Creativity and motherhood

Since having children I can honestly say I have never felt more creative, and more frustrated.

I found the process of pregnancy and birth stirred up my desire to write fiction in particular, but also my general interest in making, doing and creating.

Creativity as I experience it, as a process of flow from mind to hands to page, is a deeply alone experience. I shut out the entire world and that includes voices. I can get so absorbed in what I am doing that I don't even hear my own husband (or boss, as it used to be, or teacher, before that) calling for my attention.

And of course now I am a mother, I am never alone. I don't just mean physically, although yes I do spend large portions of the day (and night!) with a child on or about my person. I mean emotionally and mentally. The best analogy I ever read on this subject was that leaving your child physically 'isn't like parking a car'. Even when I'm not with them, they're always on my mind.

I think there's a deep biological fear around stepping back into that creative space, whereby my mind is fully focused on something outside of and unrelated to my children. Evolutionarily speaking mothers needed to have their children first and foremost in their minds and hearts, all the time - the survival of the species depended upon it.

But even more than that, it's the everyday reality of life with children that is often the most frustrating of all.

I have so many ideas - SO MANY - and like the fluffy airborne seed heads of dandelions or the witches on broomsticks about whom I read to my children, they float tantalisingly past me. I make a mental note to myself that is almost immediately forgotten in the everyday demands of life with young children. Somebody's bum always needs wiping or hands washing or stomach filling or shoes taking off or other urgent, pressing task.

By the time the need has been fulfilled, it's too late. The witch taps the broomstick and whoosh! They are gone.

I do find the frustration is eased by creating with my children, and our life together involves a great deal of time in nature, making, doing, planting, growing, painting, drawing, sticking, stirring and general making of enormous messes. Both Cherry and Violet love to create - I think all children do. They certainly love to make a mess too and I have always been happy to let them, even if as a result my home does terrify the more houseproud out there.

Of course all of these activities also stimulate the creative flow. I have noticed some really pleasing side-effects of life as a stay-at-home mother that I wouldn't have anticipated. My photography has improved no end, while I'm still very much point-and-shoot I can see a massive difference in composition and use of light and colour (although not in the photos of my children making a mess!). My home has the odd (very odd) little creative touch here and there, as does the garden. I can turn literally any combination of vegetables into a soup - that my children will eat.

And the biggest evolution of all is I no longer view creativity as self-indulgent, unnecessary, a waste of time or pointless. I can see that the process is valuable in itself, the outcome is not so relevant, and that doing what you love does lay the foundations for more and more of the same.

Motherhood has taught me the vital importance of remaining true to myself and what I love to do. It has showed me that I cannot enmesh my identity with that of my children and live vicariously through them, stand at the sidelines and coach, criticise and push. I cannot put the burden of my own frustrated creativity on them. I can't allow them to live my dreams for me. That responsibility is mine alone.

I can see ahead to a time when I have the self-belief to finish a novel and present it to my agent. I can see, no doubt many years down the line, a garden shed turned into a writing studio. But I don't just see my creativity limited to writing. All these things I make and do with the children - or just for myself - count. It's all creating. It's all connected.

It is frustrating still, on a daily basis. I have been reading The Rainbow Way by Lucy Pearce, a truly epic book on this very subject, and it has come as some kind of epiphany to realise that the way I feel about creating and motherhood is entirely normal.

There is ambivalence there. I have chosen motherhood first and foremost, decided that 'serious' creativity and career can wait - I do not regret that choice and I wouldn't change it. (I have considered childcare and at times attempted small amounts with Cherry that were successful to a degree, but by and large it's not for me or us as a family and that is a choice I am happy with).

But I think I can feel a little softer now on the sides of me that are frustrated, champing at the bit, counting down the months and weeks and days until Cherry starts school, Violet starts pre-school and I can take a huge, deep breath and be alone. I can see that this doesn't make me a bad mother. It just makes me human.

I can also see that if I adjust my expectations and perceptions of what I 'need' in order to create, and instead just look at what very small pockets of time are still available to me, I don't have to hang up my creative boots completely. I can still do. Just smaller things, smaller amounts, and expect it to take a lot longer. I can see that it's important I carve out some space at weekends, even just an hour or two, for that complete aloneness I crave.

And in the mean time, we continue to co-create. Because our house just isn't messy enough already.

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.

I have a second child

An awareness has been creeping up on me lately. I feel it every time I look at my journal and re-read entries and see Cherry's name on practically every page.

I sense it every time I am thinking about what to do this week, this afternoon, this evening, what to cook for tea or what stories to read at bedtime. I feel it every time I think about the future, our plans, our hopes and dreams.

Time and again when decisions are made based upon what's best for 'us', somebody isn't really being taken into account.

Violet.

Second children get many benefits out of their birth order, not least calmer, confident and more relaxed parents in most cases and the built-in companionship and entertainment of an older sibling.

But being a second child does come at a price. You are never, ever, ever the first. And often, this means you are never really the focus as your older sibling is always a step (or twenty) ahead, blazing the trail.

For the first year of Violet's life she was 'the baby' and clearly as long as her needs were met, her wants were also fulfilled. Her needs were relatively simple, as most babies are, and much of the time spent with Violet was physical time, cuddling and feeding and wiping and changing.

Now she is a toddler her physical needs are diminishing (although she still feeds like a newborn) and her emotional and social needs are coming to the forefront.

The age gap between our children is so close that there are few, if any, things Cherry can do that Violet can't. For that reason they pretty much always do the same things, and therefore the spectrum of 'things' Violet has been exposed to has naturally been limited by Cherry's tastes and preferences.

She also has a naturally sunny, open and contented personality. Simply put, Violet seems to like EVERYTHING. Cherry loves swimming but Violet is if anything even more of a water baby than her older sister. When Cherry, inspired by her older cousin, decided she wanted to start going to gymnastics, I found a class both could participate in. Although Cherry does love it, it's Violet who bounces in her seat shouting 'Yay! Dismatics!' when we are on our way to class.

In the last few weeks I have realised I must make a conscious effort to get to know my second child a bit better. I could tell you chapter and verse about her older sister - naturally I have had 20 months longer to get to know Cherry and at three and a half she is capable of grasping concepts and expressing herself in a way Violet is not. But I am falling a little into the trap of making assumptions about Violet as opposed to stepping back, observing and really getting to know her.

I don't think I am alone in finding that often I think or talk about my second child in relation to my first. Cherry is X, Violet is Y. Violet is this, but Cherry was that.

But such talk can become dangerous and drive children to occupy the only space they can find - the space that hasn't already been taken up by their older sibling or siblings.

Cherry is this and therefore Violet is that.

Siblings do, of course, heavily influence how we define ourselves and are defined as people. I myself am a second child, to a popular, intelligent, charming and well-liked brother just 15 months my senior and had I not been, I would not be the person I am now.

But I have always been emphatic in my need to be seen and heard separately to, not in relation to, my sibling.

It is imperative I offer my own second child the same courtesy - the same right.

I respect my older daughter's complex personality and I do recognise that her need for attention and affirmation is often greater than her younger sibling's. But our lives cannot simply be The Cherry Show. There is enough space to go around, Violet does not need to grow up in her sister's shadow.

What brought it home to me was the realisation that I have since last September had three mornings a week at home with my younger daughter, while Cherry is at pre-school, yet this week was the first time I have taken Violet to the playground across the road.

Sometimes we see friends, she will usually nap, then she is so happy to potter about that I can easily - as I have - spend these mornings catching up with housework, cooking, doing the odd bit of work and generally not paying her a great deal of attention.

Then before I know it our time is up and it's time to go and get Cherry. I have been with Violet the entire time yet she's had no one-on-one attention other than the time she spends breastfeeding.

As school for Cherry and preschool for Violet looms on the very distant horizon, it suddenly occurred to me I have only one more year at home full-time with my baby.

My baby, who will be two in August. My baby, who really should have been called 'Joy' as she is the living embodiment of it. My baby, who charms and wins over everybody she meets. My baby, whose speech, comprehension and physical mastery absolutely astounds me time and again. My baby, the reason I have not once at any point over the last 22 months NOT thought 'I could lie down and sleep RIGHT NOW'.

My baby. My second child. My last child. How glad I am to have this time to get to know her.

The walk to preschool

 Cherry has been going to a small Montessori preschool since last September. She goes three mornings a week, which gives our weeks together a shape and a routine.

The highlight of this is the walk to preschool. It's held in a church hall about a mile away, an easy walk down residential roads crossing one busier road, with a few good hills.

We are all early risers so getting out of the door in time is never a problem and our morning routine is predictable and fun. Cherry rides her little balance bike and I push Violet in the buggy, as although she's capable of the walk, it would be hard going getting us there in less than 90 minutes. As it is the journey can take up to 40 minutes and that suits me fine as it's just the best part of the day, by far.

We talk. We have names for each road - the straight road, the leafy road, the white flowers road, the road with the shiny stones. We observe and notice every slight difference. We discuss each difference in great detail, from the colours of the leaves to the goings-on in people's gardens.

We've passed exciting sights such as a broken down car, a toilet in somebody's garden, a cement mixer, a digger, a scratchy cat, several friendly cats, mushrooms growing up a tree stump, autumn blooms and berries, 'naked' winter trees and stoical evergreens, crocuses, snowdrops, daffodils, blossom, bluebells and now we're spoiled for choice as gardens explode into full bloom.

Sometimes there's roadworks and we have to find a different place to cross, and we talk about this in huge detail and speculate as to the reasons for the works. We watch red buses stop and pick up passengers and wonder where they might be going. We analyse the weather, ponder the chances of rain, wind, thunder, lightning, sunshine, snow and ice.

Cherry learned to read most letters in the alphabet by stopping at road signs and tracing the letters with her fingers, gradually recognising more and more of them. Sometimes we'll pass marks on the pavement or road and brainstorm as to how they got there. We talk about the seasons, identify cars (she can spot a Mini a mile off) and stop to pet passing dogs. Cherry has an excellent grasp of road safety, thanks to the amount of times we have crossed each familiar road and gone through the familiar routines of looking for cars. She tells me when it's safe to cross.

The walk is the same every day, but every day it's different. Something new will be waiting for us. Something will have changed.

I honestly think Cherry learns and absorbs more in these journeys than she does in preschool itself! (I don't mean any disrespect to preschool there, just that the rich opportunities a short walk offers really cannot be reproduced or bettered indoors) Violet joins in with our chats but mainly it's a time for Cherry and I.

I often give myself a hard time for not spending enough time one-on-one with Cherry, with Violet I obviously have the hours while Cherry is at pre-school but time alone with my older daughter is scarce. Until I thought about the walks to preschool and realised, that's our one-on-one time.

When I think about what I will miss when the inevitable happens (at the moment I'm completely in denial about Cherry and school) these little walks will be top of the list.

Thoughts on blogging lately

I have been thinking about just closing this blog down. I blog infrequently and quite erratically, I don't stick to linkys or projects, and its general existence bothers me as it feels half-assed and a very real and public reminder of my overall tendency to start things, not put in enough effort then sort of tail off and leave them unfinished.

*Exhales loudly*

I have concerns about privacy, I sort of want to write stuff and have nobody read it for fear they will take wild offence and comment saying I am a horrendous bitch BUT I also love it when people say they like what I have written or it has struck a chord with them. I worry about sharing too much, coming across as inauthentic and guarded OR messy and needy, and I worry about my daughters' privacy too.

I worry that all I do is write about and post pictures of my children and that all I am is a mother to my children. Then any time I think about what I might do outside of mothering I feel this enormous wave of certainty that at the moment this is my greatest work, and it deserves all of me for the short years in which it is so all-consuming.

I can't be the only one who has these mixed feelings about blogging (and mothering), so for now I have decided not to close it all down.

There aren't any real rules to blogging (well, none that I would pay attention to anyway) and that leaves me wide open. Which is one of the reasons I find it so hard.

I've been a writer my whole career, a journalist, an author, a copywriter and a creative. These are all very different forms of writing that require different skills, but what they do have in common is a requirement that I mask the 'me' in favour of the information, the facts or the message.

As I've been writing in this way, for money, for more than 10 years it's hard to unlearn these habits and let my own voice come through and write at length about me, me, me. The best I can do is write about my children and my feelings about being a mother but that's only a tiny part of the story.

But the blogs I love to read the most, and find the most inspiring, do exactly that. They tell the whole story. I do of course love reading about other people's children and looking at crafts, recipe ideas, photos, outfits, fitness updates, houses etc, but the posts I love the most are the personal ones, where you get an insight into the writers' real mind and real life.

That's truly inspiring. And seeing as I get so much from such bloggers, without their knowledge probably (must start commenting more) I feel I do want to give some of this back.

I read all the time, books on parenting and child development in particular but also around the wider area of personal growth. Being a parent feels to me the biggest opportunity for personal growth I have come across so far, and sometimes I feel I am raising three children, dragging parts of myself out of arrested development and into full adulthood. That seems to me to be a story worth telling even if I don't really know how to start, or how it ends.

What am I other than a mum?

I thought about my Instagram feed this morning (I mean who doesn't? I'm cathybussey1 if you want to come over and say hi) and about the pictures I post. Mainly of the children, some shots of flowers, nature. More of the children. Quite a few pictures of my feet. The odd selfie, but mainly if I'm in the picture it's with one of the girls.

I really hate all the fuss about selfies. Why shouldn't we take pictures of ourselves? Why shouldn't I take pictures of myself?

All I can see in my IG feed is a mother. Somebody who expresses herself through her children.

It's still self-expression of course because I share pictures of my children to say something about myself. You're still saying something about yourself with what you curate and choose to share.

I feel like being more honest about this. I want to share pictures of myself because ultimately my photos are saying something about me. So why don't I just come out from the shadows and say whatever it is I want to say myself?

At the moment as it happens I don't have a lot to say that doesn't involve my children. Which is I suppose something to say in itself.

I don't really know who I am other than a mother at the moment. I feel a bit at a crossroads. Violet won't start preschool until September 2016 when Cherry starts school, so I have another 18 months at home with one or both children full-time ahead. This feels like a long time, but the last 18 months have passed in the blink of an eye.

I am not entirely sure what I will do once I stop working at the end of April. I haven't not worked since I was 13 and the thought of not having an income or gainful employment or an identity outside the home is quite scary. Even the minimal amount of work I've done since Violet has added up to some form of identity. There have still been moments of excitement when emails about interesting jobs and commissions pop into my inbox. Confidence boosts at a good job done well, and a bit to talk about other than the children.

I will still write for the Telegraph and blog for Velo Vixen, a lovely women's cycling clothing website (please do go and check them out!) but other than that, everything is pretty open. And writing for newspapers and websites again relies on having something to talk about, although clearly there is plenty to say around having children.

If I'm honest I don't even know where this blog is going. I haven't really given it extensive thought. It's hard to give anything extensive thought these days, my children occupy most of the mental space I have available as much as the physical.

If I was reading this pre-children I'd think, how sad. Turning into 'just a mum' was something I dreaded and swore would never happen. Even after I had Cherry and knew I would never return to full-time work, not working was never an option. Even while pregnant with Violet and in the early days of her life, it never occurred to me that I wouldn't get 'back to normal' as quickly as I felt I did after Cherry.

I always thought I'd retain my own identity and having children wouldn't change me. That's flawed in many ways, but humans do resist change. I most certainly have changed, but in moving away from a previous identity I am still unsure as to my new one.

Most of the time being 'just a mum' is enormously fulfilling. I have chosen this and I have no regrets. But every now and again I will get a morning to myself (such as now, when I'm in bed with a cold while Noel takes the children to the park because apparently when they have colds they are BURSTING WITH ENERGY as opposed to when they don't have colds and are BURSTING WITH ENERGY) and the list of things I want to do is as long as my arm, but also quite short.

There's loads I want to do - start a book, a blogpost, a project - but when am I going to get time to finish it? If I'm going to do something for myself I want it to be meaningful and enriching, but what can I do that's meaningful and enriching in a few hours and before you know it, the children are home, climbing up onto my bed, bursting with energy, demanding kisses and cuddles and wanting to tell me all about their adventures, and I of course want to listen, because I am 99.9% just a mum and 99.9% happy with it.

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.

Letting go as they grow

I had a nightmare the other night (well technically in the early hours of the morning as I'd been up most of the night with Violet.) So as I was saying, I had a morning-mare the other morning.

I dreamed we were in Singapore with my family and my brother took Cherry to a fair. When he came home he told me he'd lost her.

In that illogical dream-like way, a translucent Cherry was by my side as I searched frantically for her, high and low. We revisited the merry-go-round she'd been riding when she disappeared. It was smoky and still. There was no sign of my baby girl and nowhere she could have possibly gone. I turned to my brother. The ghostly Cherry at my side had gone.

When I woke up Cherry - actual Cherry - was bouncing by the side of my bed. I have never been so relieved to see her.

I thought about the dream on the way to pre-school this morning as Cherry barrelled along ahead of me on her little balance bike. In a typically dramatic way, letting go and the associated risks are clearly on my mind.

The invisible rope between my older daughter and I has turned into elastic. It's stretching.

For the last three years and six weeks I've been entirely content that my role in life is to, slowly, become surplus to my children's requirements. It's to hold them close until they are ready to go, and then it's to let them. It's to help them learn to live in the world, and then watch them as they go off and do just that.

I am already not without regrets. I wish I'd held Cherry closer, for longer, when she was a baby. Back then I felt the best way was to urge her towards independence and I hurried her out of my arms, off my breast and gave her a wooden truck to 'learn to walk' with, a dummy to replace the comfort of my breast.

Then in her second year I felt I needed to reattach and re-establish the bond we shared. I held her closer than ever. I never urged, never pushed, never suggested she climb the bigger climbing frame as she stayed, content, with the smaller one. I never told her she was a 'big girl now' when she asked to fall asleep in my arms, never chastised that 'that's just for babies' when she expressed a desire to latch on whilst her sister was breastfeeding.

I know that my role is to nurture the connection and closeness I have with my children and trust them to move towards independence when they feel they are ready. I no longer 'help' them physically or academically, they learn things in their own time. If they're stuck or feel unsafe, I will try and help them verbally rather than physically (safety permitting, of course).

If they can climb up somewhere, my theory is they are probably entirely capable of getting down.

I have put huge amounts of thought, time, research and effort into coming to the conclusion that the less I interfere with my children, the better. They learn by watching me, so I watch my own behaviour and actions carefully instead of hovering over theirs.

I trust my children.

And yet. And now.

Cherry is running ahead of me, laughing as she plays games of her own, as I walk along at Violet's excruciating pace. She's hurtling around on her bike. She's sat proudly atop a fat black Shetland pony.

She's a whirling ball of energy and excitement and new skills and physicality and she swings between cautious and fearless.

All of a sudden I am heart-in-mouth. I am the cautious Mummy I never thought I'd be. I am fighting the urge to bubble-wrap her. To unzip my skin and put her back inside my body, keep her safe always, where no harm can come to her.

Having always believed so strongly in letting my children GO as they grow, now I have to put my theories into practice. I have to watch Cherry fall, and hurt herself, and cuddle and comfort her without trying to take her pain away for her.

I have to hold back my urge to scream CAREFUL! 100 times a day.

It's harder than I thought it would be. Knowing that I completely believe in what I am doing is one thing, but having to watch it and feel it is entirely another. I've always said I am far from risk-averse, but few things actually test your theories about yourself like your children.

I have no issue in trusting her to carry a china plate across the room, a glass of water, or any other breakable/spillable items or objects. She's been chopping vegetables with me with my sharp knife for a fair while now. I barely blink when she pick up a pair of scissors.

But watching her run so far from my side feels like another step entirely.

I have to trust her, and trust myself that I have empowered and armed her with the confidence and capabilities she needs for me to to let her go.

I wonder if it's this last part I find hardest of all. Her growing up feels so sudden and so fast.

Have I done enough, or by my own definition not done enough?

At least I still get hold her close when she does come back, because she is after all, just three.

(Good reading on this subject is Letting Go as Children Grow by Deborah Jackson and this post by Lucy, which apparently caused huge controversy but to be honest it just read like common sense to me)

The invisible link

The girl in these pictures has big blue eyes and thick brown hair. She is exuberant, joyful, loving and full of wonder. She is also passionately emotional and deeply sensitive. 

Life often delights her, sometimes it can overwhelm her. She draws comfort from loving arms and a sense of feeling understood and accepted, just as she is. 

The woman in these pictures is warm and wise. Deeply loving, endlessly giving. Becoming a mother gave her life definition, but it never defined her life. She has been and remains many things other than a mother, but she was and still is a mother first and foremost.

My daughter and my mother. Separated by a generation, their bond is entirely their own. Their link is seen but unseen. I see it so clearly in these pictures, in the girl and the woman.

I can see both the girl I was and the woman I am to become.

The invisible link, me.

My three new rules of eating: An antidote to Busy Mum Eating Syndrome

Last week I had something of a lightbulb moment when it comes to food and eating.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to lose half a stone. The most obvious barrier has always been a strong fondness for biscuits, cake, chocolate and general treats.

The quantity of treats and biscuits I consume directly relates to how busy, stressed, tired, resentful, frustrated and put-upon I'm feeling. When I'm feeling happy I can easily avoid them for days, even weeks, on end. If I'm down in the dumps it's a different story.

But a while ago I noticed no matter how many biscuits, cakes and treats I ate, I wasn't satisfied.

I was often over-full, bloated and even slightly nauseous, but I didn't feel content.

In truth, I barely tasted them.

And then I thought about it and realised actually I barely tasted much of what I was eating.

I've fallen victim to Busy Mum Eating Syndrome.

The meals I sat down to eat with the children were the only meals I ate that I actually noticed.

I was polishing off leftovers clearing the table without thinking. Picking at bits of their dinners without noticing. Snatching snacks on the go, wolfing down entire bars in two or three bites as I herded both girls out of the house and off on an adventure.

In the evenings Noel and I largely ate in front of the TV, at weekends I ate while browsing on my phone. Snacks and treats were consumed in front of the laptop in between updating Twitter and reading blogs.

The volume of food passing my lips that I barely even noticed was quite astonishing.

It's all entirely understandable. I'm a full-time mother of two children under three with a freelance career on the side, a family home to run and friends and family near and far.

What I eat and how I eat it isn't exactly important, is it? As long as I keep it as healthy as I can, can't it just slot in around other things?

Only we all need to eat, to live. And by treating eating as unimportant, something to just shove into my hectic schedule or revolve around the children's, aren't I kind of treating myself like I'm not important either?

In fact aren't I completely and utterly treating myself like I'm not important and that my fundamental human need to eat is nothing more than an irritating inconvenience?

 Pre-children. I still wanted to lose half a stone. SRSLY. 

So this week I decided to try something new and apply the following three rules to everything I eat.

1. Eat when I'm hungry.
Not because it's an allotted mealtime. Not because I might get hungry later but I won't have time so I'd better have a snack now. Not because I feel a bit restless, not because I always eat at this time, not because everybody else is eating and it'd be rude not to. If I'm not hungry, I'm not eating. And if I am, I'm going to eat whatever it is I want - yes, including biscuits - and give myself full permission.

2. Sit down to eat it.
Whatever it is, whatever I'm doing, wherever I am. If I'm going to eat, I want to notice and enjoy it, and standing up to eat is not conducive to enjoyment. The simple act of sitting down signifies permission to stop whatever I'm doing, take time out of my and everybody else's super-busy day, and nourish myself.

3. Do nothing else while I eat it.

No eating in front of the TV, reading while I eat, flicking through my phone, answering emails, having a chat on the phone, checking Twitter, writing a to-do list. NOTHING. Whatever else I want to do can WAIT. And if it can't wait, I can't be that hungry or want what I'm eating that much.

If you're hoping to read that I've lost that half a stone, I'm sorry to disappoint. I don't actually know how much I weigh and I've only been doing this for a matter of days.

But the difference is phenomenal.

If nothing else I have realised just how much I was eating - of all kinds of foods, not just treats and snacks - without registering what I was doing. How much I was mindlessly picking or shovelling my way through while my attention was a million miles away.

How much I was eating, full stop. I was clearing my plate in record time regardless of quantity, not eating what I actually wanted. Just piling through whatever I'd decided we would eat that day, based upon many arbitrary criteria but never 'am I hungry and do I want this?!' as quickly as possible so as to get on with the important business of everyday life.

But possibly the most curious discovery of all is that I often have no idea what I want to eat. I've so lost touch with my body, become so disconnected from my wants and needs, that if I begin by asking myself 'what do I want?' I draw a complete blank. I have to think of a few things and wait for something to pop out at me.

If you asked me, I honestly couldn't tell you what my favourite meal is.

I could tell you Noel's, Cherry's and even Violet's. But not mine.

It's been a bit of a wakeup call that I need to take the time to get to know myself a lot better.

Two children and me

Every now and again I read a blog by a parent of two (or more) children about how much easier it gets. Once you're past the newborn stage/sleep regression/crawling/whatever, they claim, you suddenly realise life is getting back to normal and you're not quite as knackered and feral and dependent on Hob Nobs as you once were.

What really terrifies me is these blogs are often written by parents with second children younger than mine.

I've got to say I don't share their sentiments.

Here's my take on the first year (and a bit) with two kids.

0-3m. Easy peasy

You're terrified about how you're going to cope with a toddler and a newborn but what you've forgotten is that newborns DON'T MOVE. Or talk, or do anything really, other than sleep and cuddle and eat and smile. Well, my newborn did, anyway. My main memories of this golden hazy time involve going to the park with an energetic but happy toddler and a sleeping baby in a sling. We often had lunch out, and lunch for Violet was always on me. Even with potty learning to contend with life was easy streets. I had this two kids thing totally nailed, although I was curious about what would happen when Cherry turned two not long after V hit…

3-6m. Manageable

At around 12 weeks V started to show her personality, which was contented, happy, loving and cuddlesome. At around 16 weeks she started to wake a lot at night. I though this was just 4m sleep regression plus cutting her first four teeth, and I was in general pretty well rested thanks to Cherry sleeping through at night and napping 2-3 hours a day. V also didn't like being put down much but that was OK too - what are slings for, after all? Admittedly leaving the house was a bit of an effort, but other than that I still totally HAD this parenting two kids thing.

6-9m. Intense

Shit, the baby's sitting up. WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN? I'm fairly certain with Cherry I practically had a day chart. I only found out V could sit up when she started doing it EVERY TIME SHE WOKE UP AT NIGHT, which is A LOT. And she's eating solid foods and I'm a baby-led weaning fan, so there's MESS EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME. It's all very well saying 'just leave the mess and concentrate on your children' but it's quite tricky/life-endangering navigating a floor full of Lego, puzzles, books, half-eaten apples, bits of banana, breast pads, drinks, dirty nappies, felt-tipped pens and used potties with a baby in your arms and a bare-assed toddler following you chattering nineteen to the dozen. But it's all fine, once she can crawl it'll all settle down. And once the two-year-old decides that going to bed at night isn't the end of the world. And that in general, one does have to put trousers and knickers on in order to leave the house. But it'll be fine once V is…

9-12. Relentless.

Crawling. Then standing. Then cruising. Cherry can't just go somewhere else now if V's bothering her or if she doesn't want to 'share' with her sister because V CAN FOLLOW HER. I give up any hope of V, and therefore me, ever sleeping again. The mess is unfathomable, the volume of laundry inexplicable. I repeatedly wash a pair of grey knickers that don't appear to belong to anybody at all but are apparently permanently soaked in something that could be urine, could be drool, could be tears, could be snot, most likely is all of the above and more. But that's OK because everybody knows it gets easier once the baby turns….

12-15m. Hardcore.

Ah, the old 'it gets easier after they turn one' chestnut. What part of having a one-year-old and two-year-old is supposed to be 'easier', though? The one-year old starting to walk and being able to talk? The four molars she cuts in three weeks? The understanding what will wind up the two-year-old and doing it, repeatedly, then running away giggling? The firing endless breastmilk into the ether because she's too busy for more than about three sucks a day, but she feeds so frequently at night you've still got the milk supply of a Jersey cow? Both of them repeatedly turning off the Hoover and giggling madly as I frantically try and avoid our home descending into the kind of filth some people would pay good money to watch on the TV? The sheer effort of getting a contrary two-year-old who doesn't want to go out then doesn't want to go home once you ARE out into the few items of clothing she will actually deign to wear, not to mention a constantly on-the-go, wriggling, squirming one-year-old who has FAR better things to do than get dressed, have her nappy changed and put on some shoes? THE TWO OR THREE HOURS SLEEP YOU GET A NIGHT?!

15m+. Mayhem

I can't comment on the rest of this stage as V is approaching 16m and Cherry is about to turn three. But the signs for it 'getting easier' aren't good. I now have two children so bursting with energy and joy and excitement that sometimes it's rather like herding puppies out of the house and watching them gambol away onto the frosty grass. I now have to field questions like 'Mummy, why is my fanny a vagina?' while the one-year-old staggers towards the dishwasher, finger outstretched, intoning 'BEEP! BEEP!', pushes all the buttons to set it on a fruitless rinse cycle, then turns and heads towards the cupboard with the battle cry 'SNACK BAR! SNACK BAR!'. I spend my days quite often laughing until I cry and, occasionally, crying until I laugh. Going ANYWHERE takes 100 years as you might have thought almost three-year-olds walk slowly, but I respectfully remind you they have nothing on almost-16-month-olds.

I now have two fully formed little people and the shoulder-busting responsibility of helping them to learn and understand how to live in the world.

I can honestly say that for me life with two children has got harder. It's not bad hard - it's good hard, the best kind of hard. It's deeply rewarding and joyful. But it's exhausting and emotionally draining and maddening and frustrating and sloooooow and flying by in equal measure.

It could be the age gap, it could just be my choices that are making it harder, not easier. But I suppose life is about choice, and the life I want isn't necessarily what's immediate and easy for myself or my children.

Joy, happiness and fulfilment, for me, don't come from quick fixes and solutions to ages and stages dressed up as 'problems'. I decided some time ago that my career can wait, but my children can't. They will only be this young for a very short period of time, comparatively speaking.

Thank Christ.