When procrastination strikes….

I'm on something of a roll with the topic, and very concept, of creativity at the moment. 

I've made peace with the odd bout of children's TV (definitely a post for another time) and found some burgeoning confidence thanks to a great deal of personal growth, self-discovery and a fairly major breakthrough (yep, another one for another time).

I have committed to practicing creativity inside and outside of my scope as a mother. I'm here, I'm ready to go.

So today after lunch Cherry and Violet took some down-time with the Octonauts and I came into my study and turned on my computer, checked a few social feeds, responded to some blog comments and…

sat.

What now? I've given myself full permission to create. I have a billion and one things on my list including, but not limited to: a new book pitch; redesigning my blog; sewing new dresses for Cherry and Violet; creating a mood board for my study; reading the range of books and magazines I have lined up for a quiet moment; a feature for the Telegraph; a travelling notebook to read and contribute towards; and a daily journalling practice.

All systems go!

All systems stop. Enter procrastination.

A pointless loop of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, blogs, Twitter again, oh look what's this link abou- NO STOP. Just STOP.

I took myself downstairs and opened my journal. Ignoring the wreckage of my kitchen post-lunch I wrote down every single thought that was in my head. It was very illuminating. Here's some of what I was wrestling with.

I can't think of a blogpost idea!
I haven't heard back from my editor at the Telegraph regarding my latest pitch.
My book idea feels too big to even attempt to start.
I haven't got much time! I need to use it productively!
The house is a tip.
There are actual flies buzzing around the kitchen.
The garden needs watering. The trough needs replanting.
If that fabric had arrived I could start sewing. But it hasn't. Even though I have plenty of fabric to practice with and am very rusty with the machine, I'm still holding off for that new fabric.
There's so much laundry that needs doing.
The kitchen needs tidying.
The toys need sorting out completely.
I can't connect the printer to the computer because I don't have an ink cartridge. We probably shouldn't buy anything unnecessary until after Noel has been paid.
I don't want to waste my time reading books and magazines! I can do that later.
I don't want to waste time creating a mood or inspiration board! I can do that later. 
I don't have time to 'get into' Pinterest.
I don't have time to redesign my blog.
Should I be paying the children attention instead of letting them watch TV?
Octonauts is nearly over, I need to get back to it! 
What am I going to make for tea? 
Why don't I meal plan?!
Do I need two notebooks - one for journalling and one for creative brainstorming and ideas?
Don't forget the travelling notebook! And don't do that thing you always do and leave it until the last minute because you're looking forward to it and want to give it special time and attention that never materialises so you end up rushing and doing a really half-assed job!

I looked at what I had written and thought, no wonder I can't get going with all that swirling around up there. Especially as I am clearly creeping into frustration and beating myself up, which never leads anywhere good. I'm totally over making myself feel bad to make myself 'better'.

Since I learned to observe and detach a little from my thoughts, rather than blindly accepting them as whole truths and following them to the letter, I have begun to really appreciate how flawed and often jumbled my thought processes are. What does come through very strongly though is a complete fixation on productivity and outcome.

My main fears around creativity and general time spent outside of mothering involve 'wasting' time. I feel like I need a result, an outcome, some proof for every hour - every minute - spent not meeting the needs and demands of my children.

It's quite understandable, because having such short snatched pockets of time in which to do so many things does create pressure. Although truthfully I think I have always thought this way, been overly preoccupied with outcomes. Our social and education system is pretty outcome-obsessed.

Processes rarely get a look in, both inside my head and outside in the wider world. Which is such a shame because 95% of the joy in any project, and in fact life in general, is in my humble opinion in the process, the journey.

But that's not to say that everything in my head was nonsense. It certainly was an epic attack of procrastination but some of it was still relevant. Despite the popular rhetoric that 'the housework can wait' I find that often, actually, it can't. Not just because of the flies in the kitchen (I feel compelled to point out that everybody on our street gets invaded by flies in the summer, it's not just me!) but also because if my house is covered in crap and all the dishes are dirty and we have no clean clothes, I can't really mother to the best of my ability.

I'm too busy falling over Lego and boxes full of bags full of boxes whilst looking for a cup for one thirsty child and a pair of shorts for the other or more likely the same child who has tipped previously-proffered cup of water all over herself mentioning no names here Violet.

I'm no neat freak but I do find the more cluttered my house, the more cluttered my mind, so I try and stay on top of the day-to-day carnage.

Once I'd finished writing I thought, what needs to be done here?

I got up, lit some citronella and washed up. As I did so, I watched my thoughts drift past, like the bastard flies still determinedly buzzing around the remains of our lunches.

One or two seemed worth noting so I jotted them down in my notebook before carrying on.

By the time I'd finished, I had a clean kitchen and three blogposts already written in my head, all ready and waiting for me after I'd spent the rest of the afternoon with Cherry and Violet and put them to bed.

And you're reading one of them right now.

One year teetotal

At the end of July I looked at my journal and realised an anniversary had passed. Quietly and with no fuss. I did nothing to mark or commemorate it. But I noticed it.

It's been a year since I last had an alcoholic drink. The picture at the top is me before I stopped drinking, the picture at the bottom is after. I think you'll see it's made a big difference.

OK, so the picture on the top is actually Cherry's picture of her Granny but it does look a bit like how I felt after a few too many.

I have never had a good relationship with alcohol and I swung from one extreme to another with it. In my teens and early twenties I was completely teetotal. I didn't even like the taste of alcohol and I hated its effect on people. I really had no motivation to drink at all as I found I often had the most energy and the best time of any of my group of friends. As the non-drinker I usually ended up driving to clubs or parties, and I could easily have a fantastic time on nothing but tap water and atmosphere, then drive home stone-cold sober.

As an added bonus I could always remember exactly what everybody had got up to the previous evening - myself included - and I never had to sit around clutching my head and wailing that I wished I hadn't done that.

Then when I went off to university I started drinking small amounts. I was always really careful not to have more than one or two drinks, as I'd seen enough friends overdo it and end up vomiting, passed out or being carried home not to want to end up in that state.

When I came home from university I got a job in a pub while I took a journalism course and perhaps unsurprisingly, I started drinking more. All of a sudden I got a real taste for it. I loved getting drunk, but I also loved the camaraderie surrounding drinking. I loved pub humour, tall tales of misdeeds fuelled by alcohol, I loved lock-ins or sitting outside after closing time with a group of friends until the early hours, and the waking up in the morning hungover but euphoric and giggly, usually with a good friend, piecing together the chaos of the previous evening.

I drank heavily all through my twenties. After a while I stopped drinking during the week, as I found I couldn't really function at work with a hangover any more. But weekends were open seasons. When I met Noel one of the main things we bonded over was our love of drinking, going out and having fun.

Only it wasn't really that much fun for me any more. More and more I was picking fights and arguments with Noel when we were drunk, bottling up everything I felt was 'wrong' with our relationship and letting it all spill out in a drunken, aggressive rage. More and more I was waking up on Saturdays and Sundays hungover and exhausted and with a lingering sense of self-hatred. More and more I wanted to rein it in, drink less, have more energy and more and more I found myself forgetting all of my good intentions after the first glass, drinking until I was drunk and then regretting it the next day.

For whatever reason, I have never been the kind of person who can just have one glass of wine, or even two. I always wanted the entire bottle and no matter how good my intentions when I opened it, it always ended up empty.

Being pregnant gave me a concrete reason not to drink and I never questioned it or wished that I could. I did have the odd small glass once or twice when I was pregnant with Cherry but it just made me feel bloated and nauseous. With both children I didn't drink at all until they were four or five months old, and then I would pump milk early in the evening, before having a drink, and offer the bottle of expressed milk later if they wanted to feed.

But once or twice I did breastfeed Violet after drinking because she woke so frequently and I felt deeply uncomfortable with it. All the information available suggested it would do her no real harm but that wasn't really enough reassurance for me. I wasn't interested in 'not harming' my child as much as being the best mother I could be. And more importantly I did not really trust myself. Half a bottle could, because it always did, eventually turn into a bottle. Or a bottle and a half. Maybe not tonight, or tomorrow, but sooner or later I would end up drinking more, and more. Would I still continue to breastfeed her?

I also found even the odd glass of wine had a huge impact on how I felt the next day. Even a small glass seemed to drain my energy. Increasingly I disliked and resented the presence of alcohol in my life. It no longer felt a part of me, of what I did, and it felt wrong and unpleasant to drink even small amounts around my children.

And so I decided to stop. After two pregnancies in quick succession it actually didn't feel like much of an effort. I rarely drank on weeknights so I didn't have to give up the classic glass of wine once the kids are in bed. And at weekends I was often so tired after a busy week with two young children and broken nights with Violet that all I wanted was an early night anyway.

One year on and I can honestly say I don't miss alcohol in the slightest. I don't miss one single thing about it, because my relationship with alcohol has always been turbulent. I never liked myself drunk, and I never liked myself hungover either. I hated how energy-sapping alcohol was and how small it made my outlook. I wanted more to life than pubs and bars and hustling the kids into bed so we could have a drink.

I was a bit concerned that my relationship with Noel might suffer a little if I wasn't drinking. Would we still function as a couple without alcohol, a glass of wine on the sofa with a film, a bottle with dinner on a Friday night? Realistically of course if all that bound us together was alcohol then our relationship was in trouble regardless of whether I drank or not.

Noel was concerned about boundaries. If I wasn't drinking did that mean I expected him not to drink? Would he offend or upset me if he had a beer? Would it be unkind of him - would he be rubbing my face in it, flaunting at me what I have decided I cannot have?

Me choosing not to drink certainly did have an impact on him and on our relationship, but not a negative one and I hope not one he has found hard to adjust to. He certainly says he finds me far, far easier to live with and be married to since I have chosen to stop drinking. I also find I am kinder, more patient, more loving and less aggressive with him and more able to speak my mind as and when I need to.

Not drinking alcohol is a decision completely personal to me. What other people do is their business and their choice. I would never stop anybody drinking in my company. However I would sometimes choose, and have chosen, not to be in the company of people who are drinking heavily or drunk. The way I see it the choice is mine. I can be present, or I can go somewhere else and do something else.

More than anything though I completely identify as a non-drinker. It feels like a natural part of my identity, probably due to my teetotal teenage years. In the same way that some people identify with a political party or with a lifestyle choice or hobby or movement, I just identify as a teetotaller. I never worry about being 'boring' or 'square' or 'no fun' or any of the other things we can sometimes associate with those who choose not to drink alcohol. I never even think about drinking anymore or wish I could have 'just the one'.

I think I'm still pretty good fun, I am sober and I am happy. I also want to say a big thank you to the lovely Jo Payton for her amazingly honest and inspiring blog Mocktail Hour which really gave me the push to stop boozing for good. I just love the internet.

What does self care actually involve?

Over the last couple of years I have been on something of an ongoing quest to work out what self-care actually involves.

I am completely on board with the concept and entirely convinced of the case to take better care of myself - firstly for my children and family, but more recently just for me. I am entirely sure that the better I look after myself, the better a mother, wife and person in general I become.

What's been more difficult about this is understanding what self-care actually is. Magazines, newspapers, websites and blogs are full of articles exhorting the benefits of taking care of oneself but I always find them quite light on the detail.

Generally, suggestions are limited to things like bubble baths, massages, spa breaks and solo visits to the cinema. In fact since the language and concept of self-care was embraced by the marketing and advertising industry you could be forgiven for thinking that purchasing toilet paper or bikini wax fell under the umbrella of taking care of oneself or 'pampering', an entirely hideous word with connotations of indulgence and superficiality.

I think that's what's bothered me about the textbook definitions of self-care, the connotations. There is nothing indulgent about taking care of oneself but it becomes portrayed as such when we're led to believe giving large corporations money we don't really have for over packaged products we absolutely don't need is a luxurious, empowering treat.

On a very personal level I found when I felt myself starting to get very tired and irritable and fed-up I would go for a massage or have a bath or take myself off for an afternoon with the full intention of recharging my batteries and emerging refreshed, energised and ready to embrace everyday life with open arms and marginally less heavy eyes.

How I actually felt afterwards was basically exactly the same but having had a nice half-hour, hour or even afternoon. Nothing seemed to move below the surface. I still felt just as tired, just as irritable and anxious at times, just as weary and fed-up. In fact I often felt a bit more irritable as I'd had my allotted 'treat' and I still felt just as drained and in desperate need of filling up my cup.

In the last six months or so I have begun to hone in much more on what self-care looks and feels like for me personally.

For me, self care is

First and foremost, taking the time to truly get to know myself.
This has mainly involved keeping a journal daily, beginning with morning pages and finishing in the evening with observations and notes about my actions, feelings and reactions throughout the day. Over time I have begun to notice patterns that I can then pick up as they happen, such as negative thoughts creeping in or times when I feel particularly tired or get snappy with the children - all warning signs that I am running dangerously low on inner resources and energy.

Listening to my body
It amuses me that people still think self-care is indulgent when in fact it involves a great deal of discipline and often putting aside what your head wants in favour of what your body needs.
Such as going to bed early when you're tired and have a busy week ahead even if you'd prefer to stay up blogging or watching TV or go on that night out you've been really looking forward to. Or getting up and going for a run or bike ride at 6.30am when you have the time, because you always feel so much stronger and more positive if you exercise but if you leave it until the kids are in bed you know you won't be able to face it. Or cutting right back on added sugar because you're feeling uncomfortable in your own skin and know you're eating too many treats instead of addressing the issues that you'd rather reach for a third cupcake than look into.

Allowing myself space
Harder than it sounds with two very young children! I have very little time 'to myself' and the temptation is to cram a billion and one things into the time I do have, make plans on top of plans, and use my downtime 'productively' at all times. Reminding myself that I will have time in future helps me narrow the seemingly exhaustive list right down. I might want to start on that book idea I've had in my head for the last two years, but it's probably more important that I write in my journal or just clear my mind and sit by myself for a while. I am becoming more and more convinced I am an introvert, which is at odds with my perceptions of myself over the last 34 years. One of the telltale signs is that when Noel gets home I am in no rush to pounce on him and offload about my day and get some 'adult' conversation. I'm more than happy to sit in silence with myself while he works out, and we can catch up later over dinner.

Making tough decisions
Such as deciding to stop working and completely put my career on hold. This is a decision I took more than a year ago and I have wound down and wound down and finally only just finished work 'for good'. But already I find little thoughts popping into my head like bubbles. Why don't I pitch an article on this or a book on that? Again, I have to keep reminding myself I have time. In a few short years, I will have more than enough time to write whatever I want. In the mean time, I have consciously chosen to focus 100% on my family, I have become acutely aware that for me personally to try and work around my young children is to split myself in half. Neither work or my children really get what they deserve from me. Please don't misunderstand, I know there are many MANY women out there who successfully balance work and family with all manner of different arrangements and circumstances. I am just not one of those women and the balance I have found is to choose to prioritise my children and family now, and my career later.

Reading, learning, thinking, growing….
I have a veritable library of books and resources I have devoured over the last year or so and from which I draw enormous amounts of inspiration and food for thought. I have also found some excellent blogs and websites that help further crystallise my thinking, or point me in the direction of more materials that I find useful. Not all of these resources are specifically about self-care, but the overall themes can always be drawn into that space. Everything is connected, after all.

And on a purely practical level, self care for me is
Exercising daily, getting outside at least daily, giving up alcohol, green smoothies in the morning, cutting out added sugar, writing in my journal at least daily, group therapy once a week, a massage as often as is feasible (once every few months or so), getting in the bath with my daughters as often as possible, eating actual and nourishing food for dinner and never ever going to bed on just snacks or toast, cutting right back on time spent on social media, embracing the written or spoken word instead of Facebook, reading as many books in the field of self-discovery, growth, parenting and child development, mindfulness and meditation as I can get my hands on, going to bed at 9pm most days, getting up at 6am most days, saying YES whenever I can but saying NO whenever I need to, using my phone primarily as a camera and almost never as a communication device during the day, pushing myself out of my comfort zone and going to events, groups and gatherings I wouldn't normally think of as being 'for me', picnics with my daughters, remaining present with my children wherever humanly possible, actively practicing positive thinking and keeping negative thoughts in check, endless reading around the psychology of happiness and motivation, switching off and watching a film with Noel every now and again, and immediately cancelling any plans and getting an early night the minute I notice myself becoming irritable, anxious or snappy or negative thoughts beginning to crowd in.

And on that note, I'm off to bed!

Half term

Motherhood can be really hard sometimes. I think the hardest part is the pressure we put ourselves under. For me it's to ENJOY EVERY MOMENT. I am conscious my children will only be so young for such a short period of time. I'm also conscious that, having chosen to have children so close in age, the baby years are already behind me and the toddler years will follow in the blink of an eye.

Which means these times now are all the more precious and I want to enjoy them all, I really do. But it's so hard sometimes! We've had a rubbish half term. I was so hoping to enjoy this holiday.

We had a few playdates planned and some outings and trips, the obligatory visit to Granny's house and a day out at Wisley and some fun in the butterfly house. February half term is always my favourite as it usually kicks off with or incorporates my birthday. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, Violet got sick.

Then I did.

Then Cherry did.

Then it was Tuesday already and all I'd done was wipe up sick and smell sick and deal with sick and generally been surrounded by sick.

We did make it to Granny's house for a very lovely afternoon and night, but the next day our trip to Wisley was a complete disaster. Cherry, still not 100%, fell asleep in the car on the way. That's always a bad sign these days. She rarely, if ever, naps any more. If she does sleep during the day it's really heavy sleep, she's groggy and upset when she wakes up and it can take her a good hour or two to really orientate herself again - then she won't go to bed again til 9pm. All in all, naps are BAD.

But she fell asleep, which meant she woke up groggy and disoriented and proceeded to scream and cry for the 50 minutes we were actually at Wisley. One thing after another - she was cold, she didn't want to wear her coat, she was hungry, we had to wait for a table, she didn't want apple juice, she wanted orange juice AND SO ON.

Eventually I took pity on everybody (myself included) and just took her home.

It's hard to know how to deal with Cherry sometimes. Much is made of ages and stages - terrible twos, threenagers - but I tend to just think kids will be kids and that as parents we tend to over-apologise for what is often completely ordinary and normal behaviour.

Some children breeze through the early years without so much as a blip, others hit every 'stage' going full throttle and stay there for ages. Cherry is a challenging, emotional, passionate child with a very defined personality and a clear sense of who she is. She is not malleable, easily influenced or obedient and she is prone to resistance, especially if tired or unwell - the more run-down she is the more resistant. She's a wonderful untamed spirit and I wouldn't change her for the world but sometimes she is completely exhausting and there's only so much I can give.

Today has been a struggle, although it did end very happily and positively. One thing I will say for Cherry, she always lets me know when things need to change. I've never really prioritised one-on-one time with either of my children thus far, it's basically been completely unviable other than the odd bit here and there with one of them.

But Cherry's made it clear that this has to change, and I can see that there is a need to carve out a small portion of time every day for just me and her. I'm not quite sure how we will manage this yet, my preference would be to get Violet into bed nice and early and have half an hour or so with Cherry before she turns in. But both girls are super-early risers and Violet is often tricky to settle, meaning Cherry could be left waiting for up to an hour for her 'Mummy time'. Plus after an hour of settling Violet and 12.5-13 hours of parenting I'm usually ready for a bit of child-free time to be honest!

The other option is the morning, we're all usually up some time between 5.30 and 6.30am and Noel doesn't usually leave until gone 7, so there is potential there. Mornings are not my preference, Cherry usually wants to play with Violet and is full of the joys, so really it's in the evenings that she could benefit from a bit of quiet, close, loving time with me.

The other thing this half term has once again highlighted is how much I need to be looking after myself. I actually struggle with that concept overall - I know I need to look after myself but realistically and practically speaking what does that actually mean? Cliches of massages and bubble baths abound, I love massages and yes I love a bath too but I am increasingly feeling it's my emotional and spiritual needs that could do with a bit of focus. More on that soon no doubt, in the mean time I found this an interesting read on that subject. And this, from the same site, on changing the shape of your mornings, which has become something of an ongoing quest for me.

I hope your half term was better than ours! Still, there's always Easter…fingers crossed.

A year of unravelling

'Another book?!'

Another parcel arrived for me today. Noel didn't even need to ask what was in it.

The fact he knew it would be 'another' book is actually significant on several levels. It shows that I have been reading recently. Lots and lots and lots, in fact.

Which means of course that I have the time to read. Enough that book-shaped parcels are shoved through our letterbox regularly. Enough for Noel to comment on it.

Which means that somewhere along the line, I have settled into this life as a mother-of-two enough to have regular and reliable evenings in which I can do everything I want and need to do and then, before I go to bed I can read books.

I don't know if it's taken me more, or less, time than is 'normal' to get to this stage, nor do I particularly care. Life is still unbelievably full-on a lot of the time and Violet's sleep is still at best erratic but there is more energy, more predictability and more shape to our days and weeks as a family.

Truthfully speaking one of the reasons the last 18 months have been so relentless and exhausting and draining and downright hard much of the time has little to do with the day-to-day aspect of being a mother to my two children. It has been prompted by becoming a mother to these two incredible little people, but it's been a process all of my own making and doing.

I have been, as it turns out, unravelling.

I only found a word for the mental and emotional process I'm still toiling through when I read This I Know by Susannah Conway. Unravelling is her word for the journey of self-discovery. Starting from a place where who or what or where you are is no longer tenable.

For her, the process was kick-started by the death of her lover. For me, it was when Violet reached four months and I realised the way I was attempting to raise her and her sister was incompatible with the people I hoped they would grow up to be. Which made me then look at myself and ask if I was the mother I really, truly and honestly wanted to be.

I wasn't.

And the process went deeper, I unravelled further, to realise that not only was I not the mother I wanted to be and by definition then the person I wanted to be - but I had in many ways no real idea who I actually was at all.

No idea.

It's not surprising. My life has changed irrevocably and at a lightning pace in the last four years. Having spent ten years building my identity based upon what I did, the vital question of who I am had slipped away.

And then there are the personal factors, the belief that to reflect upon oneself is self-indulgent, narcissistic and to be discouraged. The loss of fragments of myself every time I found myself admiring or inspired by another, because inevitably this admiration translated itself into feeling I had to become more like them, and therefore less and less like me.

Much of what I thought to be true about myself was built on the opinions of others, some of whom I no longer see or know, formed in most cases well in excess of ten years ago.

It turns out once you start questioning your beliefs and thought processes you realise how much of what you do is borne of habit, assumptions, or of just not knowing or considering any other way. The process of opening one's mind and heart to change - true change - is absolutely terrifying precisely because it involves questioning and challenging these beliefs. I wrote a little here about some of the beliefs I had identified about myself - none of them good - and it was from this starting point that I came to understand that just because I think or believe something, that doesn't mean that thought or belief is true.

Such a simple concept but once truly grasped, the implications are radical. I look at some of the most truly happy and alive people I know, and the one thing I can see they all have in common is that their minds are free.

Free from the tedious, limiting, exhausting cage of thoughts and beliefs and habits and patterns that has steadily built up and built up until it becomes so intertwined with our very existence we truly believe the world would crumble beneath us without it.

Initially I thought I was simply on a quest to become a better and more patient mother. I can say with 100% certainty that I have achieved this, but this ceased to be the aim long, long ago. At some point not too far into the process, it became clear that what I was doing was about far, far more than what kind of parent I am.

It was far, far deeper and it was incredibly scary. A small part of me already wanted to back out. I feared the end result. What kind of person would I become? How would the people who love me now feel if I changed? Would I change into a person that Noel could still love, would still want to be married to?

On a very real level, I feared losing everything and everybody I loved. But the only thing I feared more was not changing. Spending my life feeling lost, like my identity was swimming somewhere out at sea and I was paddling at the shore.

One of the practices I began was keeping a journal and as I was scribbling yesterday I happened to flick back to the date of my first entry. It was exactly one year ago.

One year and so much has changed. But also, so little.

I am still me. I am still a mother. I am still a wife. I am still loved by the people who loved me at the beginning.

On a superficial level, the only thing that's changed is I read more books, go to group therapy once a week and don't drink alcohol any more.

But underneath, everything is different.

This time last year life was characterised by waiting. Waiting for things to change. Waiting for life to get 'easier'. Waiting to 'get back to normal'. Waiting to be the person I was before even though this person was clearly a person I no longer wanted to be. Waiting for things to click into place, waiting for life to stop being so uncertain and difficult and challenging and such a struggle. Waiting to be a different person.

Waiting to be happy.

Now, I'm not waiting any more - for any of it.

I'm not waiting for anything at all.

I just am.

I am.

My stomach, my self

How it is, and how it was.

I grew up with women's magazines. My parents didn't like me reading them, but I got my hands on them anyway. They were a gateway into a different world, a delightfully girly world of fashion and makeup and skincare and pleasantly obvious quizzes and what he REALLY wants in bed.

All I wanted was to be willowy and ethereal like the girls in the pictures. I was confused and slightly in denial about my own body. Everybody knew there were only three body types. You could be tall and willowy and slender, you could be eye-poppingly voluptuous with a tiny waist and opulent, soaring breasts and hips, or you could be tiny and petite and delicate, waifish to the point of emaciated, with bones hollow as a bird's.

I didn't want the broad shoulders, wide ribcage and thick waist with which I was gifted. I hated most of my body as a teenager, from my wild hair to the keratosis on the back of my arms to the way my thighs touched together at the top. But my midriff was my absolute fixation. My bete noir.

I read from cover to cover any magazine that promised a flat stomach in five days. I followed wonder-workouts for the belly slavishly only to see no difference other than a burning, aching midriff after a week of angry, frustrated sit-ups.

I wish I could say that as I got older my distaste for my body left me. To some extent I have made peace with myself. My hair I have embraced. The keratosis I have accepted, for want of any actual solution, and I bare my arms in summer unsightly pimples and all. I can smile indulgently at the phrase 'thigh gap', shrug my shoulders and move on. My shoulders now actively please me. They are magnificent and powerful and I love them.

My stomach, not so much. And not just because it's been ravaged beyond all recognition by two children. The stomach, the gut, is the very centre of the self. The gut is where instinct and intuition lie. Until I am at peace with my stomach, I am not at peace with myself.

It's hard to be at peace with a baggy, stretch marked, mysteriously fluctuating midsection. It's always been my 'problem area', it's never been flat, it can start the day quite unimposingly and end it looking six months pregnant.

Once upon a time it was quite pleasantly softly curved - at the time of course I loathed every single one of the many millimetres I could pinch between my fingers. Now there are many more millimetres - many more. I am not shaped like a high-street shop model. Most cuts of jeans and trousers dig in in all the wrong places, creating extra inches, spilling ingloriously over waistbands that aren't even tight.

Looking at my stomach in isolation it seems very simple. If you don't like it, change it. Work out more. Do sit ups. Wear Spanx. Go on the *insert wonder diet* diet.

Only I'm pretty fit and you only have to look at me to see, objectively, that I do not need to go on a diet. Waif-like and ethereal I am not, but you would be hard-pressed to convince me or anybody that I have a weight problem.

I have been reading a lot by Geneen Roth recently and I have come to know that it's not my stomach that's the problem - a problem - at all. It's quite the opposite.

My stomach has the answer.

It's my stomach that has been trying to show me the way all these years, while I have raged against it.

My stomach is where I pin all my hopes and fears. My stomach is how I have delayed and postponed life, when life gets scary and real.

I will do X, once my stomach is flat. When I have got in shape and my stomach is nicer, I will buy different clothes. I will pursue a different path. I will do different things.

I will be a different person.

(Only I won't, because on the odd occasion I have had a flatter stomach than usual I was still me)

My stomach is an extraordinary thing. It's a living, breathing, flesh and blood barometer. I know everything I need to know about myself at any given moment, through my stomach. I know how I feel about myself, how I feel about life, how I feel about the world, based upon how I feel about my stomach.

If I am feeling tolerant and loving, my stomach is a gentle friend, the home of my wisdom, the once-upon-a-time home of the children I grew.

Cherry, 36 weeks.

Violet, 36 weeks

If I am feeling angry and frustrated my stomach is the blancmange-like colossus that stands between myself and everything I feel I should be, or want to be. It is the wobbly, white, porridge-like roadblock to my destiny. My destiny as somebody else.

My stomach is a chameleon. It is the changing, shape-shifting monster of my nightmares and the comforting haven of my dreams.

My stomach tells me the truth. I know things in my gut, my stomach shows me the way, it cannot be ignored.

My stomach wants - needs - to be trusted. It demands attention, it wants to be listened to, it will not deceive me.

My stomach, my self.

What My Stomach Did part 1. Cherry

What My Stomach Did part 2. Violet

A word for 2015.

Noel's out with the kids and for the first time this holiday I have a bit of time to spend to myself. So obviously I went on Twitter and read a blog written by Annie, which led me to discover a blog written by Ruth, which led me to discover somebody called Susannah Conway.

Straight away I downloaded her workbook Unravelling 2015 and now my day has a deliciously introspective shape to it. I can't wait to sit down and reflect on last year which was, for many reasons, my hardest ever.

Part of the exercise involves choosing a word for 2015, to keep in mind as something of an overarching theme for the year to come.

Before I even begin I know what theme will dominate my 2015, and so my word is….

….of course….

VILLAGE!

At the end of 2014 my brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew moved to Singapore. My sister-in-law is my best friend, my brother is about my favourite person in the world that I haven't either birthed or married, and my niece and nephew are Cherry and Violet's best friends and soul mates. We have lived with, or round the corner from, each other since 2008 and our children have grown up together.

Now they're on the other side of the world. My village has flown the village.

And so this year I need to address the loneliness they have left behind. I can't replace my best friends and my children's soul mates of course. But having had close family close by at all times, it's safe to say I've been pretty lazy about making new friends.

So this year I need a new village. Friends. Friends for the children, friends for Noel and I as a couple, and friends for me.

I want company and community. We all do. It's a fundamental human need.

I want to be able to pop next door and ask my neighbour to keep an eye on the girls for 20 minutes while I run an errand. I want to be able to text a friend and arrange a playdate for Cherry if she's driving me bananas bouncing off the walls and just needs another child to be childish with.

I want to look after friends' children so they can pursue their needs, and have the favour returned. I want to talk to friends about the future, find out their hopes and dreams, listen as they work out what they will do next.

I want a house full of laughter, I want friendship and company, connections.

I want a village again.

So, we've kicked off by inviting the whole street to ours for drinks and nibbles on New Year's Eve in the afternoon. So far we have no idea who, if anybody, is coming. Many people are away, many others will be busy with plans and friends of their own.

But even if it ends up just the four of us and one solitary neighbour who has absolutely nothing better to do, it's a start.

Gratitude

I have been reading up on gratitude lately. Having always self-identified as 'ambitious', the concept of focusing on what I do have instead of striving for the next thing felt counterintuitive at first. Shades of resting on laurels, or even self-indulgence. Sitting around slapping myself on the back instead of looking at what can be improved and made better.

But I find myself more and more agreeing that to live in such a way is deeply harmful. Not only does it promote dissatisfaction and a constant sense of deprivation - endless wanting without having - but also it means that, as the old saying goes, you don't know what you've got til it's gone.

Here are 10 things I'm grateful for this week:

1. A family party which has made us all feel warm, festive and loved.

2. Beautiful Christmas flowers from my brother in Singapore.

3. The way Violet holds out her bowl or plate with both hands and says 'Eee-ished' (finished) when she's had enough to eat.

4. Giggling with Noel and feeling really close and reconnected after a long, hard and tiring run-up to Christmas.

5. The kindness and generosity of my late grandfather, which has helped make Christmas a little easier for us all this year.

6. Sitting in our living room with the Christmas lights on.

7. Eating party food for dinner and chocolates at any hour of the day - or night.

8. Planning a New Year's open-house drinks party for our street.

9. A good friend with whom I can be completely open and honest.

10. The boots I have bought Violet for Christmas. They're really more for me than for her.

Acceptance

Christmas seems to have come very early this year, so I have decided to go one step further and get my New Year's resolution in pre-December too.

For the last couple of years I've written a fairly long list of pledges that have ranged from 'buy a house' and 'write another book' to 'become slamming hotty'.

I don't own a house and my last book was published in 2012. What can I say? At least I achieved the third, yeah?

Every year the list of pledges I don't write down seems to grow. I need to lose weight. Get my hair under control. Become more stylish. Be a better mother. Earn more. Work harder.

The resolutions can also directly contradict one another. Earn more money BUT ALSO learn to appreciate what I have rather than striving for more. Learn to love my body BUT ALSO shape up to the point whereby I could just wander into a Sweaty Betty catalogue. Focus more on my children BUT ALSO get my name out there more and write for the nationals on a more regular basis.

I'm so far past setting myself up to fail it's not even funny. When I think about all the things I have promised myself this year - and every year - I think one glaring theme becomes very clear, and that's that I feel I have to change quite fundamentally.

I've unravelled myself to the point whereby I can clearly see that I am practicing severe self-criticism, masquerading as 'self improvement'.

Every promise, every pledge, starts with the premise that I have to change something about myself for the better.

Every resolution hides a deep dissatisfaction with the state of things, the way things are, the way I am.

This year has been monumentally hard in many ways, for reasons far beyond simply having two very young children. As it draws to a close part of me will be quite happy to see the back of 2014. I will look back at some wonderful times, but some very dark ones too.

And so as I look ahead it suddenly seems very clear to me what my resolution for 2015 must be.

I want to be able to accept what I see in the mirror. Inside and out. I want to accept myself as I am, this moment as it is, my life, as it is.

So I suppose I'm still looking to change, but I think it's a change that is long, long overdue.

World Mental Health Day: Motherhood and my mental health

Happy World Mental Health Day!

I have become increasingly fixated upon the link between motherhood and mental health.

I'm not talking about post-natal depression, a condition I feel entirely unqualified to comment upon. I mean general mental health in terms of 'how am I feeling today' and 'I feel a bit low and I don't know why'.

Much like physical health, I believe mental health isn't a clear-cut case of 'ill' or 'well'. In the same way you can physically function entirely competently with a cold or an ingrowing toenail, most of us can function entirely competently with a fluctuating state of mental health and wellness.

But in the same way most, if not all, of us get colds from time to time, I also believe most of us have times of feeling more well, and less well, mentally. Stress, pressure, lifestyle factors, and how we feel about ourselves at the core can all impact how well we feel mentally.

As a lifestyle factor motherhood comes with a degree of stress, pressure and a great deal of being flung into the unknown. How we react and respond does depend to some degree upon our mental health and our levels of self-care.

Deep breath. Here's the honesty bit. I've suffered from a mental health condition on and off for years. All my life, I think. Certainly as long as I can remember. But I've never had a name for it.

I'm not, as far as I'm aware, depressed. I can get anxious but I don't suffer from anxiety as a condition.

I'm well aware of the 'symptoms' of my own particular mental health issue. It's best summed up as being 'my own worst enemy'.

Self-doubt, getting in my own way a lot, relentlessly comparing myself to others but always comparing the best of them to the worst of me so I cannot possibly win, self-sacrificing behaviour rather than asserting my own wants and needs, then resentment at 'once again' falling on my own sword.

Lack of faith in my own judgement, a tendency to make poor decisions then viciously attack myself for the consequences, impossibly high standards for myself that I wouldn't dream of applying to other people, a relentless quest for nothing less than utter perfection in many areas of my life - perfect mother, perfect wife, perfect body, perfect diet, perfect career, perfect friendships - and constant and tedious self-flagellation when I fail to meet these self-imposed and utterly impossible standards.

A conviction that I can cope with more than 'other people' and 'don't need' basic human rights such as privacy, time to myself, my own needs to be heard and acted upon, my own feelings to be expressed and heard and taken seriously. A strong aversion to accepting any form of help - then deep resentment when others take me at my word and leave me to my own impossible struggle.

It's only quite recently that I have come to understand that what I suffer from is known as self-hate and that it has controlled much of my life and many of my decisions for far longer than I care to remember. I have always had a curious way of making life hard for myself, always making the wrong decision then throwing myself into the battle to rectify the consequences, always struggling against an inner or outer enemy - always struggling, but always, always 'failing' on some level. Lashing out at those I love when I am feeling overwhelmed emotionally then hating myself afterwards, apologising out of shame rather than genuine remorse because I wrongly feel I cannot control my behaviour or actions when I am angry or upset, and I know on some level the next time I get upset it will happen again.

It's motherhood that has brought this self-hatred to the forefront and insisted that I acknowledge and confront it. Cherry has reached an age whereby she has become something of a mirror of me. Every decision I make, from the way I speak to her to the activities we pursue and the food we eat - is reflected back at me in tiny, two-year-old form.

Her diet? My diet, because I am not so hypocritical as to stuff myself with chocolate cake whilst she eats carrot sticks. Her emotional expression? My emotional expression, down to the phrases she uses and the manner in which she expresses them. Her anxieties? My anxieties.

Much of this is not spoken. I have never applied the appalling language with which I castigate myself (feckless, useless, lazy, stupid, selfish, idle etc) to either of my daughters verbally or non-verbally, but Cherry is highly sensitive and empathetic, MUCH LIKE HER MOTHER, and there is much she knows that she cannot verbalise.

The most surprising part of all this is how much I like what I see. I strongly love the parts of myself I see Cherry reflecting back to me. Her compassion, her lovingness, her empathy, her strong sense of self. Her conviction that her presence is healing, that she is enough.

All of that is her, but it is me also. Her personality is hers alone, a beautiful concoction of my and Noel's genetics and her own unique Cherry-ness. But her behaviour, her reactions - these are a combination of raw instinct and learned, shaped responses.

I have learned through my daughter that I have a strong sense of self-preservation and an empathetic and compassionate soul. These exist within me as strongly, stronger I hope, than self-hatred. These are what carry me and nourish me, these are the parts of me I have listened to at truly crucial junctures in my life.

I have learned through my daughter that I must heal myself, for her and her sister and for Noel, but more than that. I must heal myself for myself. 

Nobody deserves to carry around a burden of impossible standards and a side-order of near-constant self-flagellation.

I wouldn't wish that for my children and I wouldn't wish it upon myself.

I wouldn't wish it, truth be told, upon my worst enemy.

(If you have read this and thought 'that sounds like me!' then I strongly recommend reading an excellent book called Compassion and Self-Hate by Theodore I Rubin.)