Just how many people have touched my knickers?!

While emptying the washing machine yesterday I had an awful thought - just how many people have touched my knickers over the last 6-8 months?

I ask, not because I am some scarlet women, free and easy with my favours to every Tom, Dick and Harry (...well, just Dick as that's my pet name for Biker Boy) but because we have had many child carers and cleaners in our home over that period helping us out.

Why? Well, we had planned to move at the end of last summer, but then we lost our buyers and the deal was off. However, being the considerate type, we had given our wonderful nanny T lots of notice to find a new position, and being so wonderful, she did indeed find one incredibly quickly. I had waxed lyrical to her new employers about how lucky they were to get her. I didn't overdo it for she truly was a catch, and I was genuinely delighted that T had managed to sort herself out so quickly with what appeared to be a very nice family. How I regretted the waxing. Come September, we were left without childcare but still with two jobs to go to. What to do? Luckily a good neighbour (those were the days of being in the thick of the community...) stepped in and took care of Cheeky when Lucky was at school, then fetched Lucky for us at the end of the school day. Cheeky didn't like that. He's not good with change and he had been really happy with T. For the following 5 months he moaned every day about going to the neighbour's house.

In the meantime, we had also lost our cleaner, so started a new temporary one, Z. Another pair of hands on my washing.

When we did finally move, we found a childminder to look after the boys. It was all done in a bit of a rush, but surprisingly, Cheeky adapted quite well to this new situation. Lucky didn't. Something was bothering him, and we identified quite quickly that there was a big clash between Lucky and the childminder's older daughter. It wasn't going to work. As the childminder had also offered to help out with the cleaning, you guessed it, more hands touching the undies.

Enter, stage-left, S (for Saviour). S has now been with us for nearly 3 months. She is an older lady who has been there and done that. Both boys are happy, Biker Boy is very comfortable with her, and I have to owe my blogging to her as she is incredibly artistic and creative and spotted the frustrated writer in me.

Just like those odd socks and the occasional pair of undies that go missing when they enter the great chasm of the washing machine, we've all been feeling a little bit lost of lost and disconnected of late. Biker Boy and I have had the continuum of work to keep us steady, but the boys have felt all the change and upheaval the hardest. As we move forward into summer, and settle into new routines, I give sincere thanks to S and the balance she has brought to our home.
And I pray and I hope that her hands will be the last pair of strange hands on my smalls for quite some time to come.

Big vs small

While out running with a small group of school mums the other night I realised that being thin is definitely a perception of the mind rather than a state of the body.

Bemoaning my marathon donut eating session earlier in the week, I managed to pant out that I needed to burn off a few calories. Immediately, all my fellow runners poo-pooed this and commented on my trimness, slender figure, thin frame etc etc...

Now, I am not dillusional and I can be honest with myself without being overharsh, but waif-like and slim I certainly am not (any more!) As my Bike Boy lovingly puts it, I definitely 'fill my trousers' and some more! But, looking around me, I realised that out of the 6 or 7 of us running, I WAS the slimmest one. For one small split second of a nano-second I was an object of envy, an inspiration, an aspiration...and it felt good. At that moment, perception became reality and for the first time in a long time I felt good about my body.

(Totally unrelated but very coincidental, I had a strange call the very next morning which turned out to be a model scout for Vogue Russia. Had news of my new supermodel thinness spread that fast and that far, I wondered? How we laughed when I told her I was nearly 40, had two kids and worked in marketing {and could just about squeeze into a size 12 on a good day - yes, that's right dear, a 12 not a 2...} Definitely a wrong number.)

This new house is very big - so much bigger than the London house that I feel a little lost in it. Whereas in the old house, on my days off, I'd get up and go into autodrive so that the house was put into order fairly quickly and with minimal fuss, now I am paralysed by the thought of the mammoth task ahead. The kitchen is the heart of this home with its open-plan layout and gorgeous view out to the garden, so I always start there to build the necessary momentum needed to tackle the rest of the house. No joy. Firstly, there's a telly in there, and I can be distracted by any old crap because secondly, there's an aga in there as well, and to loll on the aga with a cup of tea watching any old crap is really, really relaxing. Until Cheeky appears and in order to avoid his demands to build him something, play something with him, read to him or take him to the park, I have to galvinise myself back into cleaning up mode before I get distracted and it doesn't get done (again). In our smaller house in London, I wouldn't have had to put him off. I'd have been finished by now and we'd be off doing something, with someone, somewhere, as usual in our busy, busy day.

Something tells me I'm lonely in this big house, in this new town. I've never dwelled and dithered over housework so much in my life, but with nothing to do, noone to meet and nowhere to go, it helps pass the time.

The agency business has no time for dabblers

Today I read an interesting quote by Jeremy Bullmore, the advertising guru in Campaign magazine:

'More than most trades, the agency business has no time for dabblers. You're either in it up to your neck or you're nowhere.'

This made my heart stop momentarily as all the negative thoughts and imagined accusations about being a part-time agency person raced around in my brain.

What are you doing here?

Imposter!

You thought about about your kids a lot today and especially how Lucky is getting on with his party invites and even when you found out that you'd not won that piece of business which was pretty much a cert within 5 minutes you were on the phone sorting out a bouncy castle for the big day.

Up to my neck? Most days I wade about at about knee level if I'm being honest. I write my To Do list every morning, listing first all the work things to crack into and then listing under A.O.B home and kids stuff, a list that never ends. I like my job, I like my job a lot. I like my agency and the people in it a lot (except for the Moany One) and the clients I work with and the success we create for companies. I just don't love it the way I used to. I don't have the same passion and enthusiasm I had pre-kids. God, I don't have the time and energy I had pre-kids!

But this quote also made me think of being a mum as well - does the same sentiment apply? Is that another trade - the mummy business - I am dabbling in? Do two dabblings make a whole - and make it right?

OK, now I'm getting worried that I am a dabbler, a flake, soemone who doesn't make things happen and get things done. Going to check out meaning - back in a mo...

To dabble: - to undertake something superficially or without serious intent.

No, that's definitely not me. I always have serious - and the best - intentions! Both at home and at work. Feeling slightly better.

When I think of my sweet boys and their angelic faces, I go all gooey. I wonder what they're doing when I'm not there, and if Cheeky got on OK at pre-school today. I hope S (for Saviour - more about her later) has managed to get 5-a-day into both of them. I hope Lucky didn't spit today, a nasty habit he has picked up over the last day or two.

I think of their joy when I arrive home this evening, the kisses I will get and the noise that will overwhelm me and I'm wondering if this joy compensates for the upset I sometimes see in Cheeky's face as I tell him I have to go to work that day. Does he even understand that at 3? That his mummy is leaving him for the whole day and will see him for a 1/2 hour before he goes to bed? In this role, I am up to my neck and beyond, no question. Heart, mind and soul, truly, madly, deeply I am there 24/7, with serious intent.

ps - did you know it's national donut week this week? Arrrggghhh. I have been surrounded by the little blighters all day, pink ones, chocolate one, sugary ones, mini ones...secumbed to a mini one with chocolate on and had a 3 o'clock fix of a jammy one with a cup of tea.
Now that's what I call dabbling!!!

Surrounded by big ones

Cheeky Chops needed some new shoes now the weather has changed, so we made the journey to Clarkes en route to picking up Lucky from school. The nice young Clarkes' girl measured his feet on one of those scanning machines that force little ones to stand with their backs to the adults, hands pinned to wall and feet spread apart, like mini criminals waiting to be frisked for hiding their brother's mini cars in their pockets...She commented on the sizes of Cheeky's feet - 'sizes' being used deliberately here as one foot is a whole size bigger than the other.

Clarkes' girl: 'What big feet you have for such a little boy!'
Cheeky Chops: 'I'm 3 and I've got a big willy as well'

His comment was wasted on Clarkes' nice young girl, who was clearly not mature enough to handle such a comment and wandered off to the stock-room muttering 'that's nice.'

Mature is not a word I would use for the Moany One in the office earlier today. Tuesday is a work day, but I could only get cover for this morning, so had to leave at lunchtime to meet Cheeky out of pre-school and Lucky from school. Some days - OK, all 3 days I am there - I feel as if I have lived a lifetime before even making it into the office. Once out of bed, there's lunch boxes to tackle; stray dishes to clear away from the night before; little boys to coerce out of bed; school uniforms to get ready; little boys to coerce out of bed; quick shower; underwear on; boys, out of bed!; panic what to wear, clothes on; boys stop messing about and get dressed!; slap on a bit of make-up; threaten to slap a pair of bottoms...finally, everyone downstairs for a quick bowl of cereal and toast. Biker Boy is good to help in the morning. Somehow, we have fallen into a new but unspoken agreement. I hop around like a mad thing in the morning to get them up and dressed whilst Biker Boy takes a lesiurely shower and shave, then wafts down when they're sitting at the table and turns on the TV for them. I take the opportunity to sprint upstairs to finish make-up, to put on shoes and generally make myself look the part of the (part-time) Board Director of a respectable agency I am supposed to be. Quick wash of faces, brush teeth, fleeting kiss to Biker Boy which rarely even touches skin (he gets quite annoyed about that) and off we go into the car, Biker Boy waving from the porch and blowing kisses to his boys. This is just how he imagined it. No more long commutes down the motorway, no more hot and smelly tube journeys. His morning is leisurely, he can sleep 'til daylight even in winter and he can drive to work inside of 30 minutes, cross country with no traffic queues to contend with. He is happy. Half a mile away, I am guiltily indicating left once again, through the school gates into the car park at the far side of the school, as it is 08:58am and the second time we have been late for school this week (and remember it's only Tuesday...) I can see some of the mums out of the corner of my eye, standing around chatting, having dropped their precious loads off 10-15 mins earlier, probably commenting on the cheek of the new mum from London who continually flouts school rules by parking up in the out-of-bounds-to parents car park - WHY? there are always - ALWAYS - spaces to be had there - and then leaving one child in the car (Cheeky doesn't need much persuading - he's a lazy little fella. If his feet stopped growing, those new shoes would last 'til his 21st birthday) before lurching along with the second child who is a bit of a worrier and is concerned if I have given him peanut butter in his lunchbox as it's 'not allowed.' He also knows that parking in the school car park is 'not allowed' but I have convinced him that he gets special treatment as the new boy and next year we'll park in one of the side streets like all the other parents. He's bought it for now but hope he doesn't share with his teacher. Finally, he's in the classroom, I wave and nod then enter into a gentle jog to get back to Cheeky. Cheeky has just started a new pre-school and is a bit clingy, so I know it will take me quite a while to extricate myself and get back in the car and into work. Luckily, he is distracted by a climbing frame which has been erected in a side room and happily waves me off.

So, I finally get into work for just after 09:30am and I immediately hear the Moany One on the phone proclaiming how stressed she is and how much work she's got to cope with, yaddy ya, same old, same old. I take in her beautifully ironed clothes, her manicured nails, her blow dried hair, her painted toe nails and her perfectly made-up face and I think, stress? Walk a mile in my shoes in the morning love, then tell me about stress. Give me a million pound campaign to run any day of the week over trying to get two little boys and myself out in the morning, looking semi presentable and ready to face the day. I start to get ready for my 10 o'clock meeting and decide that I'll confront the Moany One tomorrow about the bitching she's been doing in our department and the massive porky pie she has instigated which is now doing the rounds.