Posts
When I got my O-Level results, my Head of Year told me I had "an outside chance" of getting into Oxbridge. He told me I would have to work very hard in Sixth Form to get the right sort of A-Level results to get in and that I might have to face being unpopular with my peers.
I knew immediately that I wanted to apply and I knew that for me, Cambridge was the only choice for me. Years earlier, Dad had made sure that I saw both Oxford and Cambridge - I wonder if he was planting a seed even then. I say this as both visits to these cities were made on the way back from somewhere else and taking us many miles out of the direct route home. I remember sitting in a really dark restaurant called Fagin's in Cambridge as a child and then marvelling on arriving at Cambridge as an undergraduate that it was still there.
After a few weeks of night-clubbing in the Lower Sixth, my Mum sat me down and told me that I would have to apply myself if I was serious about getting into Cambridge. She was at pains to stress that if I worked on the pick and mix in Woolies it would be fine by her but that she honestly believed it would never be enough for me.
So in Sixth Form, I worked very hard and got the required results. My peers did not turn on me at all as I remember. When I got my results, I remember them all hugging me and being genuinely pleased for me. I was the first person from my school to get into Oxbridge and what an achievement for my Mum and Dad who had both left school in their early teens, Mum to become a weaver in a mill and Dad to a variety of jobs before joining the Royal Navy.
The Summer period was very tense at home with me terrified of leaving and my parents probably even more worried about how I would cope away from home. I had only done one sleepover with a friend in my life and was very shy. My brother decided it was best for everyone to take me on a long holiday to France to distract me and I am grateful still for such grown-up thinking. He gave me a lovely time seeing most of France, teaching me about wine and good food and perhaps most importantly, telling me of his times at the Royal Northern College of Music emphasizing all the fun I would have at college.
It was a sunny day in October when Mum and Dad drove me down to Trinity Hall, Cambridge to start a wonderful three years there. Why had I chosen Trinity Hall? Partly because it was known as the "lawyers' college" and I wanted to do Law and partly because it looked pretty and was on the River Cam. I do remember the alternative student prospectus saying that "the ducks were nice" and that just seemed so human and down to earth. Human and down to earth I could do - then and now!
We stopped off for a picnic lunch on the way and it just felt like a normal day out with my parents. That was until Dad pulled out the Good University Guide to reassure me that Cambridge was actually a good one! The second half of the journey went quicker and suddenly we were in the city itself with Mum and Dad arguing about how to get to college. As I recall, you have to break road traffic laws to get to where you need to be. Dad as an ex-policeman was quite comfy with this idea and Mum less so.
We arrived at the Porters' Lodge and got the keys to my room on N Staircase. I remember being thrilled that my name was on the sign outside all in white calligraphy on a black board. It made it all seem very real.
Mum and Dad made their goodbyes and I was feeling OK until Mum turned back to say there was some pork pie left from the picnic if I wanted it for my tea. At that point, I almost screamed at her and sent her on her way so she would not see my floods of tears. Years later, I heard how she had cried all the way home.
We shared bathrooms between 4 rooms and I bumped into Paula as we both wanted the loo at the same time. In the first days of Cambridge, you ask each other similar questions. What subject are you doing? What school do you come from? What staircase are you on? It turned out Paula and I were both from comprehensive schools in the North, both the first from our families to go to university and both reading Law. From this, we established a friendship that remains to this day. I used to cling to Paula and she used to hate that sometimes as she had an independent streak and liked to do her own things whether going to church, rowing or doing karate. On the first night, I irritated her by saying I had not been invited to anything whereas she had. Actually, I had just not found my pigeonhole (well, to be honest, I did not know what one was) which was stuffed with the same Fresher event invitations that she had already collected. We went to a first night disco I think and I think they put on the Madonna film Desperately Seeking Susan for us too. Like Milly Molly Mandy, I managed to make a fool of myself by getting locked in a toilet. Coming out, I met Rachel who also became a firm friend. Yes, most of my best friends have a toilet connection lol.
I went to bed that first night just delighted that I had actually spoken to anyone and ready to face the next exciting day. Now as an older and hopefully wiser person, I am so appreciative that my parents had the generosity to let me try Cambridge when it must have been so daunting for them and they must have questioned whether they were doing the right thing or not. Well, that one is easy to answer. I had a brilliant time and in a way, afterwards, nothing ever quite measures up to it. I would not have missed it for the world.
Friday, 21 May 2010
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Mum wasn't always easy
This post is not easy for me to write. It feels disloyal but I think writing it will help.
My mum died in September 2009 after a long tussle with cancer. When she was diagnosed, there was a period where I gave her a saint-like status thinking only of all the good things she had done, the hard life she had faced, the achievements she could be proud of.
Of course, like my guru Freddie Mercury once said "We are all a mixture of good and bad".
Mum was an amazing woman and if you read my posts from February 2009 until April 2009 (don't worry - there aren't many of them), you will see that I had a fabulous mother.
However, nobody could wound me as powerfully as Mum and I spent a lifetime trying to gain her approval. My brother once said that Mum was really good with very young children giving them magical moments and I believe that is true. However, once you started challenging her (something all children have to do at some point in order to grow up and break free), she was so very difficult. Even when I was quite small, if I displeased her, she would not talk to me sometimes for days at a time. There were slaps and smacks but I am not going to overplay those as it was the sixties and seventies when different childcare standards applied. No, it was the emotional stuff she could lay on me that I think have impacted adversely on my life. You see, I have never quite been good enough.
Growing up, I used to feel I should be grateful she had adopted me. Later, I realised that although there is no doubt I benefitted from a secure and stable upbringing and lots of love, she adopted me at least partly to fulfil her own needs and desires for a daughter. She wanted to give me all the things she did not have in the poverty-stricken thirties. It was not her fault that I was the sort of girl who wasn't interested in pretty dresses and thought bras, handbags and make-up were a complete waste of time and effort. She tried as a older mum to be so "right on". She held a tea-party when I got my first period and telephoned all my relatives to share the news of me "becoming a woman".She wanted to put me on the contraceptive pill when I turned 16 which was ridiculous as it would take me well over a decade after that to lose the big V.
So we battled and over the years, I became intent on making her proud one day. I did really well at school flying through examinations. The other children said I found it easy. I would say I found it easier but I still worked hard for those certificates. I did not go on sleepovers preferring to be at home with my head in a book or at the library taking research that bit further.
When I went to get my A-Level results, Dad took the day off work so he got the news from me first that I had got enough grades to get into Cambridge University. Mum was at the hairdressers and turned up much later. With an adult head on, I think she was so stressed about the whole thing that she booked an appointment as a distraction. When I told her the news, she burst into tears and was so happy. It must have been so overwhelming for her having left school at 13 to go and work in the mill. She had earned her Grammar School place but could not go as her brother took the King's Shilling so there was no money for her to go. Maybe, in her heart of hearts, she resented my success or the fact things were made so easy for me. She would say poignantly that to live in a place like Cambridge, she would clean and clean and clean. I knew, although I don't think she ever did, that she was bright enough for Cambridge - she was just unfortunate in being born in the wrong era, into the wrong circumstances.
I loved my time at Cambridge and it was hard balancing the two parts of my life which were so different. Working-class Dewsbury does not share much with the rarefied atmosphere of Cambridge. I came home talking a bit posh despite not wanting to do so. Cambridge was my everything and I wonder how much that might have hurt Mum and Dad who dutifully delivered me there every 8 weeks and handed over cheques to me that they could probably ill afford.
When my 21st birthday came round, I did like all the other students did and had a party at college. Mum threw a fit that she was not invited but it was a student party for god's sake. She saw it as me rejecting or being ashamed of her. She was the mistress of the long silence and the hard-faced meaningful looks. When I knew I had passed or whatever they call it when you know you are going to be handed a degree in a couple of weeks, I invited my best friend from school down to celebrate. Mum reacted to this news by telling me she would not attend my Graduation Day. This was totally devestating and it is only down to the efforts of two very good friends that I turned up for the day at all. Needless to say, Mum was down the road in a hotel getting ready in her specially bought outfit whilst I was going through agonies. She turned up fashionably late but there as if all was forgiven. Realistically, she would not have missed such a huge event for anything but that day is forever slightly marred by her antics and harsh words beforehand.
When I left Cambridge and later turned my back on any idea of a legal career, I think things were easier for Mum. She could cope with me having a "normal" job in Carlisle so we had many great weekends there together. I had a feeling she felt like she had got her little girl back.
But then 3 years later, I had the audacity to get a boyfriend and things got very rocky again ...
My mum died in September 2009 after a long tussle with cancer. When she was diagnosed, there was a period where I gave her a saint-like status thinking only of all the good things she had done, the hard life she had faced, the achievements she could be proud of.
Of course, like my guru Freddie Mercury once said "We are all a mixture of good and bad".
Mum was an amazing woman and if you read my posts from February 2009 until April 2009 (don't worry - there aren't many of them), you will see that I had a fabulous mother.
However, nobody could wound me as powerfully as Mum and I spent a lifetime trying to gain her approval. My brother once said that Mum was really good with very young children giving them magical moments and I believe that is true. However, once you started challenging her (something all children have to do at some point in order to grow up and break free), she was so very difficult. Even when I was quite small, if I displeased her, she would not talk to me sometimes for days at a time. There were slaps and smacks but I am not going to overplay those as it was the sixties and seventies when different childcare standards applied. No, it was the emotional stuff she could lay on me that I think have impacted adversely on my life. You see, I have never quite been good enough.
Growing up, I used to feel I should be grateful she had adopted me. Later, I realised that although there is no doubt I benefitted from a secure and stable upbringing and lots of love, she adopted me at least partly to fulfil her own needs and desires for a daughter. She wanted to give me all the things she did not have in the poverty-stricken thirties. It was not her fault that I was the sort of girl who wasn't interested in pretty dresses and thought bras, handbags and make-up were a complete waste of time and effort. She tried as a older mum to be so "right on". She held a tea-party when I got my first period and telephoned all my relatives to share the news of me "becoming a woman".She wanted to put me on the contraceptive pill when I turned 16 which was ridiculous as it would take me well over a decade after that to lose the big V.
So we battled and over the years, I became intent on making her proud one day. I did really well at school flying through examinations. The other children said I found it easy. I would say I found it easier but I still worked hard for those certificates. I did not go on sleepovers preferring to be at home with my head in a book or at the library taking research that bit further.
When I went to get my A-Level results, Dad took the day off work so he got the news from me first that I had got enough grades to get into Cambridge University. Mum was at the hairdressers and turned up much later. With an adult head on, I think she was so stressed about the whole thing that she booked an appointment as a distraction. When I told her the news, she burst into tears and was so happy. It must have been so overwhelming for her having left school at 13 to go and work in the mill. She had earned her Grammar School place but could not go as her brother took the King's Shilling so there was no money for her to go. Maybe, in her heart of hearts, she resented my success or the fact things were made so easy for me. She would say poignantly that to live in a place like Cambridge, she would clean and clean and clean. I knew, although I don't think she ever did, that she was bright enough for Cambridge - she was just unfortunate in being born in the wrong era, into the wrong circumstances.
I loved my time at Cambridge and it was hard balancing the two parts of my life which were so different. Working-class Dewsbury does not share much with the rarefied atmosphere of Cambridge. I came home talking a bit posh despite not wanting to do so. Cambridge was my everything and I wonder how much that might have hurt Mum and Dad who dutifully delivered me there every 8 weeks and handed over cheques to me that they could probably ill afford.
When my 21st birthday came round, I did like all the other students did and had a party at college. Mum threw a fit that she was not invited but it was a student party for god's sake. She saw it as me rejecting or being ashamed of her. She was the mistress of the long silence and the hard-faced meaningful looks. When I knew I had passed or whatever they call it when you know you are going to be handed a degree in a couple of weeks, I invited my best friend from school down to celebrate. Mum reacted to this news by telling me she would not attend my Graduation Day. This was totally devestating and it is only down to the efforts of two very good friends that I turned up for the day at all. Needless to say, Mum was down the road in a hotel getting ready in her specially bought outfit whilst I was going through agonies. She turned up fashionably late but there as if all was forgiven. Realistically, she would not have missed such a huge event for anything but that day is forever slightly marred by her antics and harsh words beforehand.
When I left Cambridge and later turned my back on any idea of a legal career, I think things were easier for Mum. She could cope with me having a "normal" job in Carlisle so we had many great weekends there together. I had a feeling she felt like she had got her little girl back.
But then 3 years later, I had the audacity to get a boyfriend and things got very rocky again ...
Monday, 17 May 2010
Remembering our wedding day 2 years ago today
Today is our 2nd wedding anniversary. Apparently, we are to buy each other paper or cotton gifts but right now, both of us are still to do so. As my husband says, being together is enough for him. As he rarely says romantic things, this is lovely to hear.
We married after ten years together. We had talked of it pretty much from the start of our relationship but I kept getting pregnant and having babies. I was determined not to walk down any aisle with a bump but realistically, by the time I did get wed, my tummy was huge anyway with no pregnancy to use as an excuse.
We got married in 2008 for a variety of reasons. One big one was that we felt if we did not do it now, we never would. Also my mum had been seriously ill the year before and it does focus the mind as to what matters. Finally, my oldest son wanted us to have the same surname as him which is a combination of both our original surnames.
We planned every detail of the wedding ourselves trying to steer clear of those package weddings that you go to where apart from the couple involved, everything is so samey. We could not get married in church as my husband was divorced. However, we were delighted to find that York Registry Office had a lovely church-like wedding room with pleasant gardens for photographs afterwards.
My mum was amazing as she did not interfere apart from offering to get a cake done for us. We would not have bothered but on the day I was glad we did when I saw a simple and elegant cake with a bride and groom on top. Dad paid for my flowers but gave me free rein on what I chose. I selected a very vibrant hand-held posy with oranges and purples. The girls attending the event were given sparkly wands with roses on. Button-holes were in red as my groom, best man and pageboy were wearing cream suits. Mum had a corsage and said she wanted it to be very fancy and so it was.
The night before the wedding, my partner and 7 year old son and best man had their stag do in a local hotel room. They stayed overnight and at one point had to come back to collect the orders of ceremony to take to the venue the next day. Partner and I took this opportunity to have a very late-night last minute consummation of our living in sin before we became official the next day.
I woke early the next day and went for my hair and make-up doing. I had already had a trial so was happy with what they were doing and very relaxed in their capable hands. My hair was put up and I had a flower in it rather than a tiara. My make up was subtle and the lady who did it said it brought out my Irish features.
I returned home where my babysitter and videographer rolled into one was looking after my excited 2 year old son and 4 year old daughter. I dressed my 2 year old thug on small legs in his cream suit and he looked stunning, like a tiny gangster. My 4 year old was in a lovely crimson bridesmaid's dress acquired very cheaply at the Designer Outlet in Hornsea.
At this point the babysitter handed my son over to my husband so that he would not see me before the ceremony itself.
I got ready but shock, horror, my wedding dress did not fit. Yes, I know I should have checked that before the morning of the wedding but those who know me will tell you this is fairly typical chaotic behaviour for me. Fortunately, I had 6 dresses to choose from having had a lovely few months ordering them from ebay. The dress that did not fit was a compromise as I knew Mum would love it. So I was secretly delighted when it did not fit and I could put my first choice on which was a detailed embroidered gold bodice with a simple skirt. The finishing touch which my husband and mum said made the outfit was a stole for over my shoulders.
As I was strutting round in my hold-up stocking and bridal bra, my Dad turned up and brought me a garter to add to the proceedings. I will never forget that moment and being incredibly touched by it. I got ready and suddenly it was time to go the Registry Office.
I was really concerned that Dad would not know how to find it but my partner had given me a trial run the day before so I was able to guide Dad and we arrived safely and on time. Dad had put white ribbon on his car and I felt like pinching myself. As an older bride, it felt lovely to be finally having my Big Day. Also to have my lovely 4 year old daughter with me and dad for the ride.
My brother opened the car door as we parked in the special spot in front of the Registry Office reserved for brides. He said the three things I needed to hear, one that I looked beautiful and two that all the guests were in place and finally my partner had turned up!
I sat nervously in the foyer with Dad insisting on taking my photograph. I sent my daughter to her Dad in the ceremony room wanting to gather my thoughts. The Registrar took us into a side-room and explained what would happen and what we should say during the wedding service. I heard the strains of Pachebel and was standing outside the ceremony room ready to go. What happened next?
We married after ten years together. We had talked of it pretty much from the start of our relationship but I kept getting pregnant and having babies. I was determined not to walk down any aisle with a bump but realistically, by the time I did get wed, my tummy was huge anyway with no pregnancy to use as an excuse.
We got married in 2008 for a variety of reasons. One big one was that we felt if we did not do it now, we never would. Also my mum had been seriously ill the year before and it does focus the mind as to what matters. Finally, my oldest son wanted us to have the same surname as him which is a combination of both our original surnames.
We planned every detail of the wedding ourselves trying to steer clear of those package weddings that you go to where apart from the couple involved, everything is so samey. We could not get married in church as my husband was divorced. However, we were delighted to find that York Registry Office had a lovely church-like wedding room with pleasant gardens for photographs afterwards.
My mum was amazing as she did not interfere apart from offering to get a cake done for us. We would not have bothered but on the day I was glad we did when I saw a simple and elegant cake with a bride and groom on top. Dad paid for my flowers but gave me free rein on what I chose. I selected a very vibrant hand-held posy with oranges and purples. The girls attending the event were given sparkly wands with roses on. Button-holes were in red as my groom, best man and pageboy were wearing cream suits. Mum had a corsage and said she wanted it to be very fancy and so it was.
The night before the wedding, my partner and 7 year old son and best man had their stag do in a local hotel room. They stayed overnight and at one point had to come back to collect the orders of ceremony to take to the venue the next day. Partner and I took this opportunity to have a very late-night last minute consummation of our living in sin before we became official the next day.
I woke early the next day and went for my hair and make-up doing. I had already had a trial so was happy with what they were doing and very relaxed in their capable hands. My hair was put up and I had a flower in it rather than a tiara. My make up was subtle and the lady who did it said it brought out my Irish features.
I returned home where my babysitter and videographer rolled into one was looking after my excited 2 year old son and 4 year old daughter. I dressed my 2 year old thug on small legs in his cream suit and he looked stunning, like a tiny gangster. My 4 year old was in a lovely crimson bridesmaid's dress acquired very cheaply at the Designer Outlet in Hornsea.
At this point the babysitter handed my son over to my husband so that he would not see me before the ceremony itself.
I got ready but shock, horror, my wedding dress did not fit. Yes, I know I should have checked that before the morning of the wedding but those who know me will tell you this is fairly typical chaotic behaviour for me. Fortunately, I had 6 dresses to choose from having had a lovely few months ordering them from ebay. The dress that did not fit was a compromise as I knew Mum would love it. So I was secretly delighted when it did not fit and I could put my first choice on which was a detailed embroidered gold bodice with a simple skirt. The finishing touch which my husband and mum said made the outfit was a stole for over my shoulders.
As I was strutting round in my hold-up stocking and bridal bra, my Dad turned up and brought me a garter to add to the proceedings. I will never forget that moment and being incredibly touched by it. I got ready and suddenly it was time to go the Registry Office.
I was really concerned that Dad would not know how to find it but my partner had given me a trial run the day before so I was able to guide Dad and we arrived safely and on time. Dad had put white ribbon on his car and I felt like pinching myself. As an older bride, it felt lovely to be finally having my Big Day. Also to have my lovely 4 year old daughter with me and dad for the ride.
My brother opened the car door as we parked in the special spot in front of the Registry Office reserved for brides. He said the three things I needed to hear, one that I looked beautiful and two that all the guests were in place and finally my partner had turned up!
I sat nervously in the foyer with Dad insisting on taking my photograph. I sent my daughter to her Dad in the ceremony room wanting to gather my thoughts. The Registrar took us into a side-room and explained what would happen and what we should say during the wedding service. I heard the strains of Pachebel and was standing outside the ceremony room ready to go. What happened next?
Saturday, 15 May 2010
The ectasy and the agony of the soft play centre
Personally, I am not the greatest fan of soft play centres. Most of them are torture venues with most of the space signed over to brightly-coloured cushion things for children to bounce on like lunatics. I can't help thinking children would be better off playing in the fresh air and making up their own games, building dens and so on. Or maybe if I am totally honest, I just hate sitting for hours on end in cramped areas buying over-priced refreshments whilst my eardrums get shattered. Plus as someone with a fairly fixed disdain for those of the male species, I despair of forty year old daddies trying to look cool as they throw themselves down slides invented for children. One saving grace is that although soft play centres are frequented by yummy mummies who must have had elective caesareans and a tummy tuck, they are also regularly visited by slummy mummies with baggy T-shirts and huge post-baby tummies. I fall into the latter category and am always relieved to see that I am now the only one who chose to enjoy the hospital food rather than do my post-labour exercises to get a super flat belly and stupendous pelvic floor muscles. Call me strange but I would feel really silly standing at the bus-stop pretending to hold a pee and let's face it, post 3 babies, you are usually actually trying to stop weeing most of the time and don't have to pretend at all!
In my valiant attempts to make new friends, I have started attending the local soft play centre. I must admit this is better than most in that there is plenty of seating for adults, good and affordable refreshements and a clear designation between the adult and the kiddy areas. As well as a good meeting point, it is also somewhere I could happily go and curl up with a good book whilst my thug on small legs rampages to his heart's content.
Yesterday, I went to meet a mum who responded to my lonely hearts advert on Netmums. I have met her once before and we seem to get on well. Getting on well in my land means that I feel confident enough to speak and hold a conversation. I don't know why I struggle to do so but in a large group, I seem to hide my dazzling wit really well and bore people rigid. Anyway, less of the negative self-talk and on with the blog. Ingrid is a really nice lady, very bright, works for the local authority and clearly finds parenting a mix of joy and challenge just like me. She is slim too but feels able to look at the disaster zone that is me. So things are looking good and I am meeting her next week for an adults-only trip to the theatre.
Major panic yesterday was that having arranged to meet her, the Netmums group also decided to hold a meet at the same place. How would I manage this? What is the etiquette is such situations. Oh my, oh my or in my case more like oh shit, oh shit!
When I arrived Ingrid gave me a wave and Krystal from Netmums came up to talk to me at the coffee counter. Ingrid was sitting at the table next to Krystal and Lucinda so I hoped it did not look too horrendously rude when I sat down with Ingrid. Now, my brain is saying all you have to do Kate is introduce these people but then I panic as the Netmums group is now an exclusive group and maybe that would not be the right thing to do at all and what if Ingrid wants to meet me on a one-to-one and not in a group and what is she turns out to be a Tory when the others are anti-Tory. Meanwhile, I pin a smile on my face and keep talking. About two hours later and a good two hours, Ingrid leaves with her children Michael and Emily for a lunch date.
By now the Netmums group has around 6 mummies and associated children and they have moved to a larger table. I sit there trying to look unfazed and again trying to work out whether I will look like a real cheeky bitch if I now go and sit with them. Louisa takes pity on me very kindly and invites me over. I spend a hour with them more listening than talking but at least included and that has to be a good thing and a big move forward for me. Try and say vaguely sensible or amusing things and have a lovely interlude playing with Betsy, Krystal's lovely baby girl who is sporting a Gucci number in pink with white spots. At this point, the thug on small legs that is my son turns up and throws a fit that I have had the audacity to move tables without a consultation exercise with him. He comes round with a cuddle and a sit on my knee.
We make our farewells and head for the charity shop for a bit of light relief before the school run. We buy "essentials" such as a bright pink sleeping bag and a V-Tech toy. Several attempts on the tombola with my son doing his usual and winning on nearly every tickets so we return home laden with shortbread biscuits, cuddly animals and the Holy Grail.
A good day all in all. Life is beginning not at 40 but at 41 and there is life in the old girl yet and more to come.
Thanks to all the wonderful women who are giving me a chance and making me welcome
In my valiant attempts to make new friends, I have started attending the local soft play centre. I must admit this is better than most in that there is plenty of seating for adults, good and affordable refreshements and a clear designation between the adult and the kiddy areas. As well as a good meeting point, it is also somewhere I could happily go and curl up with a good book whilst my thug on small legs rampages to his heart's content.
Yesterday, I went to meet a mum who responded to my lonely hearts advert on Netmums. I have met her once before and we seem to get on well. Getting on well in my land means that I feel confident enough to speak and hold a conversation. I don't know why I struggle to do so but in a large group, I seem to hide my dazzling wit really well and bore people rigid. Anyway, less of the negative self-talk and on with the blog. Ingrid is a really nice lady, very bright, works for the local authority and clearly finds parenting a mix of joy and challenge just like me. She is slim too but feels able to look at the disaster zone that is me. So things are looking good and I am meeting her next week for an adults-only trip to the theatre.
Major panic yesterday was that having arranged to meet her, the Netmums group also decided to hold a meet at the same place. How would I manage this? What is the etiquette is such situations. Oh my, oh my or in my case more like oh shit, oh shit!
When I arrived Ingrid gave me a wave and Krystal from Netmums came up to talk to me at the coffee counter. Ingrid was sitting at the table next to Krystal and Lucinda so I hoped it did not look too horrendously rude when I sat down with Ingrid. Now, my brain is saying all you have to do Kate is introduce these people but then I panic as the Netmums group is now an exclusive group and maybe that would not be the right thing to do at all and what if Ingrid wants to meet me on a one-to-one and not in a group and what is she turns out to be a Tory when the others are anti-Tory. Meanwhile, I pin a smile on my face and keep talking. About two hours later and a good two hours, Ingrid leaves with her children Michael and Emily for a lunch date.
By now the Netmums group has around 6 mummies and associated children and they have moved to a larger table. I sit there trying to look unfazed and again trying to work out whether I will look like a real cheeky bitch if I now go and sit with them. Louisa takes pity on me very kindly and invites me over. I spend a hour with them more listening than talking but at least included and that has to be a good thing and a big move forward for me. Try and say vaguely sensible or amusing things and have a lovely interlude playing with Betsy, Krystal's lovely baby girl who is sporting a Gucci number in pink with white spots. At this point, the thug on small legs that is my son turns up and throws a fit that I have had the audacity to move tables without a consultation exercise with him. He comes round with a cuddle and a sit on my knee.
We make our farewells and head for the charity shop for a bit of light relief before the school run. We buy "essentials" such as a bright pink sleeping bag and a V-Tech toy. Several attempts on the tombola with my son doing his usual and winning on nearly every tickets so we return home laden with shortbread biscuits, cuddly animals and the Holy Grail.
A good day all in all. Life is beginning not at 40 but at 41 and there is life in the old girl yet and more to come.
Thanks to all the wonderful women who are giving me a chance and making me welcome
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Other Half's Birthday
Today is my husband's birthday. Needless to say, he is much older than me but not a sugar daddy regrettably. Birthdays are a fraught topic with him as he does not really buy into celebrating them at all. I have to stage-manage my own to get him to take any notice of it and it is usually my 9 year old who takes him shopping and picks the right sort of gifts for me. So most years, I end up thinking that I will treat his indifferently and see how he feels but I always relent as I like a good excuse to shop and to party. Don't get me wrong. He would let me have anything I want but I sort of have to spell it out in words of one syllable for him to get the message. Like most women, I want spontaneity and to be swept off my feet from time to time.
I don't take it personally (well, not that often) as his daughters from his first marriage regaled me with how he would give them cash or vouchers for Christmas and then wonder why they were displeased with him. He genuinely does not get it.
I woke up this morning and actually forgot it was his birthday. I remembered within about 10 minutes but that's a bit bad of me, isn't it? Of course, it bothered him not a jot. We gave him his cards and pressies. I know he loved his books because they are right up his street being about all things aviation but enthusing he just not do. He thinks "sound" is a good word to express delights of orgasmic proportions! Myself and my family are probably over the top expressively but hey, at least we know how to live a little.
However, these days I have a secret weapon in the shape of my 6 year old daughter. She loves to party and will use an excuse to put out the banners, balloons and fancy table-cloths. So tonight whether Mr Grumpy likes it or not, we will be jelly and ice-creaming it with the best of them. Happy Birthday Darling and don't worry, it only lasts for a day!
I don't take it personally (well, not that often) as his daughters from his first marriage regaled me with how he would give them cash or vouchers for Christmas and then wonder why they were displeased with him. He genuinely does not get it.
I woke up this morning and actually forgot it was his birthday. I remembered within about 10 minutes but that's a bit bad of me, isn't it? Of course, it bothered him not a jot. We gave him his cards and pressies. I know he loved his books because they are right up his street being about all things aviation but enthusing he just not do. He thinks "sound" is a good word to express delights of orgasmic proportions! Myself and my family are probably over the top expressively but hey, at least we know how to live a little.
However, these days I have a secret weapon in the shape of my 6 year old daughter. She loves to party and will use an excuse to put out the banners, balloons and fancy table-cloths. So tonight whether Mr Grumpy likes it or not, we will be jelly and ice-creaming it with the best of them. Happy Birthday Darling and don't worry, it only lasts for a day!
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Making music
In my continuing attempt to get a life ( I used to have one by the way but it never came out of the Maternity Ward with me), I started going to a singing class for little ones. Held in a local church not far from where I live, it provided a useful point in the week where my son and I could go and still be back in time for the school run.
Usually, around 10 mums would attend with children varying in age from newborn babies to 4 year old thugs on small legs (The latter being my lovely son).
At first Cassie who was a real-life music teacher led the class complete with proper song books with words and pictures in. Later, on her return to work after Maternity Leave, Ivy the Netmums Organiser was left holding the babies and riotous older kids.
The class took the same format every week which I always found reassuring. Firstly, we would sing the usual nursery rhymes from "My Little Teapot" to the "Grand Old Duke of York" marching the older children into a frenzy and back again. My fave bit was when the instruments came out partly as I could hide my terrible singing voice behind the racket and partly because I enjoyed how my son would always choose the drum. This says heaps about his full-on personality.
Juice and biscuits would be served with my son complaining vociferously if he got anything but the blue cup.
My son is very excitable so would often either pull my T-shirt down as if he was offering my boobs up to the assembled babies or jump on my back with his 5 stones of 4 year old weight.
The babies would lie down, sit or crawl kicking their legs in time to the music and looking amazingly content considering the quality of the concert they were subjected to.
Another highlight was when the river arrived, this being a large blue piece of cloth accompanied by a green cuddly frog. Now, this frog had a life of its own I am sure. The children and parents would bounce it in one direction and it would fly off in another. Personally, I always thought this frog was running the class.
The next game involved hiding the children's body parts one by one under the blue cloth. Toes, knees, tummies, chins and then the whole thing. Huge hilarity when they were "found" by the mummies.
After Ring a Ring a Roses and the Okey Cokey and after those of us with older children trying to negotiate a swap, we would say goodbye and get on with the rest of our lives. For me, this would mean a wander round the charity shops and a visit to Munchies. Always felt better for having the courage to attend and to do something positive. Over time, I noticed two things. Firstly, having not sung and certainly not taken part in the dancing, I got more comfortable thanks to the support of the other mums. Support can be given in very quiet ways and as I can be so standoffish through shyness, this was brilliant for me. Secondly, the songs came together better as time went on becoming sweeter. I asked my brother who is a professional (Covent Garden etc don't you know?!) singer and he said this always happens in choirs too. Fascinating.
Music Class has now come to and end. I will miss it and thank all those involved in it for adding a little something that was simple but actually also quite fundamental in getting me and my son out and about again.
Usually, around 10 mums would attend with children varying in age from newborn babies to 4 year old thugs on small legs (The latter being my lovely son).
At first Cassie who was a real-life music teacher led the class complete with proper song books with words and pictures in. Later, on her return to work after Maternity Leave, Ivy the Netmums Organiser was left holding the babies and riotous older kids.
The class took the same format every week which I always found reassuring. Firstly, we would sing the usual nursery rhymes from "My Little Teapot" to the "Grand Old Duke of York" marching the older children into a frenzy and back again. My fave bit was when the instruments came out partly as I could hide my terrible singing voice behind the racket and partly because I enjoyed how my son would always choose the drum. This says heaps about his full-on personality.
Juice and biscuits would be served with my son complaining vociferously if he got anything but the blue cup.
My son is very excitable so would often either pull my T-shirt down as if he was offering my boobs up to the assembled babies or jump on my back with his 5 stones of 4 year old weight.
The babies would lie down, sit or crawl kicking their legs in time to the music and looking amazingly content considering the quality of the concert they were subjected to.
Another highlight was when the river arrived, this being a large blue piece of cloth accompanied by a green cuddly frog. Now, this frog had a life of its own I am sure. The children and parents would bounce it in one direction and it would fly off in another. Personally, I always thought this frog was running the class.
The next game involved hiding the children's body parts one by one under the blue cloth. Toes, knees, tummies, chins and then the whole thing. Huge hilarity when they were "found" by the mummies.
After Ring a Ring a Roses and the Okey Cokey and after those of us with older children trying to negotiate a swap, we would say goodbye and get on with the rest of our lives. For me, this would mean a wander round the charity shops and a visit to Munchies. Always felt better for having the courage to attend and to do something positive. Over time, I noticed two things. Firstly, having not sung and certainly not taken part in the dancing, I got more comfortable thanks to the support of the other mums. Support can be given in very quiet ways and as I can be so standoffish through shyness, this was brilliant for me. Secondly, the songs came together better as time went on becoming sweeter. I asked my brother who is a professional (Covent Garden etc don't you know?!) singer and he said this always happens in choirs too. Fascinating.
Music Class has now come to and end. I will miss it and thank all those involved in it for adding a little something that was simple but actually also quite fundamental in getting me and my son out and about again.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
My Dad
I visited my dad at the weekend for a couple of days. After Mum's death, I think we had a period as a family where everyone was trying to work out what to do and say. How would we cope without our Director of Operations? Eight months later and things become a little clearer.
I am talking one on one with my Dad more these days. When I was a little girl, we used to wash up together and talk in this way. Or we would go up the park to walk the dog and share our news and views.
What can I say about my Dad? It would be so easy to underestimate Dad as he is to some extent a quiet man who speaks when there is something to say. When I was little, I saw him as my Dad and the one who went out to work to support us. I remember he used to give Mum housekeeping money and how he would treat her to magazines once a week. I used to devour the problem pages of Woman and Women's Own, constantly seeking then as now for wisdom and the meaning of life.
When I was a teenager, I did work experience with a solicitors' firm in Bradford. Suddenly, I realised what high regard Dad was held by senior lawyers and professionals in the city. They spoke of a sharp business brain - this was perhaps the first time that I realised Dad never blew his own trumpet even though he has plenty of cause to for a life well lived.
My Dad served in the Royal Navy during and after World War Two. Unlike his colleagues who would go on drunken rampages, Dad would ensure that he took full advantage of going to new countries, immersing himself in the culture and learning about the ways in which other people lived their lives. He spent eleven years in the Police Force in the Forties and Fifties when community policing was a very real concept. With a rebellious streak that I have only recently learned of, he walked out on the police with no job to go to when he sensed unfair treatment. With no retail experience, he bought a shop and along with mum, made a huge success of it. They did not have childcare for their young sons and this means that they worked around them with my brothers having vivid and amusing memories of that time. He also turned his hand to driving instruction when times were tight to bring in some extra pennies.
Mum and Dad adopted me in 1970 by which time Dad was working in insurance. At the weekend, Dad suddenly said to me "You know, I was the age you were when I lost my Mum". I had known that his mother had died about one month after I arrived at their home. And to my shame, I had never before put my mind to how difficult a time that must have been for him. After two years trying to find a baby to adopt, they had their little girl. However, how sad, that his Mum should die just after I arrived. There must have been some very bittersweet moments for him.
So, I realise day by day, that I am still uncovering elements of who my Dad is. My husband went out for a pint with him and told me that Dad was telling him of how he did some karaoke in the Nineties to amuse older people at a community centre. Dad has won prizes for photography and taught himself to paint and then did a course to improve his standards. He is a good singer and sings in a male voice choir. One of his claims to fame is that he once performed at the Royal Albert Hall. I suppose what I am trying to get across is that because Mum was such a full-on character, she was often my focus. It is lovely to get to know Dad better and to return to how we were before I went off to university in 1987. He is doing OK still telling me when washing up to "watch that knife, it's sharp" and still laughing although weeping for Mum still too. As he tickles my 4 year old at the weekend, I sense a continuation - memories made all the time carrying us forward and strengthening us for the future.
I am talking one on one with my Dad more these days. When I was a little girl, we used to wash up together and talk in this way. Or we would go up the park to walk the dog and share our news and views.
What can I say about my Dad? It would be so easy to underestimate Dad as he is to some extent a quiet man who speaks when there is something to say. When I was little, I saw him as my Dad and the one who went out to work to support us. I remember he used to give Mum housekeeping money and how he would treat her to magazines once a week. I used to devour the problem pages of Woman and Women's Own, constantly seeking then as now for wisdom and the meaning of life.
When I was a teenager, I did work experience with a solicitors' firm in Bradford. Suddenly, I realised what high regard Dad was held by senior lawyers and professionals in the city. They spoke of a sharp business brain - this was perhaps the first time that I realised Dad never blew his own trumpet even though he has plenty of cause to for a life well lived.
My Dad served in the Royal Navy during and after World War Two. Unlike his colleagues who would go on drunken rampages, Dad would ensure that he took full advantage of going to new countries, immersing himself in the culture and learning about the ways in which other people lived their lives. He spent eleven years in the Police Force in the Forties and Fifties when community policing was a very real concept. With a rebellious streak that I have only recently learned of, he walked out on the police with no job to go to when he sensed unfair treatment. With no retail experience, he bought a shop and along with mum, made a huge success of it. They did not have childcare for their young sons and this means that they worked around them with my brothers having vivid and amusing memories of that time. He also turned his hand to driving instruction when times were tight to bring in some extra pennies.
Mum and Dad adopted me in 1970 by which time Dad was working in insurance. At the weekend, Dad suddenly said to me "You know, I was the age you were when I lost my Mum". I had known that his mother had died about one month after I arrived at their home. And to my shame, I had never before put my mind to how difficult a time that must have been for him. After two years trying to find a baby to adopt, they had their little girl. However, how sad, that his Mum should die just after I arrived. There must have been some very bittersweet moments for him.
So, I realise day by day, that I am still uncovering elements of who my Dad is. My husband went out for a pint with him and told me that Dad was telling him of how he did some karaoke in the Nineties to amuse older people at a community centre. Dad has won prizes for photography and taught himself to paint and then did a course to improve his standards. He is a good singer and sings in a male voice choir. One of his claims to fame is that he once performed at the Royal Albert Hall. I suppose what I am trying to get across is that because Mum was such a full-on character, she was often my focus. It is lovely to get to know Dad better and to return to how we were before I went off to university in 1987. He is doing OK still telling me when washing up to "watch that knife, it's sharp" and still laughing although weeping for Mum still too. As he tickles my 4 year old at the weekend, I sense a continuation - memories made all the time carrying us forward and strengthening us for the future.
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