I am sucking so badly at NaBlo. Blame this:
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Children
I just told my children that it was past their bedtime and therefore, my ears had turned off and I could no longer hear them. These are the measures I am forced to take on a Friday night when we all have ‘flu and are utterly miserable.
And in turn, this is what you get for NaBlo.
Whose stupid idea was this?
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Tuesdays herald the start of the school week for us here, this year. It’s not that I don’t love the six hours with only one child following me around like a duckling – because I do, very much – it’s that the stress of getting everyone ready and out of the door on time for school drop off is sending me grey.
It feels like herding cats, or shepherding mice. Like trying to get goldfish to swim in synchronicity without the benefit of a belly full of iron shavings and a magnet.
And I’m trying not to shout, I really am, but when one child is squealing a high pitched squeal and slamming doors and the other child is trying to create a cat trap – when both of them ought to be eating their porridge, that’s when I start to get a bit shouty.
Once breakfast is done, then it’s a haze of hair brushings and face washings and where the hell are your shoes and can you brush your teeth please, no, I mean really brush them and library book and stop shoving and just get in the car already, leave the bloody cat alone.
But I know that even as I hate these mornings because the children are so small that I need to spoon feed them the next step in the getting ready proccess, it is worth it for the quiet. For the chance to drink just one cup of tea without someone shouting that SHE IS PUSHING ME or HE TOOK MY THING.
Definitely.
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It’s like a ticking time bomb, trying to get something written here every morning before my children wake up.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Once they’re awake, my morning is a haze of breakfasts and snuggles needed, of meltdowns and NO NOT THAT BLANKET, THE OTHER ONE. And WHERE IS MY DINOSAUR and I NEED DA ODDER CEREAL.
It’s all good fun, until someone starts screaming and writhing on the floor.
***
My son wakes up, demands warm milk and a blanket (da blue one, in da bedroom Mummy, not DAT ONE) and smiles at me cheekily while he does it. I rub his stomach and hug him good morning, until he breathes on me and I gag.
That’s the part no one talks about – the morning breath, that on your husband is expected, but on your almost-three-year-old is a disgusting shock.
***
It’s Monday, the start of our week again and I have so many things happening that I am alternately terrified and very excited. Good things will happen this week, I can feel it.
Just as long as I can keep up, it will be all good.
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I had a baby at seventeen, which contrary to popular belief did not ruin my life, or destroy my future. You’d be surprised at how many people will console you on a pregnancy if they feel that you are younger than the “perfect” age to be a mother. You would also be surprised at the treatment that young mothers receive from people in positions of authority, but I digress.
I could list all of my reasons for falling pregnant, but I’ve written them down so many times before that they sound trite. Needless to say, it was the right decision for me and my family and here we are, six years later.
When I was pregnant, and then a new mother, no one asked me what I “did”. Which suited me, because I didn’t know at that point. I was a mother, but my daughter was too screamy for me to think about what else I could do. My entire life was wrapped up in keeping the baby happy, feeding the baby, stopping the baby biting my nipple. While my friends were heading off to Uni, I was changing nappies and discovering just how in love you can fall with something you’ve created.
Two years after my daughter was born, I was pregnant again, with my son. When you’re pregnant, no one asks you what you “do”. You’re just a gestating vessel, the means to an end, a giant egg waiting to crack. Men avoid your eye (is pregnancy catching?) and women ask strange questions about your internal organs. Pregnancy is the only time it is deemed socially acceptable to ask a woman about her cervix.
As is the usual course of events when everything goes well, my son was born, cried some, grew some and eventually got to the age where I could leave him with his Daddy to go and DO things – which is when the inevitable questions start.
I was at an exhibition opening and someone asked me “what do you do?” and instead of saying “I’m a mother” I found myself saying the (only slightly practised in front of a mirror) line: “I am a writer.”
Which then leads to the inevitable questions about what do you write and where and so on. It took a few more months in front of the mirror to get those coming out smoothly.
You see, no one really cares what you DO, it’s just a way to start conversation.
I write things and I publish them on the Internet and 90% of society thinks that I’m a bit weird because of it – but I can ignore them. Anyone can be a writer, that is the beauty of it. Just like anyone can be an artist, or a musician, or a sculptor.
No one cares what you do to earn money – they care about what you DO because you love it. People aren’t interested in how you pay the bills (unless you might be helpful to them), they are interested in passion.
This is what I do. I am a writer and when people ask what I write, I tell them: I write a blog. It’s quite popular now and I really enjoy it.
Try it. The next time someone asks what you do, tell them what you love to do, rather than where you work. They might surprise you.
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