keeping my eye on the ball

Two things have stuck in my mind since my Samaritans training on Saturday.

The first is a comment one of the trainers made. She said 'if you're one of those people who bottle things up or can't ask for help, or take it when it's offered, you might as well leave now because you'll have left 6 months down the line.'

The second was the bullet point announcing a whole module on the importance of good eye contact - for face to face callers, the 'phones aren't snazzy ones with eyes.

There's no inherent problem with these statements beyond the fact that I do find it quite unbelievably hard to ask for help and sometimes can't look someone in the eye at all..... however, I'm looking at this as a new start.

That might be naive. It might, at worst, be a dangerous path to go down but I believe it will be fine and I think I need to prove to myself that it can be.

Feeling the fear, and doing it anyway

Yesterday I did my first day's training to become a Samaritan*. Like most other things in my life - along with many things in the lives of other people - it caused quite ridiculous levels of analysis and panic.

In reality, like most other things, it was perfectly fine - no, enjoyable infact.

I realised how much I need to do something for me that is about me as an individual, not me as a mother. I love my children to bits but I cannot surround myself with only children and their mothers for the rest of my life.

I realised (not for the first time) what a curious mix of arrogance and insecurity I am. Arrogant because I didn't worry at all that I wouldn't be good enough to do it. Insecure because I did have a last minute panic, quite a spectacular one, about whether I can logistically commit to Samaritans shifts whilst maintaining the 24 hour on call service I provide so that Husband can be 'flexible' for work.

In reality, the logistics will be fine. My mother in law is around the corner, Husband is supportive - if a little chaotic in his approach to weekly schedules - and the commitment is not, anyway, even that onerous. i think it's just my excuse of choice to get out of pushing myself to do anything. It somehow seems more noble to be a martyr and not do something because of other people's needs rather than simply being slack / scared / all of the above.

I realised that my biggest fear in the world is about what will happen if it all falls apart - my life, that is. I realised, too, that not doing things in case it does is not a very good way of making sure it doesn't.

It felt good to do something new. It felt good to know I will make a difference, and it felt good to be pushing onwards and upwards.




*The Samaritans is a confidential service, and I just wanted to say straight out that of course I won't be writing anything on here about the actual calls, or even how I feel about them. My observations will be confined to learning points about my own inadequacy and that's about it.

Design for living

Since deciding my life must feature more external gratification - shallow, I know, but there is something to be said for self-awareness - I have realised that, really, my objectives are thus:

1. Be a wonderful mother and wife. Mainly to allow for the rest of this list being about me, me, me.

2. Get paid to write stuff. For this one, the stuff doesn't really matter. The money doesn't really matter that much either, it's mostly just about getting pats on the back.

3. Get free books. Getting books for free would, in itself, go a long way towards replacing my substantial lost salary. I have always spent profligately where books are concerned and this has only been exacerbated by my stay at home mum status - I've found if you're willing to tolerate early rises and fractious bedtimes you can get a surprising number of books read during afternoon nap time.

4. Do something to help others. (This one is actually in the bag, I hope, since I am just about to start training to be a Samaritan)

5. Think about whether one day I could actually write something that did matter. Notice I say think, I don't want to set myself up for failure here.

6. Do all of the above with an air of efficient ease such that people literally stop in the street and stare, wondering, HOW DOES SHE DO IT.

7. Do all of the above without having to speak to anyone, move outside of my comfort zone, cut down on reading time or in any other way put myself out.

I've reviewed the list and think everything is eminently achievable. They're certainly more achievable than most of the tasks I was asked to do when I actually had a job... and I seemed to excel at those.

Hiding bodies and bearing gifts

First, a quick update for regular readers. Son is not a hailstone. He will play the role of a gift bearer in this year's Christmas production and we have been quick to alert him to the responsibility this entails (mainly because he was sobbing like a madman on account of not being an actual wise man. The gift bearer gets to walk behind the wise man. Bearing the gift. Obviously.)

Anyway, the play is no longer Son's primary concern. Husband's nan - Son's great nan for anyone a bit slow - has been in town this week. Son (and Daughter) adore her. In a touching, yet bittersweet twist of fate she seems to get more and more appealing to them as her mind, and in particular, her memory begin to fail.

She is 90 and so, in Son's eyes at least, but a few hours away from hitting the grand old milestone of 100. This is of special excitement because Son is desperate to see a telegram from the Queen, and therefore, desperate that Nanny doesn't die.

Usually, I'd welcome such enthusiastic concern for another's welfare. I'd even probably welcome such an especially keen interest in our monarch, despite the fact that I am not a Royalist myself. I just don't especially welcome the fact that Son is now going around telling anyone who'll listen that his nan is going to get a telegram from the Queen.

Why? Because occasionally, the people he tells are kind enough to try to soften expectations, prepare the little mite for the sorrow that might strike before, not after, her next decade has passed.... and that's when the trouble starts, because Son has a plan.

His plan, should nanny die prematurely is to hide her body, keeping the death secret until the telegram has arrived safely.

Some congratulate his imaginative approach to problem solving. In truth he is a great advert for the new skills based learning approach our education system swears by... it's just he will actually try to do this.

My mother in law (who we moved hundreds of miles to live round the corner from) will announce the death of her mother and whilst overwhelmed with uncontrollable grief will have to listen to Son going on, and on, and on about how we should hide the body.

Is it too late to move away again?

The ego has landed (down the toilet)

This time last year I collected my last pay packet. I hadn't done any actual work since sloping off to have Daughter over a year before but up until then I still, technically, had a career. A career I had no shame in mentioning if pushed to describe 'what I do'.

In the year that's passed I've adjusted to having less money, I've adjusted to being at home all day with the children (just). I've welcomed the reduction in time spent talking to half-wit colleagues and bosses and jumped at the chance of reducing my guilt at leaving the children. What I haven't quite adjusted to is the loss of my ego, or at least the loss of anyone stroking it.

There was a time when I was bitter about stay at home mum's getting no thanks... but then I considered how many times I 'thank' Husband for going to work and got over it.

What I really miss is being good at something. I don't really ever get to feel like a great mum because there's always something more, better, bigger I could do and unlike the workplace, where I could shine up against all those inferior half-wits, everyone else's mum always seems better than I am.

It would probably help if I fell really strongly into the 'stay at home' camp. I don't though. I worked when Son was little and don't believe it did him any harm. It is plain for all to see that nature (in the form of my mutant genes) and not nurture will be his undoing! I've always been at home with Daughter and she's gorgeous... but I don't think I've done any better than a good nanny could have done, and at many times I've probably been a whole lot worse.

So, when I look back on the year that's passed I think it's been the right decision to stay at home. I think it was right to let go of the money before I got too trapped - I worked in a bank! I just think I probably need to put some work into doing something for a little bit of external recognition. Some pocket money wouldn't go amiss too, I've got a serious book buying habit to support.

Creation theories from my 5 year old son

So Mummy, there was a really, really, really big bomb and then it exploded and do you know what popped out when it exploded? Earth. Earth popped out. But do you know who threw that bomb? Do you? God threw it. Yeah, that's right a god threw it. No. No, no, no, actually Mummy a god didn't throw it. Cheryl Cole threw it. Cheryl Cole started the earth. I'm only kidding about that last bit.

Let it hailstone!

The Christmas play is upon us once more. Unlike the mother of one of Son's classmates, I did not decide to christen Son 'Joseph' in a shallow - but surprisingly effective - attempt to propel him to dramatic stardom. As a result, we must endure another year of angst re. Son's faltering stage career.

This year, Years 1 and 2 will be performing a lesser known interpretation of the nativity in which 3 robins have the lead roles. Cynical parents realise there are 3 robins because by Christmas robin 1 will be bed-ridden with flu and robin 2 will throw up en route to the school hall, leaving just robin 3 to valiantly stagger on. Son, on the other hand, sees this as divine assurance that he will be one of them. 'If there are 3 robins mummy then of course one of them must be me!'.

The remaining cast list has the usual suspects - Mary, Joseph, a donkey - plus 9 stars, 9 big clouds (because who'd want to be a small one?), 5 feathered friends, 8 dancing trees and - my personal favourite - 10 hailstones!

As soon as I read about the hailstones, 3 questions sprang to mind:

1. How have I missed the prominent role of hailstones in the nativity all these years? (and me, the child of religious zealots!)

2. How does one coach one's child into the role of a hailstone... let along produce a costume?

3. What will I say to Son when he turns out to be one?