Category Archives: Depression

Defeating the Grump?

Painting fun

Painting fun

I’m in a grump. I don’t know why. The sun is shining outside, I’m home with my boy, my daughter is going to a friend’s house for tea. Life is okay.

I’m a bit stressed about my daughter’s party in a couple of weeks, but that’s mostly being planned by the other mummy (although maybe that’s why I’m stressed!) I’m tired of being poorly and random bits of my body not working (my knee seized this morning and I trapped a nerve in my back on Sunday) but generally I have good health.

I have a lovely husband, two gorgeous children, I enjoy writing my books (well, okay, that’s not really true when I’m revising, as I am now, but – you know – I don’t hate it).

I have enough money to buy the weekly food and pay for the odd cup of coffee. We found the resources to buy my daughter a new bed (although I hate not earning for a living and am currently looking for a part time job). I get three days a week without the children to theoretically do my writing, although mostly I do housework. I survived my 2013 365 Challenge and wrote 285,000 words of which I’m quite proud. I even sell a book every now and then.

But, for all my blessings – and I do count them every day – I feel meh. Sad. I sigh a lot. Shout at the kids. Cry, even, when small things overwhelm me. I don’t feel depressed, just melancholy. And I don’t know how to fight it. In the old days I would have gone for a run, but since I injured my knee 18 months ago I struggle to walk the dog without feeling the after effects. Cleaning the house helps for a while, but it gets messy again so quickly it adds to the feelings of futility and adriftness.

Telling me about his painting

Telling me about his painting

I read to escape, but then I pick up a book like The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time and it magnifies my sorrow. Last night I dreamed about a remote hotel where all the staff had Asperger’s Syndrome; they’d been hired because they couldn’t lie and they didn’t like being with people so didn’t mind being by themselves for long periods of time. I have no idea if that’s true, by the way, I’m just basing it on the character in the book I’m reading. My dreams are all either high-drama chase sequences or depressing stories of loss and unhappiness.

I’m not what you’d call a happy person. I grew up with a man they nicknamed Morbid Mick. I try and see the positive in things but my default is to see what might go wrong and feel guilty about everything that does. For example, I cooked a lovely lasagne at the weekend for my father-in-law, with mince I took from the freezer. When I went to the fridge today I realised there was mince in there that now hovered on its sellby date. I cooked it anyway, but it smells a bit odd. I’ve been beating myself up all day for my stupidity. All Day. I mean, really?

I follow the blog of Valerie Alexander, author of Happiness as a Second Language. I have the book, too, although I’ve only read the first chapter. When I did I felt happy, and so stopped reading. I don’t have much staying power for self-help stuff. There always seems to be so much else that demands my attention instead (which has brought to mind that I haven’t phoned the doctors or the vets and there is a load of washing in the dryer and potatoes to peel for dinner and the dog needs walking and son asked to play playdough quarter of an hour ago…)

My brain is my biggest enemy. I over-think everything so generally I’m happier when I don’t think about things. But what to do when you’re stuck in a grump? Maybe it’s just the January blues, or the fact we can’t really afford to go on holiday because our daughter is now in school. Or that a holiday isn’t a holiday anyway anymore. I feel so sorry for myself it’s pathetic, especially as I don’t even know what could change for me to feel better. I feel like Shrek in Forever After, when he imagines life without wife and kids and finds out it’s not as great as he remembers it to be.

Ah well. It’ll all be alright tomorrow. No one died. What do you to get out of the grump?

The Voices Talk to Me

The reason I ignore the voices

The reason I ignore the voices

Back when I lived in Manchester, in a house of seven working professionals, we used to go to the local pub quiz on a Sunday evening. I’m utterly rubbish at general knowledge and was there to make up the numbers, although I did answer the odd random question like “When was the Salvation Army formed?” (not that I know why I knew it, or can bring the answer to mind now.)

We started out calling ourselves The Dolphin Friendly Tuna Fish Sandwiches but that was too much of a mouthful so we changed our team name to The Voices, in honour of one of our housemates’ favourite t-shirts which said, “You’re just jealous because the voices talk to me.”

What’s the reason for this rambling recollection? Right now, the voices are definitely talking to me. My head seems to be full of them. So much so that I wrote the following, at 5am this morning.

It’s part truth, part fiction, as much of what gets written at that time in the morning is. Particularly after a night of waking every hour stressing over something read just before bedtime. But it is a little window into my pre-morning psyche. Scary.

The voices have been chattering and pontificating in my head like a room full of inebriated dinner guests. I hate the voices, I wish they’d bugger off home and leave me in silence. I know they are what push me to write, to try and make sense of the noise, but they also drive me crazy.

One voice has spent the last twelve hours saying “I don’t want to live anymore.” It gets shouted down with drunken cries of “Nonsense, you’re just saying that for effect, for attention” and “Think of your beautiful family, you can’t leave them behind.”

Another charming soul has been regurgitating an article I read at bedtime, via the Kristen Lamb blog post on bullying, about how we can be affected by the experiences of our grandparents. I don’t pretend to understand the science, but the loudmouthed git in the corner is delighting in repeating all the bits about how stress in childhood causes children to grow up to be bad parents. So I’m continuing the cycle of generations of parents specialising in towering indifference and vicious temper. Lovely. As if I needed any more reasons to feel guilty.

The debating voices should allow for reason, but they don’t. There are so many of them there’s no perspective. Like my own experience, as a child and an adult, of trying to have an opinion that I can’t quite articulate and being laughed at or talked down to by my family and friends. If I don’t know how to be heard in my own head, what hope have I got in the world?

I want the voices all to finish their drinks and sod off before the lone voice that thinks permanent silent might be preferable stops trying to be taken seriously and takes action.

That’s as much as I wrote, before a small child climbed into bed and I had to put down my phone. Cuddling a sleepy son, his toy dog and plastic snowman, gives perspective in a way that the voices in my head never can. There’s something grounding about a small boy farting and then giggling in the darkness. And, now I’ve bought the kids some super-soft tiger onesies, they’re like giant teddy bears. (They’re also driving us nuts and we can’t wait til they go back to school, but that’s normal, right?)

Wishing you a Contented Christmas: 2013 365 #359

Meeting the man

Meeting the man

This morning I  left the house to walk the dog just as the skies cleared, after days of stormy weather. It felt like a fresh start: like the feeling I get after I’ve been crying for hours feeling terrible and I stop, breathe, and give myself a break. When I look around and say it’s fine and, despite some puddles and other damage, the storm might never have been.

I spent last night having a long conversation with my hubbie and stepdad about parenting, depression, anxiety and life in general. It came after reading two interesting posts: The first was a viral one on WordPress about marriage not being for you but for others. It included these words:

[M]arriage isn’t for yourself,you’re marrying for a family. Not just for the in-laws and all of that nonsense, but for your future children. Who do you want to help you raise them? Who do you want to influence them? Marriage isn’t for you. It’s not about you. Marriage is about the person you married

The second post, which I discovered via Annie Cardi’s blog, discussed forgiving Past You for not being as good as Present You. Two quotes stood out in the article:

Past You may not be as awesome as Present You, but Past You worked really hard to get to Present You, too.

And

The world does enough beating us up, […] We don’t need to do the beating up ourselves. Inside your head should be a safe space to make mistakes, to grow and change and learn, to find acceptance, forgiveness, and kindness.

As often happens, all these sources of inspirational thought combined in my mind to give me the ghost of a feeling. The feeling that’s been echoing around my head is one of grace; of being kind to yourself and looking out rather than in.

Christmas all wrapped up

Christmas all wrapped up

I’ve spent much of this year, and longer, beating myself up for all the people I’m not, for all the things I haven’t achieved, for not becoming a better parent, a better person, despite wanting to be. But you know what? The excuses become a thing in themselves.

If I feel bad then that’s okay because I’m taking responsibility for my own actions. But what if there’s a better way? What if you can forgive Past You for the things that didn’t happen because, quite frankly, Past You was doing her best under difficult circumstances.

What if taking responsibility is over rated and we just have to stop thinking about it at all so much? What if the past were erased and we had to start fresh from today, with the saviour’s birth?

I listened to Mary J Blige on the radio, on Sunday, discussing how her Faith saved her, and I envied her. What do you do without Faith or Belief? Who do you turn to to tell you there’s a grand plan, and you’re doing fine and, besides, all is forgiven in the end?

My husband is my rock, he says all those things, but I don’t always believe. What if I decided to have faith in him, in us? What if I got up every day knowing I was going to do my best, even if my best on that day involved a lot of shouting and some tears? But instead of failing as a parent, as a human being, I was just being one in the best way I knew how? What if I could learn to celebrate the successes, not dwell on the failures?

I feel a new blogging theme coming on. I may take January off from the internet, to recover and recoup. But from February I might try to make this blog a place for positivity. Not glossing over the bad stuff, because too many people do that. But if my best positive note for a day is “no one died”, well then at least it might make people smile, and that’s good too.

So a very contented Festive Season to you all, whatever this time of year means to you. I hope you enjoy your family day, but don’t put too much pressure on yourself. It will be what it will be and then it will be Boxing Day (in the UK at least). Let’s acknowledge the moments and move on. Christmas is about children so let’s learn to live like them. In the now, with much laughter.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire looked around the table at the eclectic group of people and couldn’t help smiling. Their good humoured banter and jibing was infectious as they discussed their first aid course. While they chatted she tried to work out who was who.

Timothy sat opposite her, at the head of the table; every inch the lord of the manor or the patriarchal leader. To his left sat Gemma, the chef. She looked like a school matron, as if her mission was to make sure the world was well fed and received plenty of hugs.

Next to her sat Louise, the site manager. They’d met before dinner and Claire found she liked her, although she was more used to working for men. Louise had explained that she lived off-site with her husband and two small children. Claire wondered how she managed to juggle it all.

Next to Louisa sat the only other older gentleman there; he was the gardener apparently and had been working in the grounds all day, rather than attending the first aid course. She thought his name was Giles or Geoff, but as he hadn’t said two words during the meal, she wasn’t entirely sure.

On the other side of the table sat the younger members of the staff. They were the entertainment during the meal, and Claire was fascinated, trying to fathom the different relations between them. The three in charge of activities – Jess, Eddie and Ryan – seemed to have some sort of love triangle going on, while the youngest member of staff sat wide-eyed and silent. Fresh out of school, it was her responsibility to keep the house clean and do the laundry. Claire thought she possibly had the hardest job of all.

As she assessed the people around the table, who were all tucking into the delicious lasagne and homemade cake, Claire wondered why she was paying them so much attention. Was she trying to imagine herself as part of the group? Could she?

I’m not really a team player – Carl told me that often enough.

But for all their jibing and barbed jokes, these people were not Polly, Molly and Sally. There didn’t seem to be any face: what you saw was what you got. Claire found it both refreshing and intriguing.

A hush fell over the table and she realised everyone was looking at her expectantly. “I’m sorry, I was miles away!” She felt the blood rushing into her cheeks.

Timothy laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’re a lot to take in, the first time you meet us.” He turned to Louise, who it seemed had asked her a question.

“I only wondered if you could imagine joining us here? We open next week, so we’re keen to have the staff finalised.” She seemed to realise how much she was putting Claire on the spot, and gave an apologetic smile. “But of course you need time to decide.”

Claire felt wrong-footed. Was the job just hers for the asking? With no interview or credentials. “But you don’t know anything about me,” she blurted out, and winced as everyone laughed.

“Ah but we do.” Timothy’s voice cut through the laughter and he frowned slightly at Eddie, who was still sniggering. “Maggie sent us a link to your blog. We’ve all read about your exploits, both here in the UK and in New Zealand. We are most impressed. Climbing mountains, white water rafting, surfing and sailing: you are more than qualified.”

“But I don’t know how to do any of those things.” Claire’s voice was more of a wail and she fought the urge to cry. Now everyone watched her as if she were a bomb about to explode. The young girl to her left gave her a sympathetic smile and Claire felt foolish. If a mere child fresh out of school could come and get stuck in, then what was holding her back?

“Don’t worry, lass, none of the kids will know how to do it either, so they’ll just be impressed you know more than them.”

Claire looked towards Eddie as he spoke and envied the confidence of youth. He had an edge about him, though, that suggested he’d seen as much of the world as she had, and possibly more.

Dinner continued without further incident. Claire sipped at her beer and enjoyed the sense of good will. During it all, something nagged at the back of her mind. An ache, a twinge, that tugged at her and wouldn’t let go. Conor. She tried to picture him here, amongst the motley staff, and knew he would be instantly at home.

That’s assuming he ever speaks to me again.

*

Claire looked out the window at the setting sun. The room Timothy had shown her to perched high in the attic. It wasn’t very big, but the view was enormous, stretching across the parkland to the sea. He’d explained that the staff rooms were all in the attic, with tiny en-suites. It was only a step away from hostelling, but it felt good to close the door and know the space was all hers.

She lay back on the bed, and her view diminished to a blue rectangle of sky visible through the skylight window. She imagined lying in the dark looking up at the stars. There would be no light pollution out here.

Slowly, as she absorbed the details of the room, Claire realised she was already viewing it as hers. Despite avoiding any kind of definite answer at dinner, she had gone as far as to say that her contract finished in a fortnight. A proper answer would need to be given before that, but she didn’t feel ready. Saying yes to Timothy felt like saying goodbye to Conor.

Reaching for her phone, Claire sat staring at the black screen that still refused to produce a message from him. She inhaled deeply.

“Sod it.”

Swiping the screen, she tapped out a message and hit send before she could change her mind. She looked at the words and wondered if they would be enough.

I miss you

***

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Impossible Parenting: 2013 365 Challenge #345

Oh precious sleep

Oh precious sleep

There’s no room for self-doubt in parenting and yet I’ve never come across anything that made me question myself more. Daughter came into our room at 5am, this morning, for the fifth time in a row and shone a torch in my eyes. I only got to bed at 1am after writing my post. I snapped. And then snapped at her.

Not shouted, by any means, just “what is it you want?” in a firm (harsh?) voice. Knowing I was cross, I sent her to her room with Daddy, as he’s far more sympathetic than I am, whatever the time. But she still dissolved into floods of very loud tears, as is usual form at the moment whenever I dare to even mildly chastise her. The crying is likely to go on for some time.

Cue Mummy guilt, mixed with anger. And cue self-doubt. Is her emotional fragility my fault for being harsh? Or copied behaviour from my depression? Should it always be “dependence before independence” in parenting, as my therapist once told me: should a four year old’s nighttime visits to her parents’ bedroom always be greeted with concern and sympathy? Or should the tears be ignored as manipulation, as the preschool teacher tells me they are? Should she learn that waking people up in the night for no good reason is unacceptable behaviour? Or am I a monster?

On the way to school yesterday, both children asked me to stop being a grumpy Mummy, and my response was, “when you two stop waking me up at all hours.” So now I’m giving them guilt, too. Because don’t we teach our children that only they are responsible for their own happiness, not anyone else? So only I am responsible for my grumpiness and, as they often tell me to do, I can choose to stop being grumpy at any time. Even if I’ve averaged less than four hours’ continuous sleep a night for the last five and a half years, since a wriggly baby in Mummy’s tummy started the transformation of me into the raging, sobbing monster I am today.

Me before kids (when I got sleep!)

Me before kids (when I got sleep!)

The problem with parenting is: there are no right answers, and we won’t vaguely know if we did okay for a couple of decades at least. My Mum recently said she felt sorry for me and my sister, parenting in the twenty-first century. When we were little, she said, a parent’s role was to keep the tikes alive for sixteen years. Job done.

I can’t even be consistent, because my program parent – my learnt behaviour from my work-from-home Dad – is cross, shouty and unsympathetic. Whilst my chosen responses (harder to produce when tired) tend more towards liberal, sympathetic, hippie parenting. And hubbie is all soft and cuddly pretty much all the time, so I usually act (and feel) the bad cop.

Daughter has gone quiet, but is probably awake and upset. Hubbie is still awake beside me in the dark. Son has been woken by the commotion and is calling for me. My moment of grump and indignation at getting a torchlight in my eyes at 5am has caused only widespread misery. So, next time, should I sacrifice my sleep to the greater good, as I usually try to do, hoping this, too, will pass? Or am I right to take a stand? Who knows. I only know that grumpy Mummy isn’t likely to be leaving anytime soon, and the person who is most upset about that is me.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Is it back to Cornwall, then?”

Conor drained his beer and looked over at Claire. Lunch was an informal affair, up at Durlston Country Park. By unspoken agreement they’d kept the tone friendly rather than romantic. Claire wasn’t sure if Conor was taking her lead, or protecting himself.

“I think I’ll head to north Devon, actually. I’ve stayed in most of the hostels in Cornwall, and I covered a lot of ground with the boys. There are some places along by Westward Ho! which are meant to be great for surfing.”

She flushed, as she realised she’d just told her boss her intention was to skive off rather than work.

This is why I couldn’t work for him. That, and I’d never get any work done.

Sat across the table from her, he looked ruggedly handsome, with his two-day stubble and crumpled t-shirt. It was the expression in his eyes, though, that kept turning her knees to jelly. The words he spoke might be platonic, but his gaze was X-rated.

Conor grinned at the slip. “Intending to play truant, are we? I didn’t know you could surf. You strike me more as the horsy type.”

“God, no. I hate riding. I’ve done it a few times as part of my travels but it hurts! I’m not a surfer, either, but I have been learning.”

“I quite fancy the idea of you all surfer chick in stretchy neoprene.” He widened his eyes appreciatively and she threw her napkin at him.

“Behave! Do you surf?”

“Ha, no. Not my thing.”

Claire realised she didn’t know what his thing was, aside from work and listening to live music.

“How do you let off steam? Is there a gym at your fancy apartment?”

“Hardly. I think there’s a drying room somewhere, and of course steps down to the beach. I go for a run, if I feel the need. That’s about it.”

Claire wasn’t sure she believed him. The sculptured body suggested more effort than that. He didn’t seem to be concealing anything, though, so she let it go. It was so hard to get him to talk about himself.

I hope there aren’t skeletons in his closet. That would be just my luck.

She looked out at the view, across past Peveril Point to the cliffs near Old Harry. On a day like today, away from the town, she could appreciate his love for the place.

“Are you finished? Do you fancy a wander or have you got to rush off?”

Conor’s voice broke into her reverie. His reference to her departure sounded casual and unconcerned and she felt gratitude flare in her heart.

“A quick walk would be lovely, before I swelter in my car for a few hours. No such thing as aircon in an old banger like mine. Not too long, though, I don’t want to get snarled in Sunday evening traffic.”

“Sure thing, my lady. Follow me and prepare to be amazed.”

Wondering what he was planning, Claire let Conor lead her from the restaurant and down a path that meandered away from the folly known as the castle. Beneath them she could see something concrete at the end of the path, and wondered what it was. As she got nearer she realised it was a large stone globe, surrounded by black railings.

“Ta da!” Conor said, when they reached it.

Claire tried to hide her puzzlement. “What is it?”

She saw Conor’s delight fade at her lack of enthusiasm. “It’s Victorian. It’s weathered now, so you can’t really read it, but it’s a Victorian globe. I used to come here as a child. There’s a picture, somewhere, of me and my brothers and sisters all lined up round the railing.” He kicked at the gravel. “I guess it’s not so amazing to a stranger.”

Claire walked up to him and put her arms around his waist. He was a complicated man, and she felt she barely knew him. But what she knew she liked. More than liked.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.” She reached up and kissed him. Conor’s arms tightened around her, and the railings jabbed into her as he pushed her back.

“Ow!”

Conor pulled away, and saw the black metal points. His mouth turned down and he looked ludicrously pathetic, like a small child caught in wrongdoing. “Sorry.”

She giggled at his expression and laced her hand through his. “Come on; let’s go get lost in the woods.” She tugged him back up the hill and along in the other direction, away from the castle, to where the path disappeared into some trees. Time enough to drive away later.

***

The Humans: 2013 365 Challenge #336

A very profound book

A very profound book

I finally started reading, and very quickly finished, The Humans by Matt Haig this weekend. If you haven’t come across the story (goodness knows how, as it flooded Twitter for a while during its release) it tells the story of an alien who comes to halt mathematical progress on Earth because Humans are deemed too violent to take the next step in technological evolution.

I was drawn to the book by its Twitter campaign and because I just happened to have read and enjoyed an early children’s book by the same author. The social media campaign was something truly incredible, with a lovely video trailer made by lots of different real people reciting lines from a part of the book called Advice for a Human (see picture below)

I started following Matt Haig’s blog, Twitter and Facebook, and found him to be a fascinating person, full of self-doubt and amazing insight, with a history of depression and attempted suicide. I couldn’t wait for the book to be released. I bought it in hardback (a thing I never do) and then bought the kindle version as well because I wanted to take it on holiday. That was in May of this year.

Since then I’ve tried to start it half a dozen times, but I just couldn’t get into it. The narrative voice is the alien, and the tone was so stilted and disinterestedly miserable, it put me off, even though I knew it was part of the story. Then, too, I started to feel pressure to love the book. Because the reviews were amazing, and because I liked the author as I came to know him through social media, I wanted to like the book, and felt bad that I didn’t. I had invested time and emotion into supporting its release and its author.

And then, worse of all, I started to disagree with some of what the author said on Facebook, and my faith took a wobble. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a great deal recently, and is probably a topic for another blog post – about how our perception of a piece of art or literature changes when we come to know more about the author and was it maybe better when the author was hidden in mystery and unknowable. Anyway, as I say, that’s another post.

Some of the great advice (better read in context)

Some of the great advice (better read in context)

As a result of the emotional (and financial!) investment, though, I couldn’t give up on the book. So I started again on Friday, and couldn’t put it down. I read it with my fingers in my ears, while the kids decorated the Christmas tree. I finished it at 2am last night, leaving me groggy and grumpy for today’s family lunch. No matter: it was worth it. This is my (rather short) Goodreads review:

“It took me a long time to get into this story, after wanting to read it for months. I’m glad I persisted, it was so worth it. This is a deeply profound, yet funny and entertaining book, full of pearls of wisdom you’ll be desperate to share with people.”

As I read the story, I kept reading bits out to hubbie, much to his bemusement (that never works, especially when the recipient is playing Candy Crush or similar). It’s full of Tweetable bits of goodness. I could feel the author, and what I knew of his history, in every line, and it added to the authenticity, although I suspect it wasn’t necessary. The story rings true by itself. I wanted to find a nugget to share here, but there are so many. Instead I would say, read it. Even if, like me, you can’t warm to the alien and you find him annoying in the extreme. He grows on you. And it’s a book that will stay with you long after you read the last page. As an author I always think you can’t ask for more than that.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Thank you for letting us stay, Nana.” Alex’s voice wobbled between child and adult, as he gave Claire’s mum a rather formal embrace.

His face still showed the pallor of expended emotion; pale and drawn despite the tan he’d gained during his time in the South West. Claire wanted to pull him into a proper hug, one with feeling. The greeting they’d got from her parents was lukewarm at best.

I guess I wouldn’t like it if someone turned up on my doorstep and asked me to take in house guests. She thought about it and her lips twisted into a wry smile. Mind you, it’s no more than both my siblings have done to me this year. Suddenly Auntie Claire is the only one with all the time in the world.

She pushed away the bitter feelings, and turned to make sure Jack was alright. He’d been less affected by their father’s announcement, chattering excitedly on the long journey from Cornwall to Cambridgeshire. As they had neared their destination, however, he had become more subdued and, since their arrival, he had hovered in the background.

A quick glance showed her he wasn’t in the room and she went in search of him, leaving Alex to forge a stilted conversation with his nana. Her father, Claire noted, had also disappeared and Claire felt disappointed at his cowardice.

She found them both, eventually, hidden in her father’s study.

“There you are!”

Her voice made them jump and their faces flushed with guilt. She concealed a smile at how like naughty schoolboys they both looked, despite a gap of half a century between them.

“What are you two up to? You’ve left Alex battling on with Nana.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jack said brightly, “he’s good at charming the old biddies.” Then he realised what he’d said, and blanched.

Claire’s dad laughed – a loud guffaw – as much at Jack’s stricken expression, it seemed, as at his words.

“Don’t worry, son, your secret is safe with me. Your nana can be a tough nut to crack, but she’s soft underneath.”

Claire privately wondered if that were true, but said nothing. “So, what are you two doing?” She perched on the edge of the desk and looked at them with one eyebrow raised, her arms folded across her chest in an expression of severity that was all act. Seeing Jack locked away with her father gave her a warm glow of satisfaction, but there was a game afoot and she was prepared to play her part.

“Pops was showing me his book. Did you know he’d written a novel, Auntie Claire?”

Claire switched her gaze from Jack’s eager excitement to the look of sheepish guilt on her Dad’s face. “Is it finished then? I thought it was a thriller? It doesn’t sound like something a young boy should be reading.”

“Oh, Claire, I’m not a baby. I’ve read James Herbert and Stephen King.”

“Really?” Claire was genuinely shocked. Even she didn’t have the stomach for some of the more gruesome horrors. She wondered if she should forbid Jack from reading books liable to give him nightmares. Then she looked at his face and had a flash of realisation. Whatever difficulties in Jack’s life, he had yet to experience real fear and horror and so the stories were just stories. They probably had less impact on him than on an adult who could read the truth behind the fabrication.

Suddenly she grinned. “That’s amazing, Dad. I’m so proud of you. Can I read it, too?”

Her dad’s grin was as wide as hers. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

Back in the lounge, Claire saw that Alex was manfully trying to engage her mum in conversation, and her heart went out to him. Even she struggled to find a topic of interest when talking to her mum.

As she walked in, her mum looked up, and her expression was honey-laced venom. Startled, Claire took a moment to gather herself, then said,

“Jack and Pops are in the study, Alex. Why don’t you go and see if they’d like some tea and cake? It’s been a long time since lunch.” They had been offered nothing on arrival. If her mum wasn’t going to play host, then she would show her how it should be done.

Alex jumped up like a man given a reprieve on death row, and practically ran from the room.

“Okay, Mum, out with it,” Claire said, as she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall. Her words took the wind from her mum’s anger, and Claire had to swallow a laugh.

“I’m surprised you have to ask. You turn up, unannounced, with Robert’s boys in tow, and without so much as a by-your-leave tell me that they’re staying here for an undetermined length of time, because you saw fit to send their father home. I think you have some explaining to do, young lady.”

“I’m not a child, Mum, you don’t need to take that tone. Robert’s behaviour was unacceptable. He arrived two hours late, with a chit of a girl on his arm, and announced he was engaged to her. His treatment of the boys is disgusting and he’s so far up his own arse they have to ship in daylight.”

“Claire! Really!” Her mother’s face went pale. Then her expression changed and she became a frail old woman. When she spoke, her voice was querulous “I don’t know why you’re shouting at me; it isn’t my fault.”

For a moment Claire was almost fooled. But not quite. “Oh, give over, Mum. Quit playing games, I’ve had enough of that from Robert.” She wanted to add that yes, it probably was her fault, at least in part. If she’d taken time to teach Robert some manners he might not be a total git. Realising such a discussion with her mother was an exercise in futility, she took a deep breath and controlled her temper with effort.

“Jack and Alex are your grandsons. You should be proud of them; they are amazing boys. If I could, I would keep them with me longer, but I have trespassed on Conor’s goodwill enough already. I’m only asking you to let them stay for a week; take them to see Ruth and Sky. Poor Jack doesn’t remember his cousin at all. They won’t be any trouble. I have money to buy their tickets, and I’ll contact Francesca and ask her to meet them at Stansted.”

Her mother’s face remained petulant and Claire snapped. “For God’s sake, Mum, don’t be such a cow. I know you couldn’t give a monkeys about me or Robert, and I doubt Ruth gets a look in now she’s got her life back on track, but this is your chance to make amends and be a decent human being. Why don’t you give it a try, you might find you like it?”

Before her mum could answer, Claire stalked from the room.

***

Rainy Day of the Soul: 2013 365 Challenge #326

More rain

More rain

The school run home was miserable yesterday; the town snarled with traffic. A chat with mums at the school gate had me worried about what I’m meant to be doing for a dozen things, and my son sat through out his entire fencing class, refusing to join in, even though it was paid for. I broke. Again.

Anyway, I wrote this, while walking the dog. I wasn’t going to post it, as I feel I’ve written enough ‘raging against being a housewife’ posts recently. But I hate letting powerful words go to waste, however snivelling they might be in retrospect (and, of course, as a writer it’s all good stuff for future reference). So, this is what I wrote:

“Is it terrible that I want to say to my daughter, Don’t have kids. Or if you want them, don’t have a life first. Don’t go to university and get those degrees, don’t live on your own for a decade. Have your children young, while you still have the energy and the sense of humour, before you realise what you’re giving up. Before you reach a point when you’re out walking the dog and you don’t want to go home.

Before you work out that seven years of marriage means you’ve cooked dinner more or less every night over 2500 times without respite. That your loving husband will want to make it better, as your stare down the barrel of another twenty years of school run and homework and worry, and you’ll have to tell him there is no way to make it better. That you’re starting to wonder if it was all a big mistake and whether being lonely was as bad as you thought it was back then.

I want to tell my daughter, You have my genes, child, and you were raised by me. You won’t know how to nurture, you won’t know how to be a loving mother. You will spend all day trying to smile and be nice and gentle when inside you’re screaming. You’ll feel trapped by love and there will be days when you hate it and everyone it encompasses.

And then the guilt will drive you crazy until you’re walking in the dark, sobbing, with no where to go except home, where dinner isn’t cooked and the homework hasn’t been done and the dog needs feeding and the dishwasher emptying and you know hubbie will be playing on the iPad while the kids watch more TV. And you know they all love you and that just makes you the most selfish, ungrateful person on earth. That’s what I want to say.”

And then, when I told hubbie all this, he told me it was okay, cleaned the kitchen and offered to take responsibility for cooking. I told you he’d try to fix things. I settled for him doing dinner one night a week, because we have to be realistic! Then we just need to survive Christmas, come up with a plan for dealing with school communications and the school run, and everything will be fine. For now.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire considered the boy trailing ten paces behind, hands still buried deep in his pockets, and chewed out a curse.

“Problems?”

Claire looked over at Conor, who was watching Jack pretending to sink imaginary ships through a gap in the wall.

“What am I going to do with the moody teenager? A fortnight of that and I’ll go bonkers.”

“Do you want me to have a chat with him?” Conor said quietly, all brashness gone from his voice.

“And say what? He’s no more likely to open up to you than me, is he?”

“Well, I am at least a bloke.”

“Really, I hadn’t noticed?” She smiled, her cheeks tight with tension, before her face dropped back into the frown it had worn all morning.

“I didn’t think you had,” Conor said. Before she could respond he walked on to answer a question from Jack.

Claire watched as Conor leant over to hear Jack’s words. The answer he gave was animated; his hands waving in explanation. Conor had been the proverbial uncle since they’d entered the castle grounds; playing with the boys, listening to the audio tour and sharing the interesting parts, complete with actions. It was obvious – watching him – that he was used to being around children.

As she approached, Conor gave her a slight nod before walking past her back to where Alex stood leaning against the castle wall, surreptitiously tapping into his phone.

“I like your friend, Auntie Claire,” Jack said, after Conor had left. “He’s funny. Did you know he has four brothers and a sister, all younger than him! He says he has loads of nephews and nieces, but they all live in Ireland. Have you been to Ireland? It sounds great. They all live near each other and play at each other’s houses and stuff, and they go to school down the road.”

He stopped suddenly and his cheeks flushed, as if embarrassed by his candour. Claire’s heart went out to this young boy who wanted nothing more than to be with his family and have a proper home.

Maybe that’s what going to a Boarding school does to you. Maybe you spend your life trying to find the home you never had.

She thought about her own schooling. Her parents hadn’t made them board, but they might as well have done. The school ran from 8am to 6pm with extra activities at the weekend. Between hockey and homework Claire thought she’d probably only seen her parents a couple of hours a week from the age of eleven onwards.

The sound of laughter floated across on the wind whistling around the castle walls, and Claire turned in surprise. It sounded like Alex.

It was. He and Conor were walking slowly towards them and, for the first time, Alex’s hands weren’t in his pockets, but rather were waving around in front of him as he chatted animatedly with her boss.

How the hell did he do that? What did he find to talk about to make Alex laugh like that?

She remembered some of their phone conversation the previous night and rather felt she didn’t want to know.

Who cares? If he can turn Alex into a human being, if only for a day or so, I don’t really care if he’s reciting the Miller’s Tale to him.

Alex approached almost shyly, looking up at Conor for confirmation. Conor nodded in encouragement, before suggesting to Jack that they go hunt for the canons.

“Conor said I should talk to you.”

Alex’s face had lost its humour, but he kept his head raised, even if he didn’t make eye contact.

“I’m sorry I’ve been a pain. Conor says he’ll tell you to send us home, if I make life difficult for you when you’re working. I didn’t mean to be an arse.” He flushed at the word and quickly amended it, “a git, I meant. Sorry.” He paused, staring out over the wall at the ocean beyond, as if he could see all the way back to Geneva.

“I don’t want to be here. Father didn’t even ask, he just told us. And, well, I have friends. And stuff.” His voice trailed off and he looked down at his trainers, scuffing at the stone as if he’d like to run away.

Claire wanted to interject that they were only staying with her for a fortnight, but something made her hold her tongue. She watched Alex as he struggled with his words, trying to maintain an air of supportive concern.

“Conor said I needed to man up and stop giving you a hard time. He said it wasn’t your fault that Father’s a…” He stopped again, and a faint blush put colour in his pale cheeks. He looked up then, his eyes wary.

Claire wanted to pull the boy into a hug, but she kept her distance. “It’s okay,” she said, instead, “I know what my brother can be like. I hadn’t realised quite what a pompous arse he’d become,” – Alex grinned at her choice of word – “and I don’t blame you for being grumpy at him shipping you boys over here without warning. It’s only two weeks. That probably seems like a lifetime to you, but it will fly by, I promise.” There was so much more she wanted to say, but she could see already that Alex wanted to escape. So she held out her hand and tried to catch his eye.

“Friends?”

Alex gave her hand a shake and gave a quick nod. Then he hurried off towards Conor and Jack.

***

Art is the Answer: 2013 365 Challenge #320

Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale

Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale

Hubbie came home yesterday afternoon, after his night away for work, and was all smiles from the joy of having spent twenty-four hours with like-minded people, being listened to and appreciated. It seemed to confirm for me everything I wrote about in yesterday’s post, about the difficulty of being a stay-at-home-mum.

The word sacrifice is bandied about, sometimes, when talking about motherhood. The things we sacrifice to raise our children: sleep, serenity, the ability to pee alone. For some it’s a career, for others it’s the luxury of time or the ability to buy clothes for themselves instead of for their little ones.

And of course the sacrifice is worth it, most would agree with that. I gave up material things when we had kids, and realised I didn’t miss them. I’m quite happy hanging out in the same two pairs of jeans week after week, until they fall apart and I scour the charity shops for two new pairs to trash.

I’m happy not getting my hair cut, or spending endless money on scented candles and potted plants that will only get burnt/killed respectively. Hubbie gave me £100 to spend on clothes last Christmas and I spent about a fifth of it at the charity shop and then the rest on getting the air conditioning fixed in my car. It was money well spent.

The sacrifice for me was guilt-free time. I have always struggled with guilt (and I’ve noticed I’m unconsciously teaching my children the same things, which I hate). My father loathed idleness and I learned to never be idle, particularly if he was busy. He could aggressively vacuum clean like no man I know and god forbid the kitchen was messy if we wanted to get to gym class on time. So, if the house needs cleaning, I have to clean it. If there are shirts to iron, I must iron them. Walking the dog every day was a responsibility I took on the minute we brought her home, quivering in my arms in the front seat because she wouldn’t stay in the boot.

From Slow Down Mummy's FB Page

From Slow Down Mummy’s FB Page

Which is all fine until hubbie says, “How can we get your smile back? Shall we hire a cleaner?” and my answer is “No.” Cleaning is my job. I signed up for that when I gave up paid employment. Besides, as I said in my previous post, I find having a cleaner ridiculously stressful. No, the problem is more my inability to ignore the piles of laundry and the dirty floor and just write regardless. The cleaning will always be there: evil elves come in my house and chuck dirty water over the floor as soon as it’s mopped. It’s the ultimate exercise in futility. Writing, though, that’s there forever. If I write a novel, no one can take it away from me.

One of my blog followers, Hollis Hildebrand-Mills, commented on yesterday’s post, saying, “An artist, like you, I yearned for so much more……and at the same time, felt I was a good mother and wouldn’t trade places (who had the time to think about trading places?) with anyone else.”

It reminded me of a book I read, before I had children, called Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale, about a bi-polar woman and her life as artist, wife and mother. It is a wonderful, powerful, book. It showed me how I didn’t want to be with my children, and yet I could relate to such an extent with the conflicting desires of the need to create and the needs of the family, all wrapped up with the challenges of depression.

With martyr-tendencies, it would be easy for me to be the housewife: to go downstairs, like I did this morning, and numbly lay the table, make breakfast, let the dog out, empty the dishwasher, make the beds. But numb is the word. I can be that person, but by god she’s dull. I don’t need to become Rachel Kelly from Gale’s book (I thankfully am not bipolar, only very mildly depressive) but maybe it is important to make time for the creative things. To stay human. To stay sane.

From Slow Down Mummy

From Slow Down Mummy

There’s a meme that goes around Facebook every now and then: a poem about children asking their Mummy not to rush; about the importance of spending time with the children while they’re little, rather than doing the dishes. (See image above)

I’ve just searched for it and the poem is by Rebekah Knight and her blog is Slow Down Mummy. (There are some other lovely poems on there:  worth a visit) It’s a sweet poem, although I’ve always felt it just adds to the Mummy guilt, every time I see it and my usual response is, “If I don’t do those darn dishes, who will?”

I wonder if sometimes we also have to slow down and do something for us? Maybe I need to swap out the Mummy for Amanda and remember that there’s a real person in here that also needs nurturing, that also would like to kick the leaves or bake a cake; just for me, not because I feel I should for the children. My children are happiest when they’re creating – sticking, gluing, cutting, making up games and songs. As another of the images on Slow Down Mummy’s blog says, “Creativity brings Happiness.”

Maybe art is the answer after all.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire sat at the table, building her presentation, trying to ignore the stunning view outside the window. The tall frames only enhanced the scene beyond, of boats bobbing on the water and children playing in the sand. Sparkling diamonds danced on the surface of the sea, taunting her and tempting her to put the work aside and daydream.

She’d been surprised at Conor’s choice of restaurant when she’d arrived. It was a tiny place that appeared to have been a coastguard station at some point. The walk back up to the car park would be hard going after a beer or two. It seemed a bit secluded for a work meeting, and Claire had felt a fizzle of anticipation in her stomach as she was shown to their reserved table by the window. The view really was spectacular: the restaurant was right on the beach, with a view of the harbour and the bay beyond.

Claire’s tummy grumbled as a waiter walked past with a steaming pile of muscles and another loaded with lobster. She was glad Conor was paying, although she had to remind herself it wasn’t a date, it was business.

She turned her attention back to the presentation. The screen shots from the two websites nicely emphasised her point, and she’d managed to incorporate some transitions and graphics that looked impressive, although deep down she suspected Conor wouldn’t be as fooled by such things as Carl used to be.

The challenge of having a boss with a brain, I guess.

She was just running through the final slides when she sensed someone watching her. She turned and met Conor’s gaze as he stood only feet away, his expression inscrutable. A jolt of energy shot through her, and her hands shook as she closed the laptop. When she tried to smile, her cheeks quivered and she quickly abandoned the attempt.

“Conor, hi.” She chanced a quick look into his eyes and they seemed to hold a mixture of amusement and remorse. A hesitant smile hovered on his lips. Then his face shifted, like a mask dropping over his features, and he was her boss again.

“Hard at work, I see. That’s what we like. Did you have any bother finding the place?”

He slid into the seat opposite her and immediately picked up the menu, as if he couldn’t stay long.

“No. Sat Nav. And yes, I was just finalising a presentation. I’ve found a great case study I thought you might like to run through.” She heard the wobble in her voice and silently cursed. If he was going to pretend like nothing had happened the previous weekend, two could play at that game.

“Great, well let’s order and we can run through it while we’re waiting. I can recommend the lobster.”

“Do you come here a lot? It’s not exactly on your doorstep.”

“I was based down here for a few months in a previous job. This place is a gem, especially at sunset.”

It was on the tip of Claire’s tongue to make some comment about wooing the ladies and she stopped, blood rushing to her cheeks. Despite the air of romance, this couldn’t be further from a date, and their days of banter were gone now.

She looked at the top of Conor’s head, as he studied the menu, and searched her brain for something neutral to say. Her mind went blank, so she turned to her own menu, although her eyes refused to focus on the words.

“So, you’re playing Auntie for a fortnight? You’re a sucker for punishment.”

Conor’s tone was less than friendly, but Claire seized on the opening. “Yes, apparently my brother and his wife have separated and the boys are being shuffled from parent to parent during the long vacation. Needless to say my brother isn’t equipped to deal with his chunk of childcare.”

“Why do you say it like that?” Conor looked up, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, looking after kids isn’t really every man’s cup of tea.”

“Depends on the man,” he said, then dropped his head again. Claire sat staring, trying to figure out the meaning behind his words. Really, he was even more of an enigma that Josh, when he’d been harbouring his big secret.

“Do you have kids?” The words were out before she could stop them.

Conor froze, his head still lowered, then shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”

The waiter chose that moment to approach with his pad open, and Claire resisted the urge to embrace him for his impeccable timing.

***

Let’s Be Honest, Being a SAHM Isn’t All That: 2013 365 Challenge #319

Scary Mommy Post

Scary Mommy Post

I read two great posts this week that seem to sum up nicely my general feeling of meh. This post is likely to be a bit whiny and self-indulgent, but it’s my blog so hey, why not? 🙂

Actually, I’m sharing the posts because I think a) these things aren’t said enough and b) once the “yay it isn’t just me” has faded I have to pack up my meh (I love that word, you may have noticed – though it needs to come with a shrug) and forge a new happy.

The first post was over on Scary Mommy – that brilliant blog making parents feel normal all over the world. It’s called The Myth of Having it All  and it resonates with my The Job You Can’t Quit post, except the author of the post has seven children and I only have two.

Reading the comments you realise how many people are relieved to finally be able to confess that being a SAHM (stay at home mum) isn’t all they thought it would be. And that’s where I am. My parents both worked when I was growing up, and my relationship with them was quite distant. I thought if only I could be at home with my children – drive/walk them to school everyday, pick them up smiling every evening, sit and do homework with them – I would have this amazing bond with them. Baloney.

The school run is hideous and at least once a week I’m a screaming monster before the kids make it to the gate. Home time is worse – usually both children are crying before we get back to the car, after negotiating our way through adults, kids, dogs, scooters, bikes, puddles. And it’s still only 4 o’clock when we get home, with two hours until hubbie gets in from work. The school day is just so darn short. Nursery used to be 8am until 6pm with guaranteed parking, so I could leave home at ten to six and get there on time. School is 9am to 3.30pm and I compete for parking with a hundred other parents.

In The Myth of Having it All post, Lisa says this:

More and more lately, the shape of my days – the monotony of them, the veritable triviality of them, the drudgery of them – is getting me down. I know I’m not supposed to say these things, right? As a stay-at-home mom, the proper thing to do is to sing from the rooftops in exaltation about how wonderful and magical my life is as a housewife, and as a “mommy blogger” (if that’s even what I am; I’m not sure), I should be honing my photography skills so as to document for all the world just how wonderful and magical my life is.

Kristen Lamb's beautifully honest post

Kristen Lamb’s beautifully honest post

We can all read it and know it isn’t true that people think being a SAHM is magical. Except they do. it’s the Facebook lie and it has to stop. Motherhood is pretty dull whether you’re a SAHM, a working mum, a part-time mum or a mummy-what-lunches, complete with nanny and cleaner. (I’m listening to some of those gossiping in the coffee shop behind me, and I’m not sure they belong in the list, to be fair!)

The second post covers the other side of my meh or maybe arrgghh. Kristen Lamb is always wonderfully honest and this week she talks of being overwhelmed by life, and accepting those emotions instead of passing them off as tiredness or depression. I could so relate.

Her post, Lesson of Confession: I’m Drowning, Help!  tells how important it is to recognise when we are disappointed or drowning. I am both, without nearly as valid a reason as she has. On some days it all goes right and dinner is cooked, the kitchen is tidy, kids have eaten their tea, dog has been walked and we’re doing homework when Daddy walks in. That happens about once a month. Most days he walks in to a wall of screaming and crying, and that’s just me. And, you know what, even those rare and magical days are pretty dull. There’s none of the high I used to get from surviving a difficult presentation or finishing a report. Or even from writing some great chapters.

Because there is no time or energy to write anymore. Since hubbie went back to work and the kids dropped down to their six-hour day, three days a week, I mostly only find time to walk the dog, clean the kitchen, iron some shirts and write my blog. And I’m always in a rush. Always. I hate it. There, I’ve said it. I hate it. I look at working mums with envy, even though I know their life is ten times tougher than mine and even more of a rush. I would give anything to go to work for twelve hours straight without a single screaming tantrum to deal with. Or, like hubbie did last night, go away to a hotel for work and slip out guilt-free to the cinema. Except, of course, I wouldn’t.

In the fantasy books I’m reading at the moment, the young protagonist keeps whining, “Why me?” In the end someone says, “Who else would you trust to get the job done?” And there’s the rub. Much as I hate having to remember to take money in a purse for Children in Need (I forgot: mummy fail) and rushing home to do the ironing and vacuum cleaning, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it. I had a cleaner and it lasted only a few weeks, because we didn’t see eye to eye (and I hated having to tidy the house before she arrived!)

Doing Sounds in the playroom

Doing Sounds in the playroom

As a treat, because Daddy was away last night, we hired a movie and had pizza on the sofa, snuggled up in duvets (except daughter was scared by the movie and we had to turn it off!) The movie was Shrek the final part. The one where Shrek wishes for just a day away from his boring life as husband and parent, and it all goes wrong. He loses everything and only then discovers what he had. I know what I have: I love my husband and children, I love having the freedom to take them to school everyday, the money to send my son to nursery, a husband who doesn’t mind that I write rather than mop the kitchen floor, and who will eat takeaway when I’m too shattered to cook.

I love that I came downstairs from making notes for this blog post sneakily on the iPad, to discover the children sitting quietly together learning sounds. I love that I could let them be and make breakfast because, really, my shower could wait until later and we didn’t have to leave for an hour. I know it is for these moments of calm that I chose to stay at home and write books instead of getting a proper job.

I know all that. But I’m still bored and restless. I’m still listening to the women behind me discussing the restrictions of the school uniform, and whether they can get a hat from Boden, and resisting the urge to run away screaming, “Isn’t there more to it than this?” Sigh. As always with parenting, I cling to the phrase “this too will pass.” In the meantime I’ll try and swap my meh for happy and just keep swimming.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire typed “Roseland Peninsula” into the search box and waited. The map pin dropped into a place near St Austell. Claire frowned and read the address, then tutted as she realised it was a business of the same name.

Stupid map.

She tried typing the words into the search engine instead, and finally came up with a website which showed the peninsula. It was as she’d suspected, when she’d read the review of the hostel she was in which had raved about the amazing time to be had in Roseland. It was about as much a peninsula as the Isle of Purbeck was an island.

What it is with the need to name these areas? Is it for a sense of identity? Tourism? Convenience? Was it once a little kingdom or principality, back in the days when there were dozens of petty kings fighting over land?

Reading through several more websites, Claire discovered it was in fact a peninsula, apparently separated from the mainland by a river.

Well, that told me, didn’t it?

She smiled and copied the notes into a document. With a quick glance at the time, she scanned more quickly through the remaining pages. Deciding to use the peninsula as a case study to compare with the Isle of Purbeck had been a great idea, but she was meeting Conor in two hours and she still had to drive to St Austell and find the right place for lunch. Looking through the online images she felt that Roseland might have the edge on Purbeck.

Although given Conor’s passion for Dorset, it probably won’t be a good idea to write that down.

Certainly the websites were miles apart. Claire grimaced as she looked at the messy Purbeck page with angry banners and snide comments. It wasn’t a tourism website, as far as she could see, but the online equivalent of a parochial parish newsletter. The Roseland site was the opposite extreme: almost too polished and slick, with scrolling flash images and neat headings.

Furiously typing notes, Claire tried to remain objective, remembering that Conor’s love of all things Jurassic Coast was likely to make him defensive. She didn’t want a fight, and she definitely didn’t want to upset him.

But, then, if he couldn’t take the truth he shouldn’t have hired me for this project.

The more she flicked through the two websites, the more Claire became aware of a sense of elation building inside her. It was a forgotten feeling: that sense of hitting the mark; of doing a job well and feeling in control.

This is why I love my job.

With a widening grin, she wrote a few more paragraphs of explanation before reluctantly closing the laptop. There would be no time to print it out but, if she found the restaurant before Conor arrived, there might be the chance to put together a presentation.

That’ll stop him harassing me for updates and get him off my case. I think the less I see of him the better.

***

Related articles (as usual, I haven’t read these yet but probably will!)

The Job you Can’t Quit: 2013 365 Challenge #311

Clean house, clean head?

Clean house, clean head?

I’ve had two major jobs in my life and I quit both of those as a result of stress. The first time the job was my first after graduating from university (aside from bar jobs and the like). I stayed for nearly two years until I had a nervous breakdown.

I’m the kind of person that likes to do everything to the best of my ability and I ended up working twelve hours a day, six days a week, without getting anywhere near on top of my work load. The more I did, the more they gave me. I was also working as a Guide leader and doing their accounts as well as some other stuff and in the end I imploded.

The company nurse (almost as her last act before they sacked her) signed me off sick with stress and the doctor diagnosed me for the first time with depression. So I quit, worked out around four months’ notice and went travelling.

The second job I quit was the last proper paid job I had. I had worked there for just shy of five years and it was feast or famine. I either had no work to do, because I didn’t fit into any department and they didn’t know what to do with me, or I was doing the work of three. I was ineffective and unstructured and pretty rubbish at my job towards the end, but they still rehired me as a contractor after I quit, because no one else knew how to do my job and they thought I was the bee’s knees.

Kitchen always the last to do

Kitchen always the last to do

There’s a pattern to my life: I like to get praise. I like to feel like I’m good at what I do. I like to feel valued. If there’s work to do, I will do it to the best of my ability. I hate missing deadlines, I hate letting people down, I hate saying no. I hate conflict or being told off or not making the grade. I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t realise I was working hard rather than smart, and making myself sick in the meantime.

Free from the work place I was a new person. I enjoyed life. I painted and wrote and mostly managed my own time. I had low periods of loneliness away from the work place, and feelings of low self worth because I wasn’t earning anything. But I wasn’t depressed.

Then I became a parent. Oh shit. If ever there was a job where the work was never done, the hours were lousy and the thanks rarely forthcoming it’s being a mum. And I mostly feel that I suck at it. On a good day I’m about average. I can just about praise the kids more than I yell at them, I can feed them more healthy food than rubbish, and I can put the laptop down long enough to read a story. That’s on a good day. On a bad day, like today, when I have PMT, I’ve had a cold for a fortnight, and the house looks like some scavenging bears used it for their party cave, I’m not a good parent.

I try. I try to keep my cool. But there’s a raging beast in me that escapes over trivial things. This morning it was the forty minutes it took to get the kids dressed, the fights with both of them that summer clothing is no longer appropriate, the lack of clean and ironed clothes because I haven’t stayed on top of it over the last two weeks, the twenty minutes of not-eating-breakfast-but-blowing-bubbles-in-our-milk-instead, and – the final straw – the taking everything out of my school bag instead of putting my shoes on, even though we’re all late for school.

Tidy bedrooms for five minutes

Tidy bedrooms for five minutes

I yelled. I screamed. I was angry. Then I calmed down and I hugged and I talked about the monster mummy that escapes. And my kids told me they loved me and it was mostly okay.

Only then we were really late, and I kept up a running commentary in the car about how late we were and how much trouble we’d get in if my daughter missed the school bell, and how we were now snarled up in the school-run traffic. Even when my kids tried to laugh me out of it, I told them it wasn’t funny. I was more mummy monster then than when I was yelling.

I left my son at nursery sobbing hysterically. He was still crying when I rang back fifteen minutes later to see how he was. I left my daughter clinging to the classroom assistant. I went home and sobbed. It took twenty minutes and some nice emails from hubby to get me out the car. Then I sobbed for at least an hour, when I was meant to be writing my post. My head aches. So I wrote some random Claire installment and I’ve spent the last two hours cleaning, trying to get some control back. But the dark monster still lurks.

I want to quit this job, where someone dirties my house as soon as my back is turned, and puts every item of clothing in the wash as soon as it’s ironed, and empties the fridge quicker than I can get to the supermarket, and takes away my smile and my love of life and leaves me yelling and crying. I want to quit. But I can’t. There’s no where to go. So, still crying, I will write my post, iron some more clothes, finish the vacuum cleaning, walk the dog in the rain, run to the supermarket and pick the kids up from school. I will give them a huge hug and tell them Mummy is sorry, even though they’ve heard it before. And, like I say to them sometimes, they’ll probably think, “Sorry isn’t good enough, Mummy. You have to not do the bad thing in the first place.”

Easier said than done.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Hello, Mrs Jenkins, it’s Claire.”

“Hello, Claire, how are you? Still travelling round the West Country? Kim reads your blog, although she says it’s been a while since you’ve updated it. I hope everything’s okay.”

As Claire listened to Mrs Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting she wondered how many other people had noticed her absence of posts and thought briefly how nice it would have been if someone had bothered to check she was okay.

“Yes, I’m still here. I’m staying at the Tintagel hostel tonight; just spent the day at the castle, so hopefully I’ll be able to write about that. I’ve been busy with work is all.” She hesitated, wondering if the lie sounded as obvious to her friend’s mum as it did to her.

“And how’s Kim?”

Mrs Jenkins sighed and the sound twisted Claire’s stomach with fear and guilt.

“Much the same, I’m afraid, still sunk in her melancholy. I understand, I really do. I’m as devastated that there won’t be any grandkids for me to spoil – I can’t see her sister ever settling down. But it doesn’t do to dwell. I’d tell her to get back to work, but she doesn’t have what you’d call a regular job.”

Her voice trailed off, and Claire felt her disappointment. As a parent you wanted your children to be happy and hopefully settled nearby. Kim’s mother must wonder what went wrong.

“Can I talk to her?”

“Of course, Claire. Sorry, here I am wittering on and you didn’t call to talk to me. Maybe you can snap her out of her misery.”

I doubt it, Claire thought privately, but merely said, “I’ll try.”

She waited while Mrs Jenkins went to find her daughter, and tried to decide how much she would tell Kim about recent events.

“Hello?” Kim’s voice, when it came on the line, contained none of its usual vivacity. Claire stifled a groan and, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, greeted her oldest friend.

“Kim, hi, how are you? Is your mum taking good care of you? I hope you’ve been out enjoying the sunshine.” She winced at her tone, and waited for Kim to complain she wasn’t a five-year-old. Instead her friend snorted with derision.

“Mum’s driving me mad, Jeff hasn’t been down once and the theatre company refuses to give me another role until I’m better, whatever that means.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you could do something else for a while. Work in a coffee shop, you know, just to get you out the house.” She injected a laugh she didn’t feel and added, “Isn’t that what unemployed actresses do?”

“This isn’t Hollywood. No big tips here. I didn’t go through drama school to earn the minimum wage making lattes for yummy mummies.”

Claire swallowed a genuine laugh. “You should start a blog, you’ve definitely got a way with words.” She regretted it instantly – the last thing Kim needed was someone making fun of her. But all her friend said was, “What, so I can just stop writing it one day, like you have?”

Claire took a deep breath. “It’s only been a week or so. I have been rather busy.” Running round after you for a start, she added silently. Sheesh, no wonder Jeff hasn’t been round. Then she reminded herself of everything Kim had been through and admonished herself.

“Conor tried to snog me,” she blurted out, to fill the uncomfortable silence. She waited, wondering if that would be shocking enough to rouse Kim from her darkness.

“Your boss? Why?”

Claire reeled. Of all the responses, she hadn’t expected that. It was a good question, one she hadn’t really thought of before.

“He was drunk, I guess.” That sounded lame. “He said he’d been wanting to do it since we met.”

“Did you snog him back? You might get a promotion. Isn’t that how it works in your world?”

The bitter, cynical words cut Claire. Then she remembered gossiping with her friend about a promotion in the office that could only have made sense if those involved were sleeping together. Even so, it was a hard accusation to throw at her best friend.

“I can’t believe you’d think me capable of that.”

“Oh, keep your hair on. You said he was cute, so what’s the harm?”

“He’s my boss! Besides, I don’t think of him like that.”

“Liar. You described him down to the green eyes and sexy bum. You don’t notice details like that unless you want to bed someone.”

Trust Kim to remember that when she’s heard nothing else. Claire wanted to defend herself, but the new edge to her friend left her unsure and vulnerable.

“Whether I like him or not is irrelevant; shagging the boss can only lead to trouble.” She tried to think of a way to change the subject, but couldn’t think of a safe topic.

“Look, my battery’s about to go. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay? I’m going to write a blog post. You should think seriously about starting one, you might find it helps.”

“Right,” was the only response Claire heard before she hung up the phone.

***

In the Now: 2013 365 Challenge #295

And it rained...

And it rained…

We’re always hearing about the importance of ‘Living in the now’. Children and dogs do it really well: they forgive mistakes, don’t hold grudges, are rarely judgemental and can be distracted from misery to happiness in a heartbeat.

Grown-ups; not so much. We live in the past, dwelling on mistakes, re-living better days, yearning for the time when we had a decent job, a lunch break and enough money to buy stuff without feeling guilty (or maybe that’s just the mums!). Or we live for the future: the weekend, the promotion, the new car, the holiday, Christmas, retirement. Even when we are in the now, we moan about it.

“It’s raining.”

“I’m bored.”

“God, I’m ill/tired/stressed.”

We don’t look around and see the beauty in the world. We don’t look at the rain and think, That means the grass is going to grow for another season. That’s topping up the rivers so I can turn on my tap and have a nice cool drink of water. Our minds are like skittish kittens, darting from one shiny thought to the next.

Mindfulness (as I understand it) teaches about living in the now: about being present in the moment without judging it. I don’t know a lot about Mindfulness as a theory, because I have little patience for self-help books. Not that I don’t believe in them, just I don’t seem to be able to read them without looking at myself with loathing and thus spiralling down into darkness. That’s just me. But I understand the principle. Life doesn’t fly by so fast if we can concentrate on the present rather than worrying about the past or future. We enjoy life more if we can give each moment our full attention without judging or criticising ourselves or others or the situation.

Remembering sunny days

Remembering sunny days

However, there are times when I wonder if it is dangerous to live always in the now. Human beings are very good at forgetting: Mothers would never have more than one child if they couldn’t forget the pain of childbirth. We’d never fall in love more than once if the brain didn’t soften the pain of rejection in our memories. Those are good things.

But it’s also easy to look at the rain and think “It’s been raining for weeks! It always rains. When did the sun last shine? I’m so sick of it.” When, actually, the sun shone yesterday. The summer was amazing.

It has rained more or less nonstop here for two weeks (My poor sister, they had the worst of the year’s weather during their visit) but that doesn’t mean it’s been raining forever.

The same happens when we’re ill. A cold, viewed from the outside, is pretty trivial. I joke with my hubbie that I’m only ever sympathetic when I succumb to the same virus. Because, on the inside, it feels like it’s going to last forever; that I never felt well before and my head has ached since the dawn of time. Then it goes, and slowly wellness creeps up, and we take it for granted, until we’re ill again.

Depression can be like that. Down in the pit of despair, it can feel like there is absolutely nothing in the world to live for. That the world will be dark forever and ever. Those who suffer from long-term depression have it the worst because they know that beyond the rise of the next hill is another dark valley. But at the point in which you’re sitting in that pit; that is definitely not the time to live in the now. That’s the time to remember past happiness and look forward to future joy.

One of the bloggers I follow, Michelle Holland of Mummylovestowrite, is currently in one of those deep dips. I want to reach in and pull her out, even though her recent post could have described the inside of my mind two weeks ago (not to the same extremity, as I don’t have chronic depression or anxiety, but close enough). I want to tell her she will laugh again, that she will find something to live for. Except she already knows. She is a strong person. She writes “The real me likes to read, write, enjoy music and interact with others.”

The real me.

Sometimes in the now, especially in a dark now of exhaustion or depression or calamity, we forget who the real us is. That’s when it’s important to look to the past, to remind us, and to concentrate on a brighter future. It’s important not to let the now define us.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen to see who was calling. A smile spread across her face and she looked around for somewhere to sit before selecting answer.

“Hi, Conor.” Her voice rang out into the afternoon sunshine, and she blushed as two passers-by turned to stare.

“Good afternoon, Claire, how’re things?”

Claire looked down the high street and wondered whether to be honest. “Great, they’re great. I’m in Torquay.”

“How’s Kim?” Conor’s voice held a hint of wariness.

“Good, I hope. She’s with her parents.” Claire chose not to reveal that she’d taken a day off to drive her friend home.

“Oh.” She waited while Conor processed the information. “For the best, I suspect. I wish her a speedy recovery.”

The business-like tone of his voice caused the smile on Claire’s face to falter. Just when she felt she knew him, he said or did something that reminded her he was her boss.

As if in confirmation, Conor continued in a brisk tone. “How is the report coming along? I know it’s only been a week, but three months will fly by.” He didn’t need to add that his neck was on the line alongside hers.

A week?

Claire was startled to realise she had been home from New Zealand for so long. It felt like only a day or two since Conor had collected her from the airport.

“Er, yeah, good. Spending time in the English Riviera has helped to frame things.”

“It’s a nice part of the country,” Conor said without inflection.

Claire wondered if he thought all places inferior to the Isle of Purbeck or whether he was disappointed that she hadn’t travelled further in the few days she’d been on the road. With a flush she realised she’d spent half her time dealing with Kim and the rest buying and getting used to her new car.

If I’m not careful I’m going to get sacked before I receive my first pay cheque.

She vowed to spend the next twenty-four hours writing something up before Conor called her bluff and asked for an initial report.

“It occurred to me that we haven’t provided you with the means to compile your findings or send regular updates. I’m in the area tomorrow evening, ready for a meeting first thing Monday. I’ll bring a laptop with me, and you can update me on your first impressions.”

Claire’s heart plummeted and the bacon and brie Panini she’d just eaten sat heavy in her stomach.

Crap.

“Where are you heading tomorrow?” Conor continued. “My meeting is in Plymouth so I’ll be staying in the town overnight. I can recommend the hostel at Salacombe for tonight, if they have space. It’s about an hour from Plymouth but I won’t be in town until the evening anyway. The views are amazing. It’s closing down later in the year as they haven’t been able to renew their lease with the National Trust. It would be a shame to miss out.”

The casual way Conor demonstrated his thorough knowledge of the local area made Claire’s ears buzz with fear.

I am so out of my depth. I thought this would be an easy assignment – a jaunt around a few more hostels and a quick presentation at the end of it. There is so much I have no idea about.

Conscious of how much needed to be done in the next twenty-four hours; Claire took note of where Conor wanted to meet up, and made her excuses.

Time to get to work.

***

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