Because The Term ‘Big Trunk’ IS FUNNY…

So, including the couple of weeks I did from home prior to venturing into the big, wide, often grubby but jam-packed with enough badass clothes and food shops to counteract any hygiene concerns, world of London, my one month trial as a full time worker is coming to an end. Yesterday, it was review time. Was my boss happy? Was I happy? Did I want to carry on?

No….I didn’t…..

Sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I’m just dicking with you. Of course I did. Of. Course. I. Bloody. Did. I’m having the time of my freaking life. And I’m really sorry because that might sound gloaty or showy-offy and I know, nobody likes a smart arse (yes, smug mum acquaintance who, after my request for hangover cures on Facebook, responded with ‘I’ve never had a hangover so I can’t help you on this one’ – THAT MEANS YOU) but if I tell you that, prior to coming back to work, I largely spent the previous two years crying, enduring 4am anxiety attacks and repeatedly berating myself for generally being shit at life, then hopefully me saying ‘actually, yeah, things are pretty good right now’ won’t make me seem like such a wanker.

So yeah, things really are pretty good right now. The job is ace, I work with a lovely, funny bunch of people – not one of whom has ever told me anything remotely passive aggressive about their kids and what they’re capable of – and as a result I am laughing a lot. Like, proper laughing where my face hurts, not manic laughing that has been instigated by my daughter rubbing yoghurt up the wall and, as a result of me being so exhausted, I can’t do what I want to do, which is cry, for fear of passing out (because obviously, me passing out = nobody to stop the kids getting those indelible ‘children’s’ paints out = another fucking wash to put on when I come round).

Where was I? Oh yes. So all good. Getting the work done, raising a lot of eyebrows (ok, raising BOTH eyebrows, that’s pretty much the maximum eyebrows any one person can raise) when anyone apologises for the heavy workload because seriously, compared to 6.30am-8pm of pure, unrelenting kids, a full-on day or writing and researching is genuinely a doddle in comparison, and feeling a whole lot better in myself and what I am capable of. Sure, I have guilt and there are still flashes of ‘my children, I have ABANDONED MY CHILDREN’ panic that run through my mind each day but I find I can usually stamp on these with a quick text to our lovely nanny to see how everyone’s getting on. Failing that, I just bob out to Urban Outfitters and look at pretty things until the worry dissipates (‘ooh, fake-vintage necklaces….Children? Eh? What?).

Anyway, chat with boss went well, I’ve signed up for another few months and hopefully many more will come after that. And, in celebration of this very news and of life generally picking up a bit, and in a kind of farewell to the stay-at-home mum in me, I thought what better way to remind me that I’m doing the right thing than with a little review of my SAHM cock-ups. The clangers. The bollocks I dropped. The opposite of highlights. Basically, the shit that happened when I was with my kids. I like to think of it as not totally dissimilar to the part in the Oscars where they show you a montage of who died and their work. Although obviously in this case nothing died. Except my soul, obviously, but I think I might have resuscitated that so dry your eyes and cancel the wreath. It was touch and go at one point, but soul hasn’t taken its last breath yet.

No. I’m not on drugs. Well, not illegal ones anyway. I’ll shut up now. Here are my motherly balls-ups:

After a particularly stressful day at home with the kids that had seen them throwing Whiskas around the kitchen, we had to then go to a bonfire party at the home of my husband’s boss. Through no fault of my own, and through every fault of the boss for having rosé wine when EVERYONE knows you should never EVER give a highly emotional woman with a screaming child on her hip rosé wine, I got drunk. About an hour into the party, I thought ‘sod this’ and, grabbing the nearest available stranger, handed them my baby, briefing them with the words “if her hands smell of fish, it’s because she’s been eating cat biscuits”. And off I fucked to get more wine.

Social Services In A Glass

Getting a serious, and somewhat inappropriate attack of the giggles at the local music class when, as part of ‘Africa Week’, the teacher encouraged the kids to join in with the words “come on kids! Dangle with me. We all like a big trunk don’t we?”

One Christmas, attempting to make my own mincemeat (don’t start), I had just bobbed in to Tesco Metro to buy a quarter bottle of whisky. Trying to channel my inner green goddess, I decided to say no to the plastic bag and just chucked the bottle in the nappy bag. Naturally, seeing as I apparently live in sitcom-world, who did I bump into just moments later, whiskey bottle sticking out of my nappy bag? That bitchfacesmuggysupermum who, just the day before, I’d been telling how fraught and desperate for a drink I was. ‘Hello alcoholic’ – that’s pretty much what her eyes said to me.

Scrambling around a church altar during a playgroup nativity service as my errant toddler, complete with bulging shitty nappy, took the opportunity of the diversion of every other child angelically singing Away In A Manger to leg it from me. There was a plus point to this, however – as we all filed out of the church, the hot vicar complimented me on my rugby tackle. Phwoarrrr, hot vicars totally dig a woman who knows how to floor a stinking 2 year old in a place of all that is holy. Get. IN.

Crying, in front of the kids, at Subo singing Both Sides Now on This Morning as they rubbed Sudocrem into my good coat. Hey, we’ve all been there, right? RIGHT?

Shit. Scary.

The moment when, as I was loading one kid into the car, my son decided to lean on the horn one morning after a particularly stressful playgroup that had witnessed me breastfeed my daughter CONTINUOUSLY for THREE FUCKING HOURS. This would not have been so bad if we weren’t parked up outside a church. Which we were. Or if there had not been a funeral taking place. Which there was. Or, had he not taken the precise moment the coffin was pulled from the hearse to start his honkathon. Which he totally did. My son heckled a corpse. Is it any wonder I quit full-time motherhood?

Dirty Dancefloor

I have officially been working for over a week now. A WHOLE week. In my terms, that’s usually more than enough time for me to have loved something, grumbled about that same something, reconsidered it, got itchy feet and started planning my next move. I wouldn’t say I was fickle, more…ambitious?…ever in search of life’s challenges? Ah, fuck it, I’m fickle. However, in the case of this lovely job stuff, I haven’t for a minute thought ‘should I really be doing this?’ or written a pros versus cons list (I used to do that a LOT) because it has, just naturally, felt right. I hope that doesn’t sound smug. It’s really not meant to and if it makes any difference, I am shattered and a little bit missing the lazy mornings when the kids were at pre-school and I could watch 90210 under the pretence I was doing some terribly important research on teen surf boys and their abs (good teens, you know, like over 18 and allowed and stuff). But, BUT, on the whole the ‘feeling right’ thing and not spending a good part of my day questioning my existence and worth is quite nice. It’s really nice, actually. After generally being a bit incompetent at being a full time mother, it’s nice to remember there’s something out there that I’m not so shit at.

Anyway, wanky-wanky-my-fragile-soul-wah-wah-wah-you-have-heard-it-all-before rubbish out the way, here are some other things I have learned this last week:

The GAP near the office is open when I walk past in the morning. Ditto Urban Outfitters. This can only point to one thing and that thing starts with me building a collection of more jeans than any one person could ever need and ends with the kids having to wear clothes I’ve made. Speaking as someone who once used staples to mend a hole in her top, I think you’ll agree that that is more than a fair trade-off and my children are actually very lucky to have such an innovative, creative mother. Who will make them new clothes out of staples and plastic bags

That, although yes it is still dark outside each morning, the blackened windows of the train carriage act as an excellent mirror for when I’m putting on make-up

Eyeliner application and a moving train do not a happy combination make

In order to get out of the house in time each morning, I need to plan my outfit the night before. A bit like when it was out-of-uniform day at school only this time around, I’m trying to work the ‘young enough to get asked for ID’ look, as opposed to the ‘old enough to get served Hooch at Bargain Booze’ look

Binge Drinking: The Glory Years

There is a really fit guy who gets on my train two stops after me. I must make sure to apply my make up within two stops

Bob, the buy in the ticket office, is my new best friend. So far we have talked about the snow, made noises of derision at the guy on the bike in just his shorts and skinny top (Australian?) and discussed a couple of South West Trains’ policies – namely pricing. I’m a little fuzzy about the details but it ended in Bob suggesting I dress as a schoolgirl to get discount. I went and waited on the platform at that stage

There are more places of lunchtime glory near the office than any food obsessive/anxiety sufferer can stand. Today, I think I will go the whole hog and do a supermarket sweep style run around them all, piling noodles, superfood salads, gourmet burgers, falafel, low gi, high gi etc into my mouth as I go. That is genuinely the only answer to this dilemma

If I don’t bankrupt myself on jeans, I’m going to do it via lunch

Four years ago, a Thermos cup in public would have been the social death equivalent of doing a poo on a dancefloor (anyone?). Fast forward to today and I refuse to leave home without it. I still, however, would not crap on a dancefloor

Stand Tall, Stand Proud: My Insulated Capsule Of Geek Glee

A lot has changed in music since I was last working and I’m not talking about The Zingzillas. Lana Del Ray, Ed Sheeran, Rizzle Kicks – I’ve heard these noises before but just presumed they were things young people said like ‘tings’, ‘bare’ and ‘you messing around in the wrong manor, blud?’ (no?). Turns out they’re actually real people what make songs. To get up to speed, this weekend I will mainly be watching a lot of YouTube

Either the lighting in the loo at work is really bad or I need to wear a lot more makeup

In my efforts to outwit a similarly apostrophe-obsessed, punctuation-enforcer, I have discovered a website called grammar-monster.com. Oh yeah, it’s like ASOS but better because it teaches you about adjuncts and doesn’t make you feel fat

My Kind Of Woman

While four years may have stripped me of any current musical knowledge, it seems time, and the mum thing, has taught me a lot of good stuff in return. Namely:

I don’t hang around. Having had to master the art of dressing and feeding two toddlers, sorting my own pallid face out to make it bearable for the good, good people of the outside world, make two reasonably decent lunch boxes AND leave myself five minutes to watch, then grumble, about Lorraine Kelly on morning telly, all in the space of 45 minutes means my mode is very much permanently switched to ‘time is of the essence, hurry the fuck up’. This, teamed with an occasional fall off the caffeine wagon into a double espresso, has made me quite productive within limited time scales. Handy when trying to knock up a 4-page pitch document within the space of a train journey

I can deal with noise. The radio, over zealous banter from very typical telly people who should be on stage not behind a desk, 16 different conversations going in, around and across me and the guy from IT talking me through the ins and outs of the intranet? It’s fine. I can concentrate. In fact, compared to Upsy Daisy and that ffffffucking trumpet, it’s like Enya’s whispering her harmonic sweet nothings as I work

Whilst still very much doubting my ability etc etc blah blah blah, I’ve also returned to the workplace with far less fear and much more of a ‘let’s have it’ attitude than I had pre-children. I imagine that is because nothing could be as shit-scary as raising children. NOTHING

Have a great weekend y’all.

@upyoursginaford

For The Love Of Cher, What Have I Done?

So, Thursday is IT. The big day. This week, after almost 4 years of being a stay at home mum, I am going back to work. Like, WORK work. In exchange for money, in an office, with a commute and an expectation to produce stuff other than Play-Doh-dog-poo and four-letter words with the alphabetti-spaghetti. And you know, it’s a good job I’m naturally such a laid-back, whatever-will-be-will-be, kind of person, otherwise I’d be totally crapping it right now.

Alright. I’m totally crapping it right now.

Anyway, in honour of my angst and all-round obsessive, anxious nature, and to explain the mad-ass run of emotions having a house party in my head, I’ve created a little pie chart. Would you like to see it? Would you? No. WAIT. Don’t make that snoring sound. See it. It’s got colours and everything. Go on, give the pie chart a chance…

For The Love Of Cher, What Have I Done?

Firstly, can I point out that the Cher to whom I refer is Cher-Cher. The Cher. The one who straddles cannons in her knickers and once closed a show by riding on stage atop a life-size papier mache elephant. Not X Factor boo-hoo-er and jagger of the swagger, Cher Lloyd.

Secondly, as the big slab of red pie suggests, What Have I Done is definitely my overriding emotion. A real sense of what the FREAK am I thinking? It’s a lovely little combo of worry, fear and confidence issues, all of which join forces and like nothing more than to wake me up at 3am, asking me a gazillion different questions. Will the kids be ok? Can you manage the commute? What about the work? It has been FOUR YEARS Abby, can you do it? Do you think maybe your employers made a mistake? Hey? Do you? Do you? Oi Abby, take the pillow off your head, WE’RE TALKING TO YOU.

The kid stuff, I try to reassure myself by thinking of the pros. The weekends that will be more fun because I’m not so stressed or frustrated or plain depressed. That their dad will be spending more time with them. That I will still get to see them every night and that the time I am with them, I will appreciate more. And hopefully, that they will appreciate me a bit more because right now, as things stand, the days we are spending together are getting increasingly stressful for all of us. Is it bad to say that? I think it might be. I just find it hard to hide my emotions and when those emotions revolve around me being so bloody bored and miserable, the kids respond by getting equally pissed-off. We need this time apart so that the periods we do have together are more fulfilling and enjoyable. I’m aware this all probably sounds quite mean and selfish and completely un-maternal but all of the above is not meant to suggest I won’t miss them, because I will, a lot, and that’s another corner from which a worry creeps.

Then there is the work itself. For anyone who ever had any long-lasting doubts as to the validity of their achievements, you need to read about Imposter Syndrome because it seems it could be an actual bloody condition. Right, I know this sounds a bit bollocky but a friend put me on to it and reading the details made me go all shivery with recognition:

“The impostor syndrome, sometimes called impostor phenomenon or fraud syndrome, is a psychological phenomenon in which people are unable to internalise their accomplishments….despite external evidence of their competence, those with the syndrome remain convinced that they are frauds and do not deserve the success they have achieved. Proof of success is dismissed as luck, timing, or as a result of deceiving others”

Seriously, Wikipedia may as well have just put a photo of me with this piece (a nice Instagram one. With a sepia tint and red-eye reduction) because this is how I feel EVERY SHITTING DAY. That I’m going to be found out. That people have got me wrong. That any praise I get is because people feel sorry for me. That any success is a fluke. Yada-yada-does-this-make-me-mental-are-you-backing-away-slowly-making-excuses-about-having-left-the-oven-on-just-so-you-can-escape? So yeah, another worry is that I’m going to go to work, get in a meeting and the only impact I’m going to make to my new colleagues is that of a mis-hired, bungling goon. My writing? They’ll think it’s shit. My ideas? Laughable. You know that time Alan Partridge pitched his ideas of Inner-City Sumo, Cooking In Prison and Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank to the guy from the BBC? That’s how I imagine my first day will be. Me clamorouring for good, witty, intelligent ideas and instead shouting out a load of random words.

You know what, I’m even getting on my own nerves now. Let’s move on to the next one.

What To Wear

Moving seemlessly from borderline emotional disorders to clothes. A bit like the time I was on LK Today and they preceded an ‘in-depth’ talk about body issues with Kool and The Gang miming Celebration. Or like when Pip Schofield interviews a domestic abuse victim on This Morning then moves swiftly on to a feature about swiss rolls. I’m digressing. Anyway, you know, for anyone starting a new job, officewear is an important matter. And of course, an always-welcome excuse to go shopping. So yesterday, that’s what I did. What you need to know is that I’m re-entering the world of telly. A realm that, from what I remember, is populated by people who look like T4 presenters. Boys who look like younger, less drug-ravaged Pete Dochertys and girls who rock the dress-down look in a way I never could. Their version of festival chic channels the likes of Alexa Chung, Sienna Miller and Kate Moss. Mine takes inspiration from Charlie Dimmock and Mr Bloom. Yep, if memory serves right, my colleagues are going to be a good decade younger than me and at least 3 stone lighter (probably following a tapeworm they picked up whilst travelling around India over Christmas) and was with this notion in mind that I hit the high street. Thankfully, the one thing my age-cultivated wisdom told me was that while the high street offers a treasure trest of fashion wonder, it also tells lies. Yesterday, the fibbing little shitbag tried to convince me that the Kat-Slater-does-Hammertime look was very much the one for me. It wasn’t. Nor were the Little-Mix-esque patterned leggings or the sequinned knickers. Ha to you, high street, HA. I may be emotionally wonky but I’m not blind. Instead of all of the above (and a whole lot more - neon bandage dresses? is that a wind-up?) I took my chances and purchased an AMAZING pair of coloured jeans and badass top to match. Something a little bit different from what I’ve been wearing the past 4 years (bobbly leggings and a hoodie) will surely help get my worky, creative juices going?

Not a joke. Not part of a Mel B fancy dress pack. Actual clothes.

Ooh, Lunch

This could easily have been titled Ooh, Pret. I love Pret. I love food. I love lunch. I also love choice and where I live now, in the middle of nowhere, you’re lucky to find much else in the way of takeaway food outside the culinary confines of a ham roll. Dairylea Lunchables have to be shipped in from the north round our way. A pasta salad? Are you out of your mind? Um. Anywaaaay, the promise of almost unlimited lunch options in lovely London town where I will mostly be based is something that cheers me right up. Add into that the factor of being able to eat said lunch in peace with nobody asking me to wipe their arse or put Jim, Jam and Sunny on the fucking ipad for the fifteenth fucking time that day is a veritable dream. I’m sorry for saying fucking so much in that last sentence, it’s just I’ve seen Jim, Jam and Sunny do their wigglewigglewiggle dance 876 times and the resulting emotional paralysis has affected the bit of my brain that stops me using the F word.

Giddy Excitement

While the worry and the panic does take precedence in my little ginger head, the excitement does very much come a close second. I’m thrilled to be going back to work for a company that I genuinely admire, with people I know will inspire me and in a role that I would have never in a million years expected to be in when I was fresh out of uni and wondering what the mothership to do with my life. I am excited about using my brain. About earning money. About feeling worthwhile rather than worthless (my own failing-as-a-mum issues, not how I think ANY stay at home mother should feel, EVER) and about taking this next step in my life – a life that, while full of achivements in the sense of ‘I made two people and kept them alive’, has kind of felt on hold the past few years. My children will always, absolutely take priority – always – but the idea of devoting a bit of time now to the woman I used to be is the biggest thrill of all. I just hope she’s still around. I hope she has waited for me.

Olive Sucker. Shouter. Dishwasher Bitch

Man, you bloggers out there, you’re so GOOD. Not only do you write well, you write often. Power cut, earthquake, Dont Tell The Bride marathon on BBC3 – I bet there’s not a household crisis, natural disaster or the distraction of an enraged woman in a white dress screaming “what the FUCK am I doing at Thorpe Park on my FUCKING wedding day?” that would stop you from writing your posts-of-glory on at least a weekly basis. Usually more.

I, on the other hand, seem to be starting more and more blogs with lame sorry I’m late-type apologies, despite not knowing if anyone could really give a flying shitbag anyway as to when my next rant was coming or how long it had been before I last bleated on about getting tanked up on boozy Vimto / Peter Stringfellow’s motorbike / KirstiefuckingAllsopp. But you know what, if it helps or matters or makes anyone feel even a little bit better, I have had a mega week from dilemma-hell with a lot to think about, fret over and use as an excuse to cry about. Here’s what happened…

Right. Tuesday, I went on a train. This might not sound like a big deal but let me explain three things about this train:

1) It did not have a smiley face on the front of it, nor was it plugged into the wall outside Tesco. This train did not involve me putting 20p in a slot for 3 minutes of underwhelming entertainment
2) It was a proper bloody train. More importantly, my children were not on this proper bloody train
3) It was taking me to London. To London to talk to someone about me going back to work

Thomas The Tank Engine's tranny cousin. The one nobody talks about.

Pretty fricking exciting. And then terrifying. Because it’s me and for every good thing there has to be a good three or four or fifty bad things. But I’ll go into that in a bit. Wahoo! I just promised you some upcoming gloom and anxiety, don’t say I don’t treat you right, bitches.

Anyway. The good stuff

Two hours on a train. It was amazing. I had my coffee, I had my computer jacked up to the hilt with sitcoms (for research purposes, you understand), I had my book, I had clothes on that neither smelled of shit nor had any dubious is-it-yoghurt-is-it-spunk? stains on (NOTE: that question is always posed by the onlooker. I know it is ALWAYS going to be yoghurt). The only concern I had about these two hours would that they would not be enough to do all the exciting stuff like reading, eating and sleeping that I had planned. What I also dug about this trip was the distinct shift in my role and identity for the day. To the untrained eyes of the commuters sat around me, they didn’t know me for being a mum and that felt amazing. The incident the night before where, having dealt with an angry, constipated kid all day, I’d found myself involved in some kind of deranged, grotesque horror-movie waterbirth where, to a chant of ‘come on, come on, you can do it’ my daughter had crapped directly into my hands – my fellow passengers knew nothing about that. That I had sat sobbing in a car park the other week whilst frantically sucking the red pimento bit out of a tub of olives because it was the only way to placate a screaming toddler who loves olives but hates pimento? Yeah, they didn’t know about that either. Nor were they aware of my meltdown when, just moments later, I’d had to fill out the ‘occupation’ part of a form and written ‘Olive Sucker. Shouter. Dishwasher Bitch’. To them, I was part of their gang – just another person, on a train, on their way to work. To me, this train journey was a lovely little reminder of what I used to be (and maybe of what I still actually am, given half a chance) and I liked it. I felt free.

Well, free right up until the moment that the bitch who lives inside me and likes nothing more than punching my positivity square in the face pitched up. And promptly tried to shit me up.

First came the panic about the kids. I hadn’t left them in the car or anything – they were with their dad – but then I started thinking about exactly what that meant. For one, my husband had seemingly channelled ‘off-duty lapdancer’ as his inspiration for dressing our daughter that morning. Secondly, the last thing I’d seen as I left the house was him – and this is 100% actual truth – stood at one end of the kitchen, lobbing loose grapes and jelly babies into the kids’ lunch boxes at the other end of the kitchen. ‘My GOD’ I thought ‘nobody will ever look after my children as well as I do, what the hell am I thinking? I can’t go back to work’.

And that brings me to childcare. When I’ve had a bad day and I’m calling my husband at work, weeping ‘she just brushed her teeth with my FUCKING Beauty Flash Balm. I can’t do this anymore’ down the phone at him, I tell myself I couldn’t give a hoot who looks after the kids. My husband; an unqualified, slaggy au pair with a sex addiction; an affable chimp with a basic grasp of communicative grunts – a lot of the time, I’d happily hand them over to any one of these. However, this day, on the train, with the guilt of momentarily enjoying some time on my own weighing heavy on my selfish shoulders, I started to brick it. What would I do about childcare? Like sure, there are nannies and childminders and pre-schools but, after three years as a stay at home mum, would any outside influence just make my children hate me? You know, like, even more than normal?

Alright, kids? I'm your new mummy

These disproportionate feelings of guilt and fear of doing the wrong thing by my kids and my role as a mother probably aren’t helped so much by the fact I live in a village where 97% of families are run by stay at home mums (I totally made that statistic up but you get my point). Women who wouldn’t dream of working and who rank me with my vague career aspirations somewhere between King Herod and that woman who bought her daughter a boob job for her 7th birthday on the ‘who’s the shittest parent?’ scale. I made the mistake of mentioning the whole job/London thing to a local mum at a toddler group before voicing my worries and fears in a misjudged search for some reassurance. Tilting her head to one side and scrunching up her nose, she reacted with ‘ooh, I know, it can be frustrating sometimes but they’re only really teeny-tiny and you do have to think of the kids first’. Think of the kids? Think of the fucking kids? That is all I have done for the past 3 years and all I still do now. I think of them every waking moment. I lie wide-eyed at 2am, crapping myself about stuff I do and how it affects them and yes, I know a kid is for life, not just for a year or three but sweet Jesus, I’m not suggesting I sell them to someone on Gumtree, I just want more from life. I WANT MORE.

Her hand is MASSIVE

Anywaaaaay. Anyway. There was that. And then there was the job itself. A really, really brilliant job with an amazing company, doing something I would love. Like actually, properly L-O-V-E. But whether I could do it was another issue. Three years out off work can do a lot to your confidence and while I’ve been doing little bits and pieces of writing and stuff on a freelance basis for the last few months, this has all been done remotely from a hidden corner in my local Caffe Nero. It didn’t involve an office, colleagues or the daily pressure of earning money by creating work that a lot of other people then have to like. It felt like I was kidding these potential employers. And kind of like I was kidding myself. Despite having a really lovely meeting, I left their offices feeling like a big, fat fraud. Who did I think I was? I wasn’t the woman I used to be. Time had changed. I had responsibilities and priorities that top-trumped anything I wanted to do. Returning to work was never going to happen and I was a massive prick for even thinking for a second or two that I could somehow pull it off.

So, with all of the above and a whole lot more running rampage in my head, I turned the job, with the brilliant company, working with brilliant people, down.

And they came back to me and told me to think about it.

So I thought about it and went back with another polite, somewhat apologetic no thank you.

And they suggested I have one last think about it.

And that is exactly what I did. And by ‘think’ what I could easily have said is that, between the hours of 8pm and 10pm last Wednesday night, I turned my life into a big, ridiculous, all-wailing, all-hating drama. A bit like Eastenders but with added doom. Eastenders at Christmas, say. Honestly, it was full-on. I cried, I got snotty, I told my husband it was all very well him saying to go for it, he was ‘emotionally devoid’ when it came to our kids (sorry John). And then, after two hours of me being a bit of a wanker with no perspective as to what constitutes a real problem, things went quiet and a new thought fought its way into my head.

What if I did take the job?

What if I just stopped cocking about and gave it a go? What if, I figured out the childcare, sucked up my issues, tucked them away into a little corner in my brain and let them fight amongst themselves for a bit. And then all the other good stuff came flooding back. That this could be an amazing chance to prove myself, to myself. That yes, it would be tricky on so many levels, but maybe a chance to reaffirm the shit I am good at, rather than spend all day berating myself for the things I am bad at could really kick what has been, and kind of still is, a really stubborn bout of depression into touch. And you know, as much as the idea of doing this is scary, there was one overwhelming thing that terrified me far, far more – the thought of not doing it.

Holy crapbags Batman, I think I’m going back to work.

@upyousginaford

Watch Your Back 2012, I’m Coming For You

“YEEHA-Mexican-Wave-Let’s-Smash-It-UP! It’s 2012! Year Of The Olympics! Year Of The Dragon! The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee! Let’s have it. No, seriously, I’m totally cool with this. LET. US. HAVE. IT”

So that was me on New Year’s Eve. I’d drunk enough vodka and fizzy Vimto to get over the pretty depressing fact that a) we were watching TV’s 50 Greatest Magic Tricks on a night when every other fricker we knew was at a party, having actual, proper fun that didn’t involve Debbie McGee and b) the other TV viewing alternative for such a momentous event as the beginning of a whole new year was The Cube. The bloody Cube. A show that sends shooting pains of angst through my very core. There’s just something about that spooky mask woman who demonstrates the games and the stern voiceover and the floaty graphics-in-space that Pip Schofield makes the contestants pretend they can see that leave my already frazzled nerves shot completely to shit.

Are you ready for The Cube? Not with that creepy bitch in it, Phillip, no.

Anyway. Digressing. What I’m saying here is, for a short while, largely because of alcoholic Vimto and the fact my kids had finally gone to bed, I was totally up for 2012. After what had been a pretty rotten year, I kind of welcomed the start of something new because new = exciting, yes?

Well. Yes. And no. Because new also = the unknown. And the unknown? Well, for anyone of a vaguely wobbly emotional disposition (ooh, that’s me! *eagerly puts hand up and shouts ME! ME!* *realises a wobbly emotional disposition isn’t actually such a good thing, puts had down, looks sideways to check nobody saw that*) the unknown can be a bit terrifying. One minute I’m a big fat mass of giddy motivation and positive enthusiasm – essentially, a walking, talking exclamation mark – ‘YEAH! 2012! So many goals I’m going to achieve, let’s DO THIS’. The next minute? I get the energy-crash of the ‘what ifs’. What if I my daughter doesn’t adjust to pre-school? I won’t have time to do half the things I have planned. What if I do find the time and what I then do is rubbish? What if that dirty black dog that has been known to piss on my happy parade scuppers the whole motivation thing? What if I get so tangled up in my 2012 to-do list that my brain gets overloaded, I can’t figure out what to do first so I just end up spending my childfree hours mumbling incoherently at daytime re-runs of Diagnosis Murder and Escape To The Bloody Country until its time to pick the kids up? THESE ARE ALL THINGS THAT COULD ACTUALLY HAPPEN.

Call it the sobering-up process. Call it Sandie Shaw in her hotpants on Hootenanny looking like Jessie J’s mother. Call it the sneaky side of my brain that acts like it’s trying to help me with its words of ‘advice’ but is actually just trying to screw things up (a bit like the time this girl at school suggested I’d look good with a perm when really she just wanted to get off with this boy we both liked who, it transpired, was very much not into the whole ginger-Anita-Dobson look). My mood switched. Something was trying to smack-down my zest for the oncoming year and I had to act fast.

How I imagine Hilary off Dragon's Den to look on a karaoke night down the pub

So, pissed-up, emotional and with a good two litres of full-fat Vimto-sugar coursing through me, I wrote a list. I won’t say resolutions because, let’s face it, the second you mention the R-word, people tend to roll their eyes, smirk and look at you with a smug combo of condescension and ‘bullshit!’ glinting in their eyes. Instead, it’s more of a list of stuff I intend to face up to or knuckle down and do before the year is out. 12 months to feel the fear then do it anyway. A bit like a Bucket List that doesn’t involve me dying at the end. A Fuck-It list, if you like:

Finally turn that sitcom idea I have in my head into an actual script. This will involve me a)not wetting myself with worry that it’ll be dreadful and people will laugh at me, rather than at what I write and b) in the name of research (no, HONESTLY), watching so much comedy, it seeps into my eyes, infiltrates my brain then falls out of my ears (jesus, you’d have thought I was on acid, not vodka)

Do everything I can to stop dwelling on stuff from the past, stop panicking about what could happen in the future and just go all buddhist on my outlook and live in the now (it’s ok, if that’s a bit new-age and wanky for you, the next one should sort that out)

Get someone famous to follow me on Twitter – Gino DiCampo? Barry Chuckle? One of Same Difference? I could not give a hoot who it is. I’m not picky, I just want someone who is/was once on telly once to be in my followers list. Is that too much (read: too shallow) to ask?

Get some official exercise because 1) it helps with the depression thing and 2)I’ve a bridesmaid dress to get into for my sister’s wedding in September and I want to pull a Pippa Middleton out the bag for it. Zoe – if you’re reading – that’s a joke. Everyone else – that’s so not a joke, I want to look hotter than my sister on the biggest day of her life, is that really SO wrong? Is it? Is IT? It is? Oh.
Note: Attempting to pull some BodyRockers Shufflin’ moves in front of the Viva channel on a Saturday night does not count as official exercise

Should the exercise thing not work out, wear M&S magic knickers every day and night until my body learns to stay that shape without the aid of reinforced control-lycra

Failing that, just do that diet where you chew food up then spit it in the bin because, you know, that’s healthy. I think maybe Geri Halliwell got skinny that way? Or was it Liz Hurley?

Learn to take criticism well and look at is as a positive and constructive means of improving myself. If that isn’t possible, learn to FAKE taking criticism well, whilst inside thinking ‘this person has no idea what they’re talking about. I am right, they are wrong’

Give Zumba a go. Solely to prove the point that not everyone likes it.

And finally…..(it’s quite profound this one, steady yourselves)

Accept the fact that cleaning products from the 99p shop will NEVER tackle limescale in the same way as Viakal. In the words of the great Status Quo, ‘you pay your money, you take your choice’ – never a truer word spoken when it comes to cheap bathroom cleaners

It’s not a long list by any means but hopefully that’s a good thing in the sense of making it more achievable. Of course, the 99p shop thing will be a stretch because, you know, they’re very clever. They know how to make the labels on some random bleachy stuff look like proper Cif from a distance so I’ll have to watch out for that one but otherwise, I’m feeling pretty hopeful.

Anyway, I’d love to stay and chat but I’d best crack on. I’ve got a boxset of 30 Rock to get through and a pair of control pants to wrestle my arse into. Look, you can’t argue with the Fuck-It list

@upyoursginaford

P.S. I’m not sponsored by Vimto. I’m from the north – I just really like Vimto. It’s akin to the whole Scottish/Irn Bru thing. Is that racist? I hope not. Most of my friends are Scottish. That’s not actually true, I have no Scottish friends but that’s not a conscious choice, it’s more of a geographical thing. Shall I stop talking now? Yes? Ok. Bye then…Big-up the Scots. Etc.

Where There’s Fame There’s A Claim

Like, OMG. WTF. Totes shitballs. I’m one of those women aren’t I? One of those women I bitch about. Who spends her whole life talking about her kids. Well, her whole blog anyway. I’m spending my whole blog talking about my kids. Not that my blog is my life you understand. Hell no. I mean, I have LOADS of other stuff going on outside of the blog thing. Like. Well. Um. Desperate Scousewives on Sky+. My daily Groupon email. Learning to talk ’street’ (see above). I mean, jesus, I’ve got an appointment with the dental hygienist later. Fullofloadsofexcitingstuff, that’s my life for you.

I’m lying, of course. My life may be full. But of terribly exciting stuff? Not so much. The dental hygienist? Despite me resenting the fact she speaks to me like an 8 year old** and my deep-seated fear of dental floss, I’m actually quite looking forward to my appointment because it means half an hour out of the house and a chance to read the waiting room copy of Grazia. Life wasn’t always so lacklustre though. Shall I tell you my claims to fame? Shall I? (if you’re shouting ‘NO’ at your computer, you should probably stop reading now). Ye-ah boyee. Kid free and all about me, fill yo’ boots:

• After helping out at The Soap Awards one year (a career high never to be equalled) I challenged Ben Freeman of then-Emmerdale fame to help me start a fight between The Dales and Coronation Street. He seemed up for it but wouldn’t swing the first punch so I think maybe he was just humouring me. At the same party, the man who used to play Mr Cunningham in Hollyoaks (anyone?) climbed onto a speaker and, to a backdrop of Starlight by Supermen Lovers (again, anyone?), took off all his clothes and thrust the bit that most men like to thrust when they are 100% naked until security had to forceably remove him

Mr Cunningham. This man's genitals will stay with me til the day I die. Not literally, of course. That'd be weird

• I once posed in a women’s magazine with no clothes on. It was an article about body issues, was tastefully done and motivated by the sole fact I got fifty quid for it. Because of this, I then appeared on GMTV with daytime TV’s queen of condescension, Lorraine Kelly, who conducted an in-depth discussion with me and a plus-size model on body dysmorphia. I like to think the fact our chat only lasted 5 minutes and was preceded by a performance of Celebration by Kool and the Gang didn’t deter from the seriousness of the subject…

• I used to write mucky sex stories for a national magazine. You know those ‘and then he put his spanner down and shagged me up against the dishwasher’ real-life confessions? Very much not real. Ditto the letters page

• I once gave Pat Sharp an antihistamine and then took that as an open invitation from him to me to go on a massive rant about how much I hated Dr Fox. Shortly after I rounded up my ten-minute diatribe with ‘I mean, he’s not even a real doctor’, Pat Sharp revealed that while Dr Fox may indeed not be a qualified member of the medical profession, he was in fact his daughter’s godfather

• For whatever reason, most probably as a result of me lying my face off, I once ended up on some PR lists as the editor of the magazine I worked on, rather than the lowly editorial assistant I actually was. As a result of my bullshitting, I got invited to the re-launch of Stringfellows and, after drinking a lot of free wine, me and my mate ended up sat atop a motorbike with Stringy himself. ‘Come on girls, mount the Harley’ he said. No word of a lie, that’s what Peter Stringfellow actually said. FUCK. ING. AWESOME.

If loving him is wrong, I don't want to be right

Of course, based on the Stepford circles I find myself moving in these days, I’m not really meant to admit all of the above and, even if I do, it’s supposed to be done in an ironic-roll-the-eyes-’ha-I-used-to-think-this-kind-of-shit-meant-something’ way, whilst simultaneously professing my spiritual awakening to the really important stuff in life. Like, you know, Boden, pilates, PTA committee meetings… If truth be told though, just like X Factor, Beyonce’s bumpwatch and Teen Mom on MTV, I love the trashy stuff today as much as I did pre-kids and nothing gets me more giddy than another person’s tale of a time they met a celebrity. That’s your cue – dish it. Give me gossip. The grubbier, the better.

**Hygienist: So now I’ve shown you how to brush properly, we’ll all be happy bunnies at the next appointment, yeah?

Me: #looking behind me for the toddler I presume she’s addressing# Sorry?

H: YEAH! Cool bananas! #goes to high five me#

M: Can we not do that please

P.S. I’m tucking it down the bottom because I feel a bit of a knob about it and everything but I’m now on Twitter. I don’t know if it’s the website for me, I’m not convinced it’ll catch on…Anyway, should you be also on Twitter and would like to make an old woman happy, give me a little tickle or whatever it is they call it. A twickle? I have no idea. http://twitter.com/#!/upyoursginaford

Shits and Giggles

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m being filmed. Not in a weird, stalkery way, like the one with the shaved head from The Wanted would feel if he knew how much I Googled him. More in a hidden-camera-let’s-mess-with-her-mind way. Like the time I attempted a nice game of pass the parcel at my son’s birthday, only for Smack My Bitch Up to be on the party tunes compilation. Or the day I was having a stab at shifting some baby weight at the local swimming baths and the strap on my costume broke, resulting in me flashing a single, pallid knocker to the year 7 swim class in the next lane. There are occasions when so much stuff that shouldn’t go wrong, goes completely wrong and so many good, simple intentions go arse-up that I end up asking if it’s all a big, fat prank.  Maybe there’s some kind of phone vote involved. And a bunch of viewers who revel in my misfortune so much that they’ll gladly spend money on a premium rate number if it means they can help bring about my nervous breakdown. Basically, I think my life is The Truman Show meets Beadle’s About. And yes, I know they say Beadle’s dead but what if he’s not and what if that was all part of this elaborate, creepy ruse of his? He crash-landed a spaceship in someone’s garden for pity’s sake, faking his own death is totally the next step up from that.

Um, so ok, that’s the theory. Now picture the show – a really small camera has been hidden in my hair. I think it’s the start of a dreadlock brought on by the fact I’ve not had chance to shower for four days. It’s not. It’s a camera. Anyway. This is the voiceover. It’s the voice of Jeremy Beadle obviously, you know, what with the whole not being dead thing:

“Here’s tonight’s fraught mother, Abby. She’s had a crisis of confidence in her parental abilities and has decided to offset that morning she gave the kids Dairylea Dunkers for breakfast against a trip to the forest to pick some berries to make jam with. That’s what she wants to do, but viewers, how this actually works out is up to you…

If you’d like to see Abby enjoy a nice, low-key afternoon of berry-picking and jam-making with her children, text NICE to this number

Alternatively, if you’re laughing at her naivety and want these genteel, idealistic notions booted into touch, text FAIL”

For whatever reason – maybe because I’m a bit ginger or because I’m really intolerant of people who use apostrophes in the wrong place – the nation hates me. They all text FAIL.

“What our victim doesn’t know is we’ve had a dog do its business in the forest. What she also doesn’t know is that her daughter trod in said dog poo earlier. Watch what happens when, in an attempt to placate her whining daughter, Abby obliviously picks her up and….hang on….wait for it….YES!….BRILLIANT!….she’s done it, she’s smeered dog shit up her mother’s back! See Abby’s face crumple! Is she disgusted? Defeated? Viewers, I think it’s a bit of both!”

Cue the uh-oh-what-a-knob music

To round-up, the hidden hair camera captures me unsuccessfully trying to wrestle two uncooperative children into my car whilst simultaneously gagging over the smell of dog muck, right before Beadle bids everyone goodnight with a chuckle, a shake of his head and a cheeky wink.

Thinking about it, does anyone have Channel Five’s number? I think I could be on to something…

Seagulls, Starbucks and Sprite Bottles

Christ. Sorry. Sorrysorrysorry. I’ve been a bit rubbish at updating this week. Sorry. Don’t shout. We’ve been away to London. Notice how I say ‘been away’ rather than ‘on holiday’. That’s because we ALL went away. Me. My husband. THE KIDS.

It has been ages since we last went away and that’s largely down to three things:

1. Money
2. We’re shit-scared of taking our kids anywhere unfamiliar in case they don’t have chips or telly
3. The last holiday we went on all got a bit stressful when my husband kind of punched a seagull. I say ‘kind of’ – he totally punched a seagull. In front of a bunch of kids. Who then started shrieking. It was a little awkward and probably not typical behaviour of visitors to the Tate St Ives but please nobody call the RSPB – in our defence we were just trying to enjoy an afternoon snack in the rooftop café when this seagull swooped in for my husband’s scone. He says he panicked, thought the bird was going for one of our kids and so punched it. I say BULLSHIT – my husband just really, really likes scones. Anyway, there were gasps from the onlookers, screams from the kids and an iffy noise coming from the seagull, who was now giving us evils from on-high and more than likely sending out some kind of silent gull-call to his mates to come and have us. I grabbed the kids, my husband grabbed his scone and we vowed never to attempt anything so civilised ever again. For the remainder of that week, whenever we fancied leaving the safety of our holiday flat, we just went and sat in the car with a Calippo instead.

actually, maybe more people should punch seagulls. I mean, look at this cheeky bastard I found on Google

So anyway, this weekend there was none of that. No birds got smacked. Nobody cuffed a sparrow. My husband didn’t punch a pigeon. In the bird world, all was calm.

In the car on the way to London however, it was a different story. We should have realised fate was laughing at us when the DVD player broke 20 minutes into the journey. And then I managed to tip milk over the only pair of jeans I had with me. Oh, and then my daughter threw a shoe out of the window on the motorway. She threw her bloody shoe out of the window. Brilliant.

The following morning and a snidey pair of cheap, plastic Croc(alike)s later we started the holiday. To summarise: our son crapped his pants when he saw the giant animatronic dinosaur at the Natural History Museum; the only thing our daughter would eat was miniature packets of Philadelphia that we robbed from the breakfast buffet; my husband and I got a bit over-excited at the very fact there was a Pret A Manger and a Starbucks on the same street (London hey? City of DREAMS. Ask for a decaf latte or a superfood salad in the sticks and they slap you) and, oh yeah, my kid pissed into a Sprite bottle in an underground car park.

You know, it’s a longish story and I won’t make you re-live it but let’s just say what the Holiday Inn car park lacks in toilets, it makes up for in CCTV cameras. Whereas at home I’d discreetly direct my son to the nearest bush, in this case there was nowhere to piddle in private except for in the car itself. Hence the Sprite bottle. And you know what, I would have been so smug about my sheer resourcefulness if only things gone a bit awry. A boy’s bits and a bottleneck do not a happy combination make*. Ever seen a pee misfire and spray upwards? No? Well there’s a CCTV camera operator somewhere in South Kensington who has.

* if ever a phrase is going to alert the social services, it’s that one

Things That Make Me Go Squirm

I don’t know what it is, but since having kids, there has been a distinct shift in things I find acceptable and things that just make me cringe with uneasiness. Totally random and often completely unexpected, there are certain words, people or situations that I encounter as part of the mental world of motherhood just really go through me. Like, you know that feeling you get when they do the group performance on X Factor? Or when James Martin attempts to read from an autocue on Saturday Kitchen? Or how I imagine the phrase ‘bifidus culture’ makes Jamie Theakston feel on the Activia advert* (watch his face next time it’s on. He’s troubled by those words. There’s something amiss and he knows it). Some stuff just makes me feel uncomfortable…:

• When people say ’fractious’. Victorian costume dramas aside, this is not a word I’d ever heard in regular use until I had a baby, then all of a sudden BOOM, a baby yells and they’re ‘fractious’. There is just something about the understatement of this fluffy euphemism that really puts me on edge. If I was God, after giving myself a washboard stomach and restoring my pelvic floor muscles to a state where I didn’t wet my trackie bottoms when on the trampoline with the kids, I’d quite like to implant some kind of auto-correct in the minds of mums so that when they go to say ‘fractious’ what actually comes out is ‘pissy and loud’ because, let’s face it, that’s what we all mean.

• The tits-and-teeth woman who runs my kids’ singalong group. I find her enthusiasm disconcerting. Her permanent smile freaks me out. How can anyone be that happy? She very much reminds me of this local newsreader we have who, no matter what she’s reporting on, does it with a grin. I’m not kidding, she tells you about a train crash, she’s beaming. House fire? Practically chuckling. Sometimes I think it’s all she can do to stop herself winking and chucking in a bit of jazz hands aswell. So yeah – newsreader and the woman from Jolly Jingles? Not. Right.

...and then they all died!

• The very concept of parents joining in with the singing at said groups. Give me a babysitter, a bottle of pink wine and a couple of hours to drink myself out of my tone-deafness and I’ll give you the best rendition of Copacabana anyone’s ever heard this side of Vegas. Take away the booze and plonk me in a starkly lit church hall with 30 women I’ve never met and a song about sizzling sausages crackling out from the 80s-style tape player and I struggle

• Parents telling a story about something their kid has said and adopting a cutesy (read: FREAKY) baby voice. For example:

SMUG MUM: You know, Jack was asking if ‘Fwed can come and pway’

ME: Sorry?

SM: Fwed. Does he want to come and pway? Wiv wickle Jack?

ME: (pause) Are you alright?

• When I overhear Mums at the library reading their kids stories. It’s no great revelation to anyone that motherhood is rife with rivalry and nowhere is this more obvious than when you get two women embroiled in an unspoken competition for best storyteller. Seriously, step foot into the kids’ section at any library and it’s like Overactors’ Anonymous. These women get in the zone. They do voices, they do accents, they sing, they improvise. Shit, I’m sure I saw one mother cart in a box of costumes and a spotlight. Imagine Jackanory on speed – that is what it’s like and, quite frankly, it unsettles me

• ‘Playdates’. AAAARGH. Never has a word been so misleading. For one, my kids don’t play, they fight. Two, Date? If my experiences are anything to go by, this word suggests a) men and b) enough alcohol to render any sense of adult responsibility useless. Neither of these things have ever cropped up in any playdate I’ve been on. In short, playdates are liars.

*I’m a little obsessed with the Activia advert. There are times when I want to reach into the telly and rescue Jamie Theakston from a life of plugging pouring yoghurt and bumming rides off milkmen. Come on Jamie, you did Top Of The Pops. You did Live and Kicking. Yes, you also did The Priory, that didn’t rate terribly well but still, what are you doing? You don’t need the Danone dollar. You’re better than this, Theakston

crying inside