A Marriage of Memories and Marvels

We've just returned from a friend's wedding and it was great. There was dancing. There was the most amazing food I've ever had at a wedding. There was some alcohol and did I mention there was dancing? I love dancing and sometimes miss my carefree student days where every night was spent in a different club. The only similarity between those nights being my outfit (jeans and tshirt top usually in black) and my joyous abandonment of pride to strut my stuff on the dancefloor . . .or to shuffle sullenly if it was Goth night.

Fast forward to last week (and there's a time shift that could have Dr Who wondering if a paradox is imminent) and I was reunited with my dancing buddie of old. Sure she was in a wedding dress and I'd only just swopped my bridesmaid dress for something more akin to a clubbing outfit, but our steps and energy were unchanged from our teens. Luckily my little boy had fallen asleep and so had my husband so the dancing was uninterrupted by mothering or wifely duties. It was just me, my friend and the music (ignoring all the other guests!). Sometimes that's just the way it has to be.

I danced till the DJ packed up, till the bus came to collect the other guests, and that unadulterated joy almost drowned out the melancholy that can threaten when I witness a marriage. You see despite the fancy frocks, love and happiness that characterise most weddings, I always hear a little ticking clock in the background. It's such a momentous step. A marker and milestone along life's way that can prompt thoughts of how far you've already travelled and where you're heading. Perhaps I was more sensitive to this than usual because it was also my birthday. Age does feel elastic yet the numbers on the cards prove I should be older, wiser, grown up. Yet, I don't feel any different from the teenager with the bad hair who danced every night.

I love that having a child allows me to draw, colour in, play and pretend. It's permission to be a child again and wonder at the world. Yet I wonder how many of these memories we're making will actually be my son's. After all, few of us have memories of our lives before the age of two. Are the day trips, photos and games for my benefit or his? Probably I'll be the only one who will look back on them: a record of his firsts; a web of emotions, colours and experiences; soundtracked with laughter, tears and those strange little squeaky noises he makes when playing. He doesn't need to share my memories of this time just as he can't share my memories of the time I went clubbing. He's living in the moments of our days. I'm already cataloguing and documenting. . . .except when I'm dancing . . .and singing . . .and playing. I'm glad I didn't take my camera to the wedding. It was about enjoying not capturing and the combination of a sleeping child, a cheesy music selection and my very best friend, made it a perfect night.

Wee One Wednesday

I've dipped my toe into the blogging waters on a few occasions and yet it hasn't worked for me. This gap between my expectation and the reality has me scratching my head. After all, there are a few reasons why I think blogging should work:

* it's writing - I loooove writing. Did I tell you I had my first piece published whilst at primary school? Or that writing in some shape or form has paid my bills for my entire career?

* it's like a diary - I am, or was, the diary queen. I have folders filled with diaries from childhood ones with stickers of horses and dire threats if their privacy was breached, to angst-ridden teenage musings.

* it's a bit like websites - I have a secret love affair with websites - the design, the databases, the visual and written combining in a perfect whole. If I was late from home from work, you could almost guarantee it was because I was spending some quality time with the company website, adding new pages, moving round sections, tweaking it till it looked just so . . .

Three valid reasons for blogging to work. . . and yet my blogging has always been a blip rather than a blast.

I've had too many unanswered questions: who am I writing for? how deep do I want to get (both in the blogging world and my psyche)?why am I writing?

This time I'm going to try a different approach:

Mondays are for Me - my musings, shopping and struggle to adjust to being a grown up 

Wednesdays are for my wee one, or little boy. To keep a record of all our fun times, fears and fads

Family & Freelance Fridays are about relationships and work: growing, balancing, soaring and failing

The more observant will have realised that today should be about my little boy. What can I say? Today we played hookey from his routine. I had the start of a migraine and just couldn't face the water torture that constitutes our weekly swimming lesson. Half an hour with him clinging to my neck, screaming, was only going to make my head worse.

Instead, we stayed home, played with Fireman Sam toys, phoned granny and had a little nap (him, not me!). It's been a recharging day, a refocusing day and sometimes that's more important than all the routines.

Promises, Promises, Promises

I've been thinking about promises a lot lately: the ones we make to ourselves and the ones we make to others. I'm infinitely better at keeping promises I make to others. When it comes to ones I make to myself, they tend to slip down the 'to-do' list, getting gradually lower and lower until they're not only on the floor but under the couch with no hope of seeing light or fulfilment.

It's not a lesson I want to pass on to my little boy. I want him to respect the commitments he makes to himself as much as he does those he makes to others. In fact, some theorists believe you can't properly honour commitments to others if you haven't learnt to put yourself first, first.

I'm starting with a little list of promises to myself, to see if I can keep them. Silly stuff like regularly getting my hair cut, finding time for exercise (because oddly enough I've now reached an age where I enjoy it!) and finishing at least one of the books languishing on my computer.

I wonder how others make sure they keep themselves on their priority list - any tips gratefully received.

Mistress of the Mess

Yesterday I had an epiphany.I've been married for nearly four years, a mother for two and in all that time, something has been eluding me  . . .I've not really adjusted to the fact that this is my job now. I know, dense, huh?!

I'd always harboured dreams of staying at home with my beaming, well-behaved baby as I read him stories, baked cakes and generally worked to give him a secure start and prove all the attachment theories right.

However, the reality has been rather different. He's now a toddler and more likely to scream at the top of his voice for fun. Sitting reading stories only lasts for a short time as he prefers running, jumping and climbing, usually from heights that I deem unsafe and he deems 'flying like Buzz Lightyear'!

As for the cake baking, we started with rice crispy cakes. He likes chocolate. He likes rice crispies. He likes raisins. What could go wrong? I'm not quite sure but something in the mix when you put those three of his favourite things together meant the resulting cakes were 'not nice, mummy'.

There have been other days where the idyllic dream seemed closer to the reality. Days when we baked bread (using a breadmaker, I'm not a domestic goddess!) and he loved putting the ingredients into the little cup and pouring it into the breadmaker. Nights where we cuddled up with 'Time for Bed Tiger' and it did make him sleepy (as opposed to alert which is the usual outcome when we read together). Then there are those moments,every day where he smiles, throws his arms round my neck and pats my back in a 'big cuddle, mum'.

So being a mum is harder than I expected and much more difficult to manage that the staff I used to control in my manager's post. But I haven't even started to get to grips with being a 'wife' or the person who is in charge of the house. I mean really? Me? Arch feminist? The Anti-Stepford Wife? And you see that's the problem. Somewhere in my dreams, I forgot the reality check. If I want my child to have the same start in life that I did - secure, happy, active - then I'm fulfilling the same role as my mum and that means a few things that oddly enough didn't strike me until yesterday:

Not my house but very similar!

• I'm spending more time at home than my husband so I should 'spend more time at home' ie possibly clean it rather than escaping to a playgroup or park at the first opportunity
• I'm not earning at the moment. Although actually, that's not strictly true. We have our own business and I still get a Director's salary. However, since I'm rarely in the office and spend about ten hours a week on emails, correspondence, etc, my salary doesn't really match my input. And I mean that in a good way. I get paid the same as my husband but he's working five or six days a week sometimes from 8am, sometimes as late as 10pm.

Hmm, I'm starting to see why he might be a bit grumpy that our house looks like a tip!

It's a difficult balance. Deep in my core, I object to the women's role being the home maker . .. unless it's valued equally with the role of breadwinner. But I'm starting to think that this feminism has corrupted somewhere because really I've found it very difficult to value both roles equally and that means I've been doing every homemaker or housewife a disservice even though I thought I was viewing their contribution to society as worthwhile.

So, what am I going to do about it? I'm going to start earning my keep! I'm not sure if that means cleaning a bit more often or actually cleaning a bit less and taking some paid contracts. It definitely means approaching life in a more organised way . . .oops! You see this blog is my first commitment to this new life but it also shows my lack of commitment to it too because I didn't schedule this time into my day . . .oops!

What I have scheduled in is washing, writing a letter that I've been putting off for months, taking our little boy to a playgroup and going grocery shopping. So far, I've done one of the three - the washing but I have also changed the bedding, and sorted out a big bag of clothes for the charity shop or my sisters (if they see anything they like). I've emptied the bins and organised the books, newspapers and magazines at the side of the bed. I've also found an address my husband needed - whilst he ironed his own shirt because I'm better on the computer and he's better at ironing. So six tasks down and three to go. Wish me luck!

Shivering Me Timbers

A pirate and princess party - I was so excited when we got the invite. This is one of those perfect events that allows you to relive your childhood but with slightly better clothes and more appreciation of actually how good it is!

However trying to find a costume for my little boy threw up the usual problem. (The clue is in the word 'little'). He's two and not very tall although he has just had a growth spurt so well done him! A trawl round the usual shops revealed pirate costumes for age 5 and above.

The only costume that fitted him was a Buzz Lightyear one, and I had been looking for just such a costume for months as he loves Buzz, no loooooves him, absolutely loves him. To the extent that flying like Buzz Lightyear is his ultimate aim and he regularly throws himself from high heights in the hope of achieving it. Luckily, the myth about mums developing amazing reflexes to protect their offspring is correct. After his latest flying escapades, I've caught him by an ankle as his head hovered three inches from the floor, and on another occasion, I managed to catch and swing him by an arm to ensure he landed on a pile of cushions instead of the much flatter and less forgiving carpet.

We left the shops with a Buzz Lightyear costume that fit perfectly; a very happy boy; and nothing to wear to the pirate party.

The day before the party, my niece gave us a pirate costume her son had outgrown. It was perfect! When she mentioned she was dressing up too, I googled pirates, raided my wardrobe and decided I'd join in the fun. A stripey t-shirt, cropped jeans and a pair of flat pumps were topped off with a pirate hat and cutlass. We were ready to go.

At the party, the pirate entertainer illustrated a massive difference between the sexes. The boys ran round the room, playing in the soft play and fighting with inflatable swords. The girls sat quietly engrossed in the 'entertainment', standing when told, following all the instructions. The children were aged from two to five and yet were already showing gender differences.

I've always followed rules, fretted about instructions and wondered what people would think if I chose an unconventional path. My husband sees rules as a challenge, has no respect for authority and has an altogether more confident approach to life. Over the course of our relationship, I've blamed this on our different upbringings, our different religions, our family's different approaches to education. The pirate party made me think it might just be because I'm a girl and he's a boy. How depressing! I was desperate to see one of the girls misbehaving or turning up dressed as a pirate rather than a princess . . .but it wasn't to be.

Yet the mums who had dressed up were all pirates. Not a single adult princess in sight. Is that because when you reach a certain age, the princess fairystory loses its appeal, or floaty candyfloss pink layers aren't flattering? Or is it because by adulthood, most women have realised they want to be making the rules not following them? I know which I'd like to believe.

The day ended with a very tired but happy boy playing with the goodies from his party bag: a sticker book and a skull and crossbones stamp. By the time I'd made dinner, he had covered both palms with the stamp and had carefully stamped each and every finger too. So cute!


Unfortunately by bed-time it wasn't just his timbers that were shivering. He had a cough and a growing grumpiness too. Still, it was worth it for the fun  . . . and the lesson in gender differences!