Author: Nette

Desperate Housewife

First of all, let me say it’s a HUGE personal challenge to stick up a post with a title like that, even though it’s kinda tongue-in-cheek. Secondly, I know nothing about the related TV series, but the heading sounded catchy enough.

So, it’s been one of those weeks. Except it’s going on two weeks now. The munchkin is miserable. First teeth, now a streaming cold. Sleep has been a huge drama. As a result, she’s shattered, and quite frankly I am too.

Of course running on empty is one of those things that mums are not supposed to do. It says so in the fine print. And whenever you disobey the fine print, there’s an inbuilt punishment called guilt. Mummy guilt. You basically beat yourself up for not being perfect, or for losing your cool. Even if it was just once that day, for about a nanosecond. A nanosecond is plenty of time for mummy guilt to set in.

But this whole beating-yourself-up-business gets a bit tiresome, especially when you know that it’s an unhealthy thing to do. So I’ve been doing some thinking. I know the whole teething/cold combo (no, I wouldn’t like to supersize that, thank you very much) isn’t the real story; it’s more like the camel’s hopefully temporary spinal misalignment.

Of course I never lose my cool when everyone’s all smiles. I also know that when something has rocked Lilly’s little world the wrong way, she actually needs me to be resourceful the most. But sometimes it just feels like I’ve got nothing else to give. Or, more accurately, I need that nanosecond or two to give voice to my own frustration before I can truly focus on what she needs.

I also came to the conclusion that what really bugs me underneath it all is the attitude that the whole mothering thing includes the ‘doing all the housework’ thing too. Now, for someone who has never been particularly domestic, this concept basically sucks (I know this is not necessarily a universal notion, but I am only tackling my own experience here). So it came to me that maybe part of the reason I am occasionally running on empty is because I am spending a significant amount of my time doing something that is not my thing. Writing is my thing, not washing. And I don’t even have a particularly tidy place! Yes, it’s only small but when the life of three people and a canine is contained inside a one bedroom flat, messes accumulate with great alacrity. Leaving three errand envelopes lying around can look like clutter.

If nothing else, the realization that the washing and cooking and cleaning up routine is a greater energy drain than being with Lilly made me feel better. That’s not to say being present with her all day most days doesn’t add to it all. But at least it alleviates some of that mummy guilt.

Now I’m aware that I am opening myself to a lot of judgment here. Especially since I am choosing to stay with Lilly (honestly, some days a paying job and childcare sound like a fine alternative!). As a matter of fact, if I was reading this on another mum’s blog, I’d probably be judgmental too. But that’s life – someone will always have something to say about why what you are experiencing is ‘wrong’. And how they would do it better. 

Some time ago, I was told I shouldn’t be using this blog for ‘therapy’. For that, read I should be dealing with what ails me privately. Sure, I don’t need to go public every time I break a fingernail. But I am writing about my experience writing and mummy-ing, and I’d be lying if it was all plain sailing all of the time. That’s not authentic.

And yes, writing of all sorts, whether private or public, is indeed cathartic. And significantly more accessible than a camelid chiropractor…

 

Oh, and the picture? That’s the first hit you get when you search for ‘mum running on empty’ on Google Images. ‘Nuff said…

 

The Cot

 

Dear Mum & Dad,

 

We need to talk about our sleeping arrangements. You see, it was all lovely when I first came to stay. You had this cozy thing called a co-sleeper, like a three-sided cot that attached to your bed. I could see you; you could see me. I was in touching distance for emergency cuddles and nocturnal dummy insertion. I could give you that big smile first thing in the morning, and even reach out my hand for you.

Now you bought into this idea of a proper cot. With four sides, and BARS. Now I understand I’m more mobile, and you don’t want me crawling all over you in the middle of the night. I even concede that I may have overstepped my boundaries on one or two occasions. But ONLY because I wanted to be close to you. Or climb over you and be close to Daddy. I kinda get that you like your sleep more than I do, especially when it’s dark (you call that nighttime?). But a full-blown wooden prison is a bit harsh, don’t you think?

Yes, it’s still close to your bed but I can’t get out at will anymore. I’m all caged in, HELP!

Yes, yes, yes – I know you made it all nice for me with new sheets and a cotbumper. I know Daddy drove a long way to pick it up. And blah blah blah… But the fact remains that it’s a cruel and unjust curtailment of my basic right to freedom, which I demand. Loudly.

And it’s really not all that it’s cracked up to be for you either. I only let you put me in there when I’m asleep. And you now have to lift me up, and down into this prison thing without me waking. I ain’t getting any lighter, you know. Last night I woke up when you tried to lock me in and created havoc for a few hours, hee hee. Just to prove a point. And to keep you from watching that silly Euro football game, mummy. 

Don’t get me wrong, I like the thing alright for daytime naps. I do my time, you let me out. But at night it sucks! I don’t get parole because you want me to stay and sleep some more! Besides, when I wake up, you can’t reach me from your bed anymore. And when you put me back in, you heave me over the railing like a sack of potatoes.

It’s not all happy like in the Mothercare catalogues. Have you noticed how they actually never have any real babies in their product pictures? There’s a reason for that. Besides, don’t you miss me being closer to you?

As I said, we need to talk.

How does 4am sound?

 

Love,

Lilly

 

Picture This

I mentioned that I am rekindling my love affair with picture books. This is actually an understatement. It’s developed into a full-blown, no-holds-barred relationship. I think it all started when my local library informed me that Lilly was actually eligible for a library card of her own, which allows me to check out even more stuff (on her behalf, ahem)!

Just to clarify, picture books are those publications generally aimed at the 0-6 market. That’s a pretty broad range. You start off with the sort of board books that Lilly is mostly interested in at the moment – sturdy cardboard books with little text and lots of pictures, made from the kind of material that stands up to at least some of the abuse the average baby is likely to inflict upon it. After that, the books get bigger, the pages softer and the amount of text increases, although pictures remain a vital part in telling the story. This is the sort of thing I am mainly interested in.

The brevity of picture books conveniently enough also caters to my own short attention span. There’s nothing like the sense of accomplishment of having read ten picture books in less than the time required to read one chapter of an adult novel. Not only that, my research has opened up whole new worlds. I mean, who knew that Aliens Love Underpants? Or about the existence of fantastic creatures such as The Gruffalo, or an adorable pig named Olivia? Surely my life is richer for having encountered classics like Hairy Maclary, or the Blue Kangaroo books? To me, the best stories are either zany, like Zagazoo; or have an empowering message, like Big Bad Wolf Is Good, or preferably both – such as Giddy Goat, which is about a mountain goat afraid of heights and a great story about overcoming your fears and finding friendship.

I also recently had the pleasure of hearing Julia Donaldson, the author of The Gruffalo, speak at the London Book Fair in her current capacity as Children’s Laureate. Her love for stories and books is evident in her selection of titles for the current Waterstones Children’s Laureate picture book promotion. What I loved most about her talk was the ad hoc recital of Whose Mouse Are You? (Robert Kraus, Aladdin Books; read here on YouTube) as a great example of the lasting power of stories told with rhyme and rhythm.

So clearly I am not only on a continuing mission to get in touch with the picture book market, but I am also leaping at the chance of letting my inner child have a play. I’ve also decided to embark on a journey of discovering some of the classics in English children’s literature, which is clearly somewhat different from what I grew up with in Germany.

So far, I have read The Magic Faraway Tree, with The Railway Children next on my list. So if you have any suggestions, either based on what you read as a child or what you currently read with your own children, I’d be most grateful for some feedback and comments. It’ll keep me immersed in my happy flight of fantasy.

Although if my blog writing over time degenerates into Dr. Seuss-style rhymes, you’ll know I have taken the whole thing a step too far. In that case, just point me back to the yellow brick road, will you?

For that IS the way back home, isn’t it?

Ideas On Ideas

A while ago I wrote about being a mum and a writer both resulting in cold pizza. Here’s why – ideas are to blame!

I love ideas. But they are fickle little creatures. You don’t pay them their due attention, and they decide to move on. In many ways, ideas are rather like small children – they don’t like to be kept waiting!

Just like in the early days with Lilly, when many a dinner was hastily scoffed, or worse, abandoned, the other day I was frantically scribbling in my notebook while a freshly baked pizza slowly got cold in the kitchen. Worse (in a good way) was that rather than scrawling down one thought, or at least one thought at a time, I found that one idea led to another and before I knew it, I had filled about a dozen pages with four or five different concepts. Ideas, once you tap into them, are a bit like rabbits – they breed. Fast!

But you need to capture those little buggers quickly because they won’t stay around forever. I find carrying a small notebook helps. Other people like using the ‘notes’ function on a smartphone. I do that occasionally, although not every situation lends itself to pulling a phone out of your purse, like walking over a busy London bridge approaching midnight. There are times when you might get a second chance at a thought that you failed to capture the first time around, as evidenced by the fact that in reconciling my various notes on this post I found that I wrote the same thing down on completely different days. But you can’t always count on that second chance – sometimes you lose the idea and it’s gone for good.

A friend of mine likens ideas to fruit. Like fruit, some big ideas may take a while to grow and ripen but there comes a point when they need to be harvested (read: acted upon) lest they go off.

Speaking of rotting fruit, beware that getting caught up in lots of ideas can be kind of intoxicating. Sometimes we get so hooked on the buzz of generating new ideas that we forget that a process of selection, followed by execution, needs to take place in order for anything to actually happen!

There’s nothing wrong with flirting with lots of ideas, just remember that not every flirt or one-night stand ends up in front of the altar. See my RAK project as a case in point. It was courting me persistently for weeks so I finally gave in to a first date. We kept in touch for a few days afterwards but really there was no chemistry. Although I walked away with a greater awareness about being nice to random strangers. Every day, not just for a month. Maybe that’s all it was supposed to do.

Sometimes you flirt with a great idea but it’s just not the right time. Maybe it needs to ripen up a bit more. Watch out though to make sure that this is not just something you are telling yourself in order to stay in your comfort zone. Otherwise you end up all mouth and no trousers.

 

Now, there’s an idea…

Freedom and Friendship

On a recent girly night out, we did ‘words’ before dinner. This involves going around the table and selecting a word that describes your day, feeling or current experience. I love words, not least of all because Rob picked the word marriage during a romantic dinner in Paris and proceeded to produce a shiny, sparkly ring.

That evening, I chose the words freedom and friendship (you can cheat and have more than one). Freedom because it was the first time I’d been out all afternoon and evening, leaving Rob and the girl to fend for themselves through dinner and bedtime, which they managed beautifully. Another friend chose expansion, which I also loved because mum or not, you continually expand to be all sorts of things.

I was still pondering those words walking back over the Embankment footbridge on my way home. I love strolling over the Thames at night, seeing all the lit up buildings and their reflections in the dark water. It occurred to me that now I have Lilly, I have a whole new appreciation and mindfulness for the time I get to spend alone.

Even that simple walk turns from ordinary to extraordinary when it ceases to be something you do all of the time. A solo cinema trip; a prowl in the fields with the dog all take on greater significance when they are no longer everyday events. And I am really paying attention to what’s going on around me, whether it’s St. Paul’s at night, or the sounds of the wind in an empty field with Jack.

I find I am now placing much greater value on the time I get to spend with myself, as opposed to treating it as a commodity. Coming back refreshed, even after a short time, allows me to consciously appreciate time with Lilly more so than if I didn’t have a break to focus on me.

I also guess part of the freedom is not so much freedom from being with Lilly as freedom from some of the limitations that can come with traveling with a little one. A prowl in the woods is not easily accomplished with wheels. It’s nice to not depend on lifts as you do if the girl’s in the buggy, or to use stairs without clinging to hand railings when she’s in her sling.

The side effect of prancing around in muddy fields is of course that the canine gets rotten filthy from all the mess he rolled himself around in. That gets me in trouble, as the master is not fond of a stinking dog.

 

Freedom or not – if it’s not one kid, it’s the other!

Karma’s A Bitch

 

Recently, a friend invited me to his birthday dinner. The date fell on the husband’s weekly badminton night. Badminton nights are non-negotiable, and thus equal no childcare. Nevertheless, I optimistically agreed to go. With the short one in tow, after bedtime. After all, it worked in New York. (I might have also felt a tad guilty for not having gone to his birthday party in three years)

The day before, I looked into the logistics and discovered a slight flaw: the closest tube station had no lifts. Most of them don’t so this shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it definitely ruled out going with the girl sleeping in her buggy. Four flights of stairs to street level, plus a winding staircase to the birthday boy’s restaurant table, are not conducive to traveling with wheels.

Now, trying to explain to a non-parent why some adventures may after all be impractical is like talking Chinese to a Mexican. Or using sign language with a blind person. My friend frankly didn’t see the dilemma. Surely someone would help me (yes – but it’s difficult to keep bubba asleep jolting a buggy up and down stairs during the rush hour commute). In any case, he couldn’t meet any earlier and another woman would be bringing her daughter too, so what exactly was the big deal?

I knew I was speaking Chinese because I have been on the other end of such conversations many a time. Pre-motherhood, naturally. Prior to seeing the error of my non-mummy ways, I used to be the one coming up with a million perfectly logical reasons why life shouldn’t be a problem just because you have produced offspring. Most memorably I talked my best childhood friend into driving 1,000 miles from Germany to Brittany for less than a week’s holiday. 14 hours in the car with a 4 year old. In the middle of winter. It was a fantastic trip and we had great fun, including an unplanned stopover in Paris and going up the Eiffel Tower at night. But practical with a small one it was not.

Now I admit becoming a parent doesn’t mean you need to overcomplicate everything. Thankfully, Lilly’s pretty flexible as long as her requirements for food and sleep are met. And this is mostly what I try to consider ahead of time. There’s a fine line between being the sensible parent and the adventurous night owl so I guess it’s all about balance, about picking your moments. You can’t be cautious all the time, but there’s no need to be reckless either. So should I occasionally appear inflexible about making plans, bear with me – I’m just trying to make sure everyone (including Lilly) has a good time.

In the end, we did go. Just long enough to have a drink, Lilly mostly asleep in her PJ’s in a sling. It worked, although it won’t necessarily be repeated.

Oh, and the other woman’s daughter? She turned out to be a teenager. But really, from a non-parent’s view, it’s all the same, isn’t it?

 

Books A Million

Two weeks ago, on a rainy day not unlike today, I went to the London Book Fair. Immersing myself into the business of books seemed a logical part of my quest to understand the wonderful world of publishing.

Having been to a great many trade shows in my previous life, it was quite exciting to see all the stands and watch people do business. And business was indeed being done ever which way you looked. In addition to enticing book displays, just about every stand had tables and chairs to facilitate getting down to meetings and negotiations. The Irish Times in their review described ‘the “Big Six” publishers (Simon Schuster, Hachette, Random House, Penguin, Macmillan and Harper Collins)… [as] situated in the centre of the hall boasting vast stands, which resemble[d] sizeable coffee shops’. And despite some of these coffee shops having very professional-looking reception areas, I have to admit I was halfway expecting someone to shout out an order for a venti latte and a ham and cheese panini any minute.

The realization that publishing is indeed big business is particularly exciting as it takes me back to the buzz of the big business that is the hospitality industry, where I spent fifteen happy years of my career. And having at one point or other been responsible for revenue managing just over one billion dollars worth of sales, I get that publishing, like any other industry, is all about making money… and lots of it.

Yet at the same time, it was completely magical being drawn back into the exciting world of stories and make-belief that is children’s books. I am rather enjoying rekindling my love affair with picture books in particular, although Lilly is not yet a willing accomplice. At this stage, she loves to play with her board books but really above all she wants eat them. She’s probably just hungry due to lack of snacks, and the nutritional value of cardboard trumps that of wooden blocks. Her very first puppy book is already looking rather ‘loved’ (read ‘gnawed around the edges’). So for the moment, the pleasure of checking out stacks of picture books from the library (under the pretense of research, of course) is all mine.

Even more exciting was the unexpected highlight of someone in the writing world actually liking my blog! It was a comment hidden in a ‘PS’ at the bottom of an email so I didn’t even see it until about 10 days later. I blame my lack of attention to detail and fine print. Made my day though!

Felt a bit like Sarah, the girl in Love Actually who hides behind the door doing a silent celebratory dance… just without Karl, the dishy design director, waiting on the other side. What I got instead was a strange look from the husband. I get those a lot.  I guess life isn’t like the movies… although I do rather feel like I am auditioning for a part in a new play called publishing!

I guess I just need someone to deal with that fine print. 

What’s New Pussycat?

 

It’s been quiet on the blog for a while.

It’s not that my life’s been quiet but rather that I decided to wholeheartedly get stuck into research on how to best pitch my picture book project to three carefully selected agents with three carefully compiled submissions that went into the post this morning. And whilst I may not have hit the ‘publish’ button here, I did amass an impressive collection of loose papers and a new notebook filled with half-written posts that I vow to get up here in the coming weeks.

Not writing for a while has also given me space to ponder what this blog is really about. I pretty much started writing to figure out what I wanted to write about, resulting in a random collection of posts lovingly dumped under the heading of General Musings (for that read: stuff that came into my head). I love them all AND I’m beginning to feel the need to become a bit more streamlined. I don’t usually follow rules but all those brainy Internet peeps who tell you to ‘niche’ must be on to something. After all, if you believe that you can’t market stuff that appeals to EVERYONE (unless you’re Apple, or Harry Potter), then the same must apply to your online reflections.

When I got started last year, I said this blog was going to be about my journey as a writer. Inevitably, it has also become about my journey as a mum – the material Lilly provides is just too good to pass up! Whilst both lend themselves nicely to becoming prominent blog topics, they also pose a rather huge personal challenge, namely the cliché of becoming yet another mum who a) blogs and b) writes children’s books. So that’s a double whammy, basically. At least I don’t do things by halves! Anyway, that’s where I’m going for now. I can always change it should I get bored.

Writing about my journey as a writer seems easy but really it’s pretty up close and personal. Especially when you’re just starting to get your feet wet and have the faint awareness that someone potentially important in the book world may actually come across these pages sooner or later. After all, my vision clearly states that I would love to have this blog turned into a book or column one day – a kind of Carrie Bradshaw for the mummy world. (note to self: research whether mummy-ish Carrie Bradshaw types qualify for designer heels and clothes that cost more than your monthly mortgage)

Which leads me to the whole mummy thing. I know I’ve written quite a lot about my experiences with Lilly yet part of me has also resisted becoming ‘just another mummy blog’. I don’t have anything against them but I still do have some ambivalent feelings about defining myself as a mum. I have seen my own mother devoting herself exclusively to the role yet in many ways being so unfulfilled that I have always felt compelled to be more than ‘just mum’. But I can’t deny that the mummy thing is now a huge – and wonderful – part of my life that brings me much joy, and little sleep. And I have a fierce desire to set an example for Lilly about what’s possible and believing in your dreams.

So there you have it – mum and writer (it’s taken me a while to come back around to that theme!). All I can say for now is that they both result in cold pizza.

I’ll explain that one in another post…

 

Missing Mojo

I’ve lost my mojo. It’s absent without leave. Or, paraphrased from something I recently read, it’s switched the lights off and went out clubbing – without me. Not for long, but long enough for me to notice.

So let’s use a process of elimination to work out where it’s not: It’s not in the bed. It’s not on the couch. It’s not in the rhubarb crumble with custard. Trust me, I’ve looked. More than once.

Life without mojo is no good. It’s ok for it to goof off for a few hours, maybe a day. But not several days in a row. Me and my mojo need to talk. Eye to eye, heart to heart. It will probably say I haven’t been fun to be around. Bit gloomy and overwhelmed. Too much research on agents and publishers and not enough writing. Definitely not enough laughing and bouncing and seeing the world as an abundant place. Hmmm, put it like that and I would have probably goofed off too.

It’s kinda like Dr. Seuss’ fabulous Oh, The Places You’ll Go:

…
“You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.
…

Except when you don’t
Because, sometimes, you won’t.
…

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You’ll be left in a Lurch.

You’ll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you’ll be in a Slump.”

And on and on it goes… I love Dr Seuss! Have a look at this fab little video my friend Sarah posted a while ago:

So today’s mission is to find me mojo. Get my bounce back. I’m pretty sure it’s not in the porridge either. But the hungry girl says I better look again. So let’s go make porridge with mojo. Maybe a pinch of Paolo Nutini will spice it up. Alongside all my other favourite good mood tracks. Like Ace of Base It’s a Beautiful Life (walked off the aisle to that one). Or Footloose (first dance). A bit of Tiziano Ferro, a side of Abba. The Bongo song and Dolly Parton.

So was my mojo hiding in my iPod all along? Well, maybe not entirely, but it’s a step in the right direction.

Mind you, I’m not sure if an early morning jukebox session is music to Lilly’s little ears. But then again, it must be a damn sight better than the sight of a gloomy mummy…!

So let’s take that step to the right. Or was it a jump to the left?

Ladies Who Lunch

 

A whole new dimension has been added to my day: the girl wants lunch.

On the whole, the baby-led weaning thing is going really well. We’ve covered an impressive range of foods and for the most part, it’s a joy to watch Lilly eat. Yes, it’s still messy but these days, we do less face painting and more putting the food where it is actually intended (although I’m convinced sometimes she does intend for it to go onto the floor, or better yet, straight into the waiting canine’s mouth).

We started with introducing the concept of dinner, then breakfast. Now it appears we are on to three square meals a day. The whole lunch thing is temporarily traumatic because it seems that I currently spend a significant part of my day preparing food, serving it, and cleaning up afterwards. Some days, one seems to almost run into the other.

For the better part of the last month, sufficient midday magic was to hand the girl a piece of dry bread and Bob’s your uncle (well, actually Hans-Jürgen’s my uncle but it hardly has the same ring to it). Now she wants real food. Avocados are a firm favourite, with bits on the side. Preferably nutritious and quick to prepare (ok, the latter are clearly mummy stipulations).

Honestly peeps, I signed up to be a writer, not a chef. Was there something in the mothering contract’s fine print about regular food provision? And whatever next – snacks???

Ok, rant over. I know this too shall pass. Not the requirement for three meals, but the time-consuming novelty of it. After all, I thought it was hard work when we introduced one meal a day, let alone three. And I have now moaned to enough people that I am actually tired of hearing myself. Very therapeutic though. As is blogging. After all, who needs retail therapy when you can write?

But just in case you find my next post has been penned in blood orange, you know I will have taken the term ‘food writing’ to the next level.