What just happened?!

NOT blogging about the EU Referendum and our decision to Brexit would probably be a lot more interesting, but I can't help myself.

These views are entirely my own and are based on what I've gleaned from conversation and the news. I don't pretend to fully understand the issues.  But here's what I believe.

I'm an environmentalist, a parent, a mortgage holder, a holiday maker a professional whose company works with Europe, and most importantly, a wine drinker. So this affects me.

It affects me a lot more than it affects my Gran. She voted to leave and of the list above, the only shared label is parent.

She believes that she'll soon be dead and that her legacy to her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren is a free Britain.

I'm astonished at my Gran's vote as she's been a staunch Labour supporter and socialist her whole life. Her main reason for voting to leave is that she can no longer tolerate the hypocrisy and beurocracy of the European Union. Given a voice, she chose to say that she does not want to remain part of a flawed system.  I understand that.

But what frightens me most about our decision to Brexit is that the entire campaign has been led by a far right movement. The Daily Mail are taking credit for the win today, Nigel Forage has more influence than anyone could have credited and Boris Johnson will likely be the next Prime Minister.

And suddenly, the referendum wasn't about trade laws, or migration, or beurocracy and the European elite. I think the reason that the majority of Britain woke up shocked yesterday morning was that we voted 'yes' to a far right campaign.

And if history has taught us anything, the far right don't tend to care about too much about the poor, or the arts, or National health, or security, or the environment, or the elderly.

And to my mind, the campaign that talked about protecting the British, actually translates to protecting wealthy, white, male Brits.

Which is terrifying.

And so I'm ashamed that my Gran abandoned her ideals and can't see that she's effectively paved the way towards a further right wing government where hatred and racism prevail.

I can't see tolerance and understanding in Brexit, I can't see unity or positivity, I can't see peace and I can't see stability.

I can't see how we've let this happen. And in the eyes of the world, we've behaved like spoilt children and I can't see why they would want to play with us anymore.

So I'm sad today. I'm sad for my children and the future we've imposed on them. I'm sad for the thousands of people who may lose jobs and benefits and their homes. I'm sad for my Gran who can't see what she's been part of.

But I'm hopeful that I'm wrong, that we'll get a sensible leader who will guide us through this unscathed. I'm hopeful that the promises of more money and a better quality of life will be fulfilled. I'm hopeful that my children will be happy and protected. I'm hopeful that we will negotiate fairly and appropriately to maintain strong relationships with all our global partners. I'm hopeful I can forgive my Gran.

But mostly, I'm hopeful the price of wine won't be affected too much.

It's probably just teething.....

I'm saying it's probably teething because I can help you if you're teething. I give you a cold flannel to chew on. I freeze cubes of pear puree like when you were weaning. I administer Calpol.

But I really know that it's this other thing - what people call "separation anxiety". And I know that it's real because I feel it too. And I know that it can't be cured with Calpol or cold pear.

And I can't do anything but teach you that we are separate, which is the very last thing I want to do.

You're nearly one, I'm back at work, time moves on. We can't snuggle all day, or spend hours gazing in each other's eyes, or play countless games of peekaboo or blow unlimited raspberries.

That time is done now. You no longer live inside me, you no longer feed from me, you can sleep all night without me. We are separating.

And part of me is pleased. I can feel the fog lifting, I spend all day with adults, people value my opinion, I don't watch as much Cbeebies. I can feel 'me' coming back.

You're gaining independence and I'm  regaining mine.

But it's certainly making us both anxious. The only difference is that I'm an adult and I've learnt to contain my howls.

But facing up to it feels too real, too raw, too final. I'm not ready to leave these heady days behind. I'm not ready to be separate and I'm so glad you feel the same.

But let's call it teething. And I'll hold you tight, and stroke your cheek, and rock you gently back to sleep.

Why I love/hate/love running

"Where mummy going?" asks Z.

"I'm going running" I reply.

 

And the look on his face is the absolute reason that I run (or jog). His two-year-old brain cannot believe that "going running" is actually a thing. He loves to run everywhere and can't comprehend that it's yet another grown-up pastime he's excluded from.  Like eating biscuits and staying up late.

 

I'd wish I thought running was as much fun as eating biscuits and staying up late.

 

My relationship with running is complex. I want to be a positive role model for my children. I'm a bit lazy and I love food so exercise is basically obesity prevention.  I hate the afternoon before a scheduled long run.  I love to clear my head at the end of the day and running has got me through some stressful times.  I'm a miserable runner and I certainly don't like to chat.  I love knowing I accomplished something.  I hate spending money on running gear.  I love reading running magazines...

 

I've never been sporty, I did my first 10k (in fact, ran my first mile) when I was 28. And in the 5 years inbetween I've travelled the world and had two pregnancies.  I don't think that my story is any different from most runners.  It tends to be a bit of a love/hate relationship, perhaps founded on times of glory/ stress/ injury and often includes major set-backs, minor victories and lots of internal and external motivators.

 

I'm running a half marathon in 3 weeks and I'm well behind on my training. It's going to be slow and painful. But I'm aiming to get round and raise some money for Dementia UK in memory of my Grandad who passed away in January.

 

 

I did my first half marathon in 2010 and in an okay time. I ran my last 10k race when I was 3 months pregnant with Z. I'm going to complete a half marathon before my twins are 1.  So I'm also hoping to start taking myself a bit more seriously as a runner.  I bought some sports socks at the weekend so I think that's a step in the right direction.

 

So this is the last push - 3 weeks of taking it seriously, drinking less wine, training every other day, wearing my new socks, doing what I can to make it slightly less painful.

 

And I'll think about how I'll feel once it's done.  And the fact my daughter will grow up with a biscuit loving runner as a role model to help her on her way to being fit not thin.   And I'll wonder what Grandad Jim might think of my determination.

 

And I'll imagine Z's face as I cross the finish line.  And then I might do a couple of fist pumps.

 

Watch this space......

 

https://www.justgiving.com/eloanddadgorunningagain/

 

I am a Mum.

Being a Mum, is falling asleep in the dentists, while she's drilling your teeth, because it's the most relaxed you've been in weeks.

Being a Mum is spending hours traipsing round the house with a wailing toddler looking for 'his tow twuck' before you remember you confiscated it yesterday when he was naughty.

Being a Mum is staring with horror as your baby picks up a peppercorn from the kitchen floor and starts to eat it. But letting it play out.

Being a Mum is realising you have a huge snot smear on the back of your work jacket and having no idea how it happened.

Being a Mum is the tragedy of cutting a tiny finger nail too close and a baby bleeding everywhere. And the health visitor knocking on the door that moment.

Being a Mum is the ability to make cupcakes, pastry and bread without the weighing scales.

Being a Mum is thinking you look cool, then going on a night out and realising you look like a Mum.

Being a Mum is being able to tell your twins identical teddies apart from the way they smell.

Being a Mum is not being phased by a bath poo.

Being a Mum is packing a case for a girly weekend and your toddler asking 'are you excited?'

Being a Mum is heading off on a weekend away and feeling very excited about what you are when you aren't a Mum........

When should I worry?....

When should I worry?  I ask this question of myself a lot more than I ever used to.  Previously it was reserved for when hubby was being boisterous on a cliff edge, or if a friend was overwhelmed after a break up.

It's now a daily question, revolving in my mind, contributing to the relentless noise.

Twin 1 coughs: when should I worry?
Twin 2 isn't crawling yet: when should I worry?
Z's being aggressive again: when should I worry?
Barry and I are bickering: when should I worry?

Twin 2 was recently in hospital following a virus that meant he needed oxygen.  He was nebulised throughout the night and I didn't worry.  It really messed with my weekend plans and I was a bit irritated actually.  He didn't seem that bad to me...

Twin 1 rolled off the changing table the other evening - hubby was babysitting and I was on my way out of the door for a much needed night out.  After a brief checking over, I left.  I wasn't worried.

Are these shocking things to confess?  Will I be ostracized for saying that fairly serious things happened to my 9 month old babies and I was unconcerned?

Or is that the purpose of my mother's instinct?  That when I listen to the Mama inside, I'll actually know when something serious is happening.  I'll feel it in my bones, in my heart space, in the place where they once lived.

And perhaps if I can quell the part of me that frantically researches health conditions online in the middle of the night, the part of me that listens when other mother's compare developmental milestones, the part of me that takes advertising emails about childproofing seriously, or the part of me that weeps when I read a Facebook post about the tragic death of an infant.

Perhaps if I can turn off this external facing, nervous worry, and listen to the Mama inside, I won't feel so guilty about a night out.  I won't feel guilty for not using the inhaler as recommended.  I won't feel guilty about not covering the plug sockets.

I'll worry when I worry.

Because I'll know when.

A little bit of "me time"

Today I was standing by the sink, looking out of the window.

Z was in the garden, wearing just a nappy and his shoes, gathering sticks to throw over the neighbours fence.  Twin 1 had just spit up on her dress and Twin 2 was sucking on a wet wipe.

We were running behind and I needed to get the bath run, the bedtime bottles made, our dinner put on...

In that very brief moment, I had a little look at the sky (still beautifully clear blue on this summer evening), I felt the water running through my fingers, I felt my bare feet on the floor and I stopped worrying.

I stopped thinking "I should clean up that sick, I should take away those wet wipes, I should play with Z, I should find him a t-shirt, I should hoover the floor, I should bring in the washing, I should be thinner, I should be eating organic, I should be posting on Instagram, I should call my Gran, I should reply to that text, I should get my nails done"

I managed, for one very brief moment to switch off the "noise" - to stop feeling guilty, or obligated, or inadequate.  And it made me realise what a very rare moment that was.

In fact, it made me realise how infrequent those moments are.  I'm constantly trying to grab some "me time".  But when I chill out and watch a movie, I feel guilty that I'm not tidying the house.  When I go to get my hair done, I enjoy talking about the kids.  As I fall asleep I think about tomorrow's plans.  When I go shopping, or read a magazine, I think "I should be as thin as her, I should buy that top, I should redecorate"

But actually, "me time" shouldn't be orchestrated, it's any moment - anytime of day or night when I feel like I'm just me.  No worries, no self- imposed guilt or obligations.  Just a kid running around in a nappy, or chewing on a wet wipe, or absent mindedly staring out of a window at the sky.

Effective Communication

I'm still trying to think of some comedic nomenclature for my husband, as seems de rigueur for a Mummy-type blogger.  I've yet to come up with one I like. "DH"/ "The Mr"/ "Him Indoors".....

Let's maybe just call him Barry.

Barry is the MOST AMAZING fella in the Universe (according to me - according to others he's ridiculously loud, a bit funny looking, tight with money, has rank feet and farts too often)

Details of his being amazing include:
- most excellent drinking companion
- physically holding me up to take a post C-Section shower
- skilled washing putter on and sorter outer
- most excellent Daddy who builds dens, drinks fake tea and thinks up cool treats and adventures

Despite this, I am still on a continual mission to "improve him" (which mostly involves buying better pants with no holes in Tesco and reminding him of my friends names) Like many women, I also like to provide helpful suggestions and comments on a fairly continual basis.

Barry is on a continual mission to ignore my advice and do what the f*ck he wants.

We've come to a tacit agreement whereby we ignore the fact that I'm a nag and he still behaves like a teenage boy.

Here is an example of some particularly effective communication:

Me: "Your wee smells like you need to be drinking more water"

Barry: (in head)
"Why were you smelling my wee? I definitely need to start flushing.  Have I got no personal space left?  Why do you care?  YOUR wee smells like you need to drink more water.  I can't wait till I get a shed."

Barry: (aloud) "Yeah, probably"

Me: (in head) "I can't believe that I've become so controlling that I'm commenting on his urine/ hydration cycle.  I'm going to start giving him the space he deserves.  He really is the most amazing man in the world... You know, I don't think he was really paying attention to me then.  I'm pretty sure he was placating me with that comment.  I don't know why I bother.  Don't drink more water then - see if I care. Forget it. I can't wait till he gets a shed."

Me: (aloud) "Okay"