blurry eyes of morning can enable one to imagine one looks better in something than one's muffin top truly allows. And there isn't time for deliberation or a last-minute switch between wiping bottoms, changing nappies, throwing shreddies in bowls and asking the kids to 'get a move on' again. Ironing anything is <em>completely</em> out of the question.<br /><br />4. Recognise that there is a credit crunch on. Stop being in denial. Cancel the £2.10 daily take-away coffee on the way into work. Save for a holiday instead!<br /><br />5. Get fit. Without joining a gym (too expensive). Running and cycling are both free, aren't they? Yes! But WHEN?? My young, free and single friends suggest getting up earlier and going for a run <em>before</em> the kids wake up. 'Sleep deprivation' ain't in their vocabulary yet, though.<br /><br />I asked the kids what they thought their resolutions should be for 2009. Eden ummed and aah'd a bit and looked slightly mystified. I suggested one or two for her (not that I am controlling, or anything).<br />"How about doing what you're told first time rather than fifth?" I enquired. She nodded slowly, and reflected. "Could be tough."<br />"Okay. You could try being a bit kinder to your brother and sister?"... She wrinkled her nose in that way she has.<br />I tried a different tack.<br />"What resolutions do you think Nathan should make?" (he's only nearly-four and can't even pronounce 'resolution').<br />"[...Giggle, giggle] I think he should stop getting naked so much of the time!! [Guffaw, snort]"<br />Right. I can see this is not being treated with the *utmost* seriousness. Maybe try again next year.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-72319283785947290602009-01-01T04:01:00.000-08:002009-01-01T04:24:52.200-08:00Happy New Year!Happy New Year, everyone! Did all your Christmas wishes come true? Have you made (or broken) any New Year's Resolutions yet?<br />Let me tell you about one of my Christmas wishes, and how the Holiday Season has thoroughly put paid to it, and how that has informed myThorough Commitment to Stop Nagging Paul (NYR No 1):<br />Well, for a few months now, I have been quietly wondering whether it might be nice to just have one, extra, (final, I promise) teeny, weeny baby. Surely it wouldn't make that much difference, would it? Four rather than three? No problem. Sure, we'd have to buy one of those silly cars... And possibly move house. And I'd have to get another promotion sooner rather than later. And my saggy stomach would be lost beyond reason (I mean, even worse than it is now) and would never, but never, be the same again. But really, what could be easier? One extra would just slip right in. Wouldn't it? Actually, when I say, "Quietly wondering", that's not quite right. In fact it's a fib. I have been quite loudly remonstrating with my other half and suggesting he should stop being so bloody sensible and boring and let me have another one, and he has been loudly remonstrating right back at me that this might not actually be the most brilliant idea I have ever had. Sigh.<br />However, when I found myself standing in the checkout queue in Ikea three nights before Christmas at ELEVEN FORTY-FIVE PM buying frames in which to mount Star Wars pictures for my son (further to a 10pm visit to Toys R Us for last-minute stocking fillers) I did wonder, "Is my life just a tiny bit FULL already?..." And then the next night, when it was midnight and Paul and I found ourselves arguing over the best way to wrap a Jedi Fighter Craft and we still had, ohh, about FORTY FIVE presents to wrap, the thought began to niggle at me further.<br />Of course, all the sensible-ness was ruined on Christmas Day when I surveyed my little brood ripping the paper back off all those gifts and laughing and smiling and cuddling us and I thought, "Oh, wouldn't it be nice to have just one more?".... <br />But dragging three kids round the post-Christmas sales really finished me off.<br />So, no. I am resolved. And NYR No. 1 actually is: "Stop Nagging Paul for Another Baby and Enjoy What You Have While Holding on to Your Sanity For Dear Life."<br />More New Year's Resolutions to follow.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-39636374435262751652008-12-21T00:43:00.000-08:002008-12-23T01:11:28.419-08:00Identity Crisis Mark IIThe Christmas holidays have begun, and, three days in, Lovely-Kind-Cake-Baking-Mummy Mode has been switched back on, and even though the signal is still a little weak, it is definitely glimmering, and starting to take over from Slightly-Irritable-Old-Fashioned-Husband Mode, which has been set to Minimum once more. Phew. The refreshed Mummy Mode is helped greatly I must confess by the total destruction of my iPhone at the beginning of last week. Running across a busy road in Kings Cross on the way to work (only two minutes to spare before being late for a finance meeting - oops) the lovely, shiny gadget, which I have been told before might as well be a surgical implant, so attached am I to it, quite literally threw itself from my pocket and into the path of an oncoming Heavy Goods Vehicle. I felt quite foolish, let me tell you, turning back to watch it crunching under the wheels of the lorry, and fear my jaw may have been hanging open in horror, if the amused look on the face of the Be-suited Male Office Person passing me was anything to go by. However, it's nice to have given the IT guys a fund of new material for Taking The Piss Out of Sara at the Christmas Party: "Are you sure we can trust you with another one, love? Ha! Ha! Ha!" and so on and so forth.<br />Anyhooo, the lack of iPhone has, as I was saying, no doubt contributed to my air of carefree Mumminess, since I can't get distracted by an email when shopping, talking, baking cakes, reading a board book for the umpteenth time, engaging in a light sabre duel, or anything like that.<br />Meanwhile, it has come to my notice that I am not the only one in the family with the capacity to morph from one personality to another on a whim. The other day, Eden (seven), pronounced quite forcefully when offered the only pudding choice left in the house after supper, "Alright, Mummy. That's fine. But please be conscious of the fact that it was not my choice, so I may not eat it all." (Her exact words).<br />"Please be conscious of the fact..."? Now, where do you think she picked up that phrase?Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-36626327108388058822008-12-10T08:57:00.000-08:002008-12-10T09:21:30.270-08:00Identity CrisisHave been tucked up in bed for two days with a raging sore throat and a headful of cotton wool. If only you could see me now (this is one of those statements which actually means the opposite); I am propped up in bed with a big old college-style scarf wrapped round my neck, a granny cardigan and jogging bottoms adorning my leaden body, a laptop on my knees, an iPhone by my side and a big stack of blackcurrant lemsips just within reach.<br />As I came round from a groggy sleep just now I started to muse on something. It might be that I am just a little feverish. Or it might just be true. It almost certainly implies that I need to get back to work and stop thinking the trivial kind of mind-wandering thoughts that can only occur to you in such circumstances. But anyway, what I thought was....<br />Am I becoming an ... Old-Fashioned Husband?<br />Let me explain what led to this thought. Recently, I've noticed myself indulging in husband-like activities, such as spending less than 15 minutes choosing a Birthday present for my partner - between meetings - and then getting all his sizes wrong. And the other day I actually texted to ask what was for supper on my way home. Then, there was this other thing. Quite a few times in the course of a week, Paul had to repeat himself several times whilst I was busy emailing on my iPhone. He's used to me ignoring him at the expense of the email, but it was the way I absent- mindedly looked up and said, 'Hmm?' that worred him most. Help! Next I'll be sidling through the front door after work, shuffling into some comfy slippers and sitting down with the newspaper, waiting for someone to bring me a cup of tea.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-6469127117310311152008-11-30T00:21:00.000-08:002008-11-30T00:33:43.884-08:00Err, a post. Only three weeks late.OK. I am officially *not* on top of things. Here, finally, is the post I started writing three weeks ago. Oops.<br /><br />Not sure whether I'm juggling at the moment or taking part in some other circus-style activity. Like being the chick who has the knives thrown at her, or fire-breathing, something like that. Let me try to summarize. Quickly. Cos I'm in a bit of a rush.<br /><br />Monday: started new job (I got promoted - yay!). Spent day with new team, hoping to inspire them to new heights of achievement. In fact almost dead with exhaustion after night dealing with bed-wetting incidents, coughing fits and other random calls for motherly comfort and attention. Felt like head was detached from body. Seriously concerned about my ability to stay vertical for whole day let alone lead a new team into a bright digital future.<br /><br />Tuesday: Woke up to find leaden lump in bed beside me: sick husband unable to get out of bed. It was Day Two of The New Job and I was going to have to stay at home. Hustled kids to school and called office to let them know I'd be on emergency childcare duty and would have to conference call in to any meetings. Made camp on sofa for Ava, put cBeebies on a loop, provided cookies and juice and a pile of books and sat down to write a presentation for Wednesday. Two hours later I had just picked Nath up from school and settled him into the camp next to my computer, when the junior school office rang to say Eden was sick; could I come and collect her? Made camp for all three on my bed, brought up stack of DVDs, tin of biscuits and jug of juice and sat down to finish presentation. Long story, short: finished presentation at 10.30pm after rather fraught day interspersed with regular calls to attend to vomiting members of my family.<br /><br />Wednesday: Awoke 5.30am to get to airport for flight to Copenhagen to speak at conference about digital publishing. Almost delirious with exhaustion. Multiple coffees only solution. Arrived Copenhagen late morning, taxi to Opera for publishing conference, skipped lunch, made presentation. Drank more coffee, took part in panel discussion, quick tour of opera house and back to the airport to fly home. Arrived home 10.30pm. Watched Obama victory coverage on telly with large glass of wine. Cried every time someone said anything remotely emotive re this historic moment. Which was about every five seconds. Fell into bed.<br /><br />Thursday: Woke up with palpable sense of relief that I was still alive and basically cognitive. The thought of a comparatively normal day in the office was the most welcome thing I could remember in a long time. Attended catch-up with boss. He asked me how the first week had been. "To be honest, a little bit crazy", I said. "But don't worry, I'm on top of it." ;-)<br /><br />[That was three weeks ago. I'll bring you up to speed with everything else, umm, some time in the near future. I hope.]Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-90905285764237569032008-10-31T01:52:00.000-07:002008-11-02T01:13:37.569-07:00Seventh HeavenEden turned seven yesterday. No, I won't give you the usual 'Sob, hiccup, sniff, she's not a baby anymore' routine again, cos I know you've had enough of that already. Actually, it's really quite wonderful to think that just seven years ago I was breaking the blood vessels in my face pushing her out into this world and wondering at her tiny turned up nose and her shock of dark, unruly hair, and now here she is all long-leggedy and gappy-toothed and half-sophisticated, half-baby-still and SEVEN YEARS OLD!<br /><br />So it was, that on return from Geneva two weeks ago, I launched into the final planning for the birthday party. As last year, this was a joint initiative with Eden's best friend's Mum, Kath, which did slightly alleviate the fact that I had two days of meetings followed by a day out speaking at a conference in Leicester followed by a day in the office on my return, leaving me only two clear days to get everything done before the party. We were holding a Fancy Dress Witch Party. There was going to be an entertainer (a blue-haired witch called Ella who would take the kids on a magical mystery adventure to find her lost spell pot) and, as events were to take place at a local Constitutional Club with the most marvellous seventies decor, there'd be a retro bar for the adults, so at least we'd be able to knock back a couple of G&Ts if things got hairy. After all, we had invited thirty other seven year olds and quite a number of their younger siblings. Gulp. To add to the fun, while I was busy in Frankfurt my wonderful school gate mum pals had colluded to convince me on my return that the adults should dress up too. Yes, they are a right bundle of laughs, that lot.<br /><br />On Friday morning, having picked Nathan up from nursery, I steeled myself for a last minute shopping trip with two under-fours in tow, wrote a long shopping list and set out to my local Woolworths to find a <a href="http://www.woolworths.co.uk/web/jsp/product/index.jsp?pid=51673782">witch costume</a> for Eden, multiple multi-packs of sweets and lollies, party bag pressies, balloons and banners, as well as a clutch of last minute gifts for Eden which on reflection reflected a possibly higher than intended <a href="http://www.disney.co.uk/DisneyMovies/high-school-musical-3movie/">High School Musical 3</a> theme. After an impressive 20-minutes-flat supermarket sweep style dash around Woollies, I emerged triumphant if slightly sweaty, having bagged everything I needed for a remarkably small amount of money and successfully returned all the toys and chocolates that Nathan had smuggled under the buggy on the way round, whilst keeping two year old Ava confined to the buggy with a carton of apple juice, a board book and a <a href="http://www.chupachups.com/">Chuppa Chups</a> lolly (BAD Mummy).<br /><br />I collapsed into <a href="http://www.caffenero.com/">Cafe Nero</a> to meet two of my best Mum pals, Sophie and Gen, for a quick lunch before going to pick Eden up from school, and noticed that I was feeling slightly crazed after the Woollies dash. It's just that the extremes of my life sometimes come into stark relief as I find myself leaping between the sublime and the ridiculous - book fairs to witch parties; busy day long meetings to party bag shopping, negotiating distribution deals to persuading toddlers not to implode in Woollies. It's all a bit exhausting sometimes. I notice, on such occasions, that as I breathlessly download the events of my week to my Mum pals they eye me with a mixture of amusement and concern. They laugh as I joke about finding the time to pee, but there's this look in their eyes which says, you know, something like 'Sara-are-you-quite-sure-you're-OK / not-going-completely-insane?'<br /><br />But of course the party was wonderful and that made all the last-minute effort worthwhile. Ella the blue-haired witch was captivatingly magical, Eden and Greta felt like the stars of the show, I baked a cake which didn't collapse, everyone had a great time, it was actually quite fun wearing a pointy hat, bright green eyeshadow and black boots for the day, and, as they knocked back their G&Ts, the grown-ups thought the venue choice was a stroke of genius.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-21620603358702432212008-10-19T00:38:00.000-07:002008-10-21T13:56:27.625-07:00London-Frankfurt-GenevaI'm just back from the Frankfurt Book Fair. Wednesday morning, early, I finished packing my suitcase and asked the cab driver to wait while I said goodbye to Paul and the kids. For the next few days I would be away. Everyone would cope perfectly well without me, I would get to focus entirely on my work for a few days, Paul would be a hero and the kids would get presents on my return. It would all be fine, but this didn't stop the hot, pricking tears from running down my cheeks as I hugged them all a little harder than usual and buried my nose in their hair and snivelled goodbye.<br />At the airport, an hour and a half later, I stood in the queue for security, and had an overwhelming urge to turn around and go home. 'Why do I continue to put myself through this?' I wondered. Next thing I knew I was busy decanting my Aveda hair wax from its aesthetically lovely 125ml designer pot into an ugly Boots-bought 100ml container in order to get it through airport security. Shovelling hair wax with a plastic spoon, I felt a mounting sense of disbelief. I shook myself a little, took a deep breath and pulled my mobile out of my handbag. There was a text message from Paul: 'Hi darlin', you get to the airport OK?' I smiled to myself and texted back. 'Yeah. I'm a'right. Well, I will be, just as soon as I finish repackaging my toiletries to ensure I can't build a bomb with them, and get through to duty-free.' I had to laugh, or I'd cry. Again.<br />Thankfully, the fun of the fair soon swang into action on arrival in Frankfurt, and made all the effort worthwhile. This year, a lot of the things that I've been working on along with other colleagues in the digital side of the business have really started to come together, and the buzz and the excitement were running at a high level. I crammed all my meetings into a day and a half and was on an adrenalin high (only partially dented by losing my shiny new iPhone) by the time I left to fly to Geneva for a visit to see one of my oldest friends and her family.<br />It's always refreshing to spend time with one's oldest friends. When I see Jo, we generally skip the pleasantries and get straight down to business: sharing our very opposite but similar life experiences, hopes, fears and concerns. Jo is a full-time Mum to three boys and worries that she is not a good enough Mother, that she slowly degenerates into a stressed-out haridan by the end of each day and that her brain is at risk from turning to mush as she denies herself a career in order to focus on her children. I think she's a marvel, a committed and creative Mother with a wicked wit who seems to be able to make a constructive learning-based game out of just about any activity you care to mention, and that she shouldn't worry so much. I meanwhile, feel that I'm not a good enough Mother, that I'm not there enough for my children and will one day regret pursuing my career at their expense. She thinks I'm a marvel, can't imagine how I juggle it all without going insane, says my children will respect my decision to ensure our financial security and hold onto my own brain and that I shouldn't worry so much. By the time I leave we both feel so much better. We really shouldn't worry so much.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-84871939440169845712008-09-26T23:59:00.000-07:002008-09-27T00:13:16.501-07:00Everything is OKNathan <em>loves</em> school. By Friday morning he is running ahead up the path towards the school, arms out to each side, jacket flapping, wheeling from one side of the pavement to the other, pretending to be an aeroplane. His blond hair catches the sunlight and he peeks back at me cheekily before running away from me again. He still looks so small and I can't believe I'm setting another one off on their journey towards adulthood. He has to be told to stand three steps back, away from the gate, so that the nursery teacher can open the gate and let the children in. He is literally hanging on to the bars of the gate, poking his nose through, grinning goofily at the teacher, shouting 'good morning!' to her. Eventually she persuades him to step back, but as soon as she opens the gate he dashes through, up the path and through the school doors, throwing his coat onto a peg as he goes. I follow him in, laughing with the teacher. He allows me a quick peck on the cheek before he gets too involved in the sandbox. I am so thankful. I feel so lucky. I am so happy. And sad. All at the same time.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5450203743076994142.post-82884144243815602162008-09-23T09:26:00.000-07:002008-09-23T10:08:35.259-07:00He's not a baby anymore! Hiccup. Sob. Sniff.My Baby No 2, Nath, started school yesterday, in the nursery class. They ease them in gently these days, 'not like when I were a lass'. They take the kids in, four at a time, in a staggered entry system. The first day they go for just an hour, accompanied by a parent. The second day, another hour, this time without the parents, if possible. The following day, they try them for a whole morning session, etc, etc. Of course, the kids are fine. It's the parents you have to worry about. I reckon that, secretly, the whole 'easing them in' routine is really for the Mums. At least, that's what occurred to me as I sobbed into my neighbour's shoulder on the street this morning, "He's not a baby anymore!..." Poor woman. She only came out to fetch the milk off her doorstep.Working Mumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101293092397522831noreply@blogger.com1