I’ll Be Back…

So, last night I ended up watching Kirstie’s Handmade Britain. A show all about “queen of the homemade home and all things made”, Kirstie Allsopp and her craft-driven travels throughout the UK.

‘Nice’, I thought, before it started, ‘I’m down with this’. I like a bit of crafting. I made stuff with FIMO in my youth, I knitted my son a bobble hat last Christmas. Yes, the pompom on the top moults, and the way the headband leaves red indentations on his forehead probably wasn’t intended by whoever came up with the pattern and ok, maybe I did sob when I dropped yet another stitch and my husband suggested we ‘just buy one from Primark’ but you know, it’s still a craft. I’m crafty. I can totally watch this show.

Five minutes in and it soon became clear this this seemingly unoffensive little programme had been made with the sole intention of shitting me right up. Take a look in the Radio Times – that’s the very description they use. It was like Kirstie had bundled me into some kind of crazy time machine and fast-forwarded me into the future to give me a little glimpse of what life would become if I wasn’t careful. Kirstie was my ghost of Christmas future and what she was showing me was a world of 3D decoupage butterflies, women’s institutes and county shows. “Needle-felting is an absolute joy!’ Kirstie proclaimed. What? WHAT? This right here is a pitcure of a needle-felted Yorkshire Terrier from a previous show. Does this say ‘absolute joy’ to you? Because to me it screams ‘taxidermist on acid – RUN FOR YOUR LIFE.

not right

Seriously, is this what happens? Is this what I have to look forward to? Because I was sort of hoping that the hum-drum of now – the penny-pinching, the shit-shovelling, the general daily grind – was some kind of advance payment for a badass time in later life. Like, I know I might spend my evenings at the moment making bunting for my kids’ room (nobody say anything, I’m a bit fixated with bunting) but surely with old age comes the freedom to do stuff a whole lot more interesting that that? I don’t want to be spending my days making mosaic mirrors, beaded bookmarks and bitchy comments about some other woman in the WI who can’t get her knitting tension right. When I get older I want to be bombing around in a campervan, drinking dirty martinis before midday, doing a Man Vs Food-style eat-a-thon across the world’s greatest restaurants. Forget all the nicey-nicey stuff, where’s the fun in that? Life may be excitement free at the moment but that doesnt mean things can’t perk up once I’m older and the whole stay at home mum duties are out of the way does it? When you talk to your parents and grandparents they often speak of how infuriating it is to have a body that matches their years but a head that still thinks it’s 21 and as I grow older, I can totally get with that feeling too. In my mind, I’m like some kind Freaky Friday teenager trapped in the life of a grown-up and, kids or no kids, adult responsibilities or no adult responsibilities, I can’t ever imagine feeling ‘old’.

So Kirstie, while I can’t knock your dedication to crafting, I can’t help but feel you’re over-egging what is essentially a hackneyed, somewhat gloomy way of older life. Forget the WI, stick your county fair crochet contest, sell your Mary Poppins ideals to someone else. For me, the proper fun stuff in life isn’t over yet, it’s just on hold til I get the chance to go at it again

What Do You Mean I Need To Get Out More?

So whoop whoop, big-wow, I’m bored. DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, you shout. Let me tell you, I spend 90% of my waking day (and with my sleep-immune children, that actually encompasses much of the night too) thinking about what to do. How to escape, even just for a few minutes. The problem is, I live in Stepford – there’s not a whole lot to do around here when tedium strikes, hence me finding myself in more and more obscure situations. These are just a handful of the things I have done as a bored mother that I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have done pre-kids:

* Started knitting classes with a local woman called Ros. She had 8 cats, one of whom had sinus issues and snorted his way through every session. Not only did Ros tell me all about knitting and purling, she was also fantastically indiscreet when it came to dishing the dirt on Bob, a local tranny who commissioned her to knit his fluffy crop-tops under the pretence they were for his, somewhat masculinely-built, girlfriend.

* Signed up for a foraging weekend – one of my maddest experience of living in the sticks yet: a little light racism, double entendre that I only got the giggles at (bulbous sac? fat stalk? c’mon!) and a woman called Mo with an unnerving obsession with the deadly mushrooms. Oh, and this:

tee hee

* Developed a manic obsession with becoming a butcher. To the point where I enrolled on a course, carved up half a pig with a hacksaw and took the trotters home to my husband, waving them around like I was the deranged lovechild of Hugh Fearnley Whittignstall and Hannibal Lecter. “Look!”, I shouted, “they’re his feet! I cut the pig’s feet off!”. My husband took a few days off work  to ‘give me a bit of a break’ not long after that

* Asked an embittered, over-sharing gas man to ‘tell me more’ about his ex wife. Said gas man was then so pleased to have someone listen to the story of his tattered love-life, he returned the favour by telling me I was doing a ‘great job’ with the kids. I then cried. Crying. In front of a stranger. Hooray!

* Worked my way through the local college’s Adult Learning prospectus. Soft Furnishings. Breadmaking. Christmas Cake Decoration. You name it, I’ve either done it or at least put my name down on a waiting list for it. My husband threw the brochure away when I started making noises about cross-stitch. “Who are you, Kirstie Allsopp?” he asked. I of course took this to mean he thought I had a big arse, and we had a row. Hormones! Wahey!

* Bought more knitted food off ebay than any one person should ever have, let alone need

* Did this at Tesco. I totally don’t regret this one because it’s VERY funny:

ho ho

*Decided to become a face-painter. After putting the fact I have very little patience for my own children, let alone other people’s, aside and spending a small fortune on special face paints that don’t make kids’ faces swell up, this is what I came up with. Look at him! See how miserable he is!:

can we not just watch telly for a bit instead?

It wasn’t so much my children’s distinct lack of interest in my new-found career that knocked the idea on the head, it was more the issue of my son getting hold of and eating a full pot of body glitter that made me realise this wasn’t meant to be. You can’t polish a turd? No, but let me tell you from experience, eat a job lot of silver glitter, give it a couple of hours and it would seem you can certainly make one sparkle.

Bored Much?

The other week, I was with my husband’s family when one of my in-laws turned to me at the dinner table and said ‘so, still loving mothermood?’. Note, there was not an inch of sarcasm to her tone. She was deadly serious. She wanted an answer. My initial response was two-fold: 1) puzzlement – when had I ever given anyone the idea that I was loving motherhood? had I got drunk and said it? and 2) – holy shit, no. I do it. I do my best at it. I totally, honestly love my kids but do as to loving the actual job of being a full-time mum? Not so much. Of course, I didn’t say any of this. But neither could I lie. So instead, I did what any grown-up woman would do and faked my own death. It was easier than confessing to all of the above and I figured it would cause less of a commotion at the dinner table.

Fake death gags aside, am I the only one who doesn’t find it the best job in the world? Am I missing out on something? I mean the pay sucks. The hours are relentless. The holidays non-existent and only this morning my ‘employers’ decided to grab my attention by doing a poo in the shower, before going on to crap all over the carpet while I cleared the first mess up. And just in case that lacked impact, my son then gagged so violently over the smell, he vomited over himself. I don’t remember my last boss doing that. Although of course there was that incident at the Christmas party…December 2007, what a night that was….

mummy wants a cocktail

So anyway, no, as hard as I try to run with the whole stay at home mum thing, I just can’t convince myself that it’s the career for me. I know that for some women it is and while I often struggle to click with them and the stuff they talk about, I’m not dissing the gratification they get from bringing up their kids. In fact I’m pretty freaking jealous. As someone who doesn’t deal too well with the same-old, I wish I could take more pleasure in the day to day stuff. But I can’t. The fact is, I find it boring. There, I’ve said it. I’m bored. No fake death today. I am bored. Singing The Wheels On The Bus 47 times a day? Boring. Sitting at a soft play session while another mum takes 40 minutes to tell me about the time her son trapped his finger? Boring. CBeebies? A Godsend but honestly? When I do finally have my Falling Down moment and smash the shit out of the telly, it’ll be the relentless sound of Upsy Daisy screeching down that bloody trumpet of hers that will push me over the edge. How do I feel today, how do I FEEL TODAY? Sweet Jesus Tweenies, don’t get me started.