Fundamental Error

A few days ago, a friend with no kids said something about my kids that annoyed me, something that made me think 'you have no idea how hard my life is', that made me think 'you should be more sympathetic about the difficulties that I am facing, even if they are not your difficulties'. 


And then I remembered  thinking exactly the same thing from the other side around three years ago. I was talking to a friend with children about waiting to adopt and she said what no woman with empty arms wants to hear: 'Hey, if you really want kids, you can have one of mine!' 


I felt like I had been punched. 


At the time, I thought she was saying 'It's hilarious to me that you are aching for a child'.  Now, I wonder if she was really saying 'I'm struggling with this. Please help me'. I didn't help, of course. I just turned away, burning with anger. 


That comment wasn't an isolated incident. Most women who face fertility problems could write a masters thesis on Awful Things That The Fertile Woman Says and Does. Chapter one is Complaining About Her Children and some of the rest are Not Realising How Hard This Is, My Childless Life Is Not One Long Carefree Vacation You Know;  She Said WHAT? Doesn't She Care About Our Friendship At All?; and Even If She Hasn't Been Through This Herself, Has She No Imagination? 


It hurt me so much that my friends didn't understand how hard my experiences were. It hurt me so much that they minimised and ignored the pain of wanting a child. This is so much harder than it looks from the outside, I remember thinking. I wish you could see just how hard. You think your life is hard, so mine must be easy and it's not, it's not. 


I didn't see that I was falling into the same trap they were. 

Honestly, I had no idea how hard their lives were, and I didn't really want to know. I certainly didn't ask; I certainly didn't want to listen. They underestimated my difficulties but I did it to them, too. It's so strange to be on the other side now. Even after years, I still struggle to reconcile the pain of disconnection and isolation I felt then with how connected I feel to that equal-and-opposite shared mothering experience now. 

I do think that they should have been nicer to me. More understanding. But I'm sure I should have been nicer to them too. 

I suppose we were both in the wrong, my friends with kids and me. We could see that what we were doing was hard, but we couldn’t see that what we weren’t doing was hard too.

Fundamental error of logic.

Fundamental error of empathy.

I think the moral of the story, probably, is that everything is harder than it looks when you’re not doing it.

Confessions

• I haven't done the chidlren's lifebooks yet. I know, I know. If you had asked me before we adopted, I would never have believed that I wouldn't have done it by the time they were two and a half.  In my defense: I was waiting for information from the search we did back in July, then I was waiting for the searchers to do some follow-up investigations, then I got super-committed to finishing the first draft of my book. That's done now, though (HOORAY!) so it's time to get other tasks knocked over while I give myself six weeks off before going back to start redrafting. The task at the top of the lists is lifebooks. Any tips much appreciated. On a related note: 

• We are a two-parent family, but for some reason tasks like lifebooks fall entirely to me. On the other hand, J does all the heavy lifting and gets things for me off high shelves. I think we have a nice balance. On a related note: 

• I love that J works three days a week and does the parenting two days a week. I'm planning to interview him for the blog about this because I think it's interesting. I talked to him about it yesterday and we both think the key to sharing part time work and parenting is that neither of us is particularly into our careers (unless anybody from work is reading this, in which case I am totally into my career). On a related note:

• A few days ago, I was in a meeting at work with a thoughtful expression on my face. My boss asked 'what are you thinking about, Claudia?' and I said 'I'm thinking about how we will get buy-in on key internal stakeholders for this project' but actually, I was thinking about some bathroom tiles that I saw on Pinterest.  On a related note: 

• We haven't had any internet all week. It's been broken (and okay, by 'broken' I actually mean 'unplugged', for reasons that are too complicated to go into. (And - double bracketing here -  by 'complicated', of course, I actually mean 'boring')).  A whole week without being able to pin anything! A whole week without reading or commenting on blogs! A whole week only being able to read email on my phone! It's been incredibly difficult. I'm kind of horrified by how difficult. Now I know what suffering is. On a related note: 

•  I had to go back to the doctor and got my dosage of brain medicine increased.After three weeks of sick kids and sick self and getting really uptight and upset again, I finally admitted that it was time to move up a notch.  It was strangely difficult - I felt so good after the first few weeks that I was sure everything was going to be fine again, forever.  I felt so angry with myself when it wasn't.  I was in a bad place in my head again, and this time the conversation went 'Claudia, you are such a loser than you can't even get it together when you're taking antidepressants. Wow. All of the stigma of medication with no actual benefit. You really DO make bad choices about your life'.    Fortunately I remembered that tone of voice and knew enough to at least try not to listen to it. And apparently it's pretty normal to feel great after starting and then slip, and now that I've got a few more milligrams in me, I feel fine again. Not swinging from the chandeliers, just normal, which is what I want. Isn't that what we all want?   I'm saying this here because a lot of people have read the original post I wrote about this stuff, and I think it's only honest that I do this follow-up. I've been extremely positive about the brain medicine, and I still am, but I probably was a bit overeager to say 'I'm cuuuuuuuuuuured!' and to use the phrase 'magic bullet'. I'm sorry if I said that to any of you. On a related note: 

• I've had to apologise more since I started parenting than ever before in my life. Right now, I've left my children 'napping' despite the fact that they have been wide awake for the last half hour. I'm not going to apologise for that though, since they can't tell the time and don't realise how late it is. I'd better go and get them up now, though, and wash their hair.  But first, on a related note: 

• I got one of these things, (US link - and no, none of my links ever get me any money, just in case you were wondering) and I think I want to marry it. It's a hairdryer with a brush that rotates, ie it has magical powers. You know when a hairdresser blow dries your hair while using a round brush? This thing does all that by itself.  I've only had it three days but I have suddenly become very, very vain about my hair. It's so swishy! It's so shiny! You can't see me, but I'm flicking it right now. I'm so enamoured that I've bought one for my mother for her birthday and I'm pretty sure it's going to get me bumped back up to 'favourite daughter' status. I know my sister is reading this and I just want to say that you'd better get on it if you want to stay in that will. On a related note: 

• I have no idea how to tip a hairdresser. I know that you're supposed to do it;  I just don't know how. My mother never went to the hairdresser (and she cut my hair at home so I didn't go either - is this making you re-evaluate the usefulness of my hair recommendation above?) so I never got to watch how she did it. I had to get my husband to teach me how to tip a taxi driver (because I never used taxis, either - right now I bet you don't believe that I grew up mostly in a major metropolis, not in a cave somewhere) but he cant' help me out with the hairdresser thing.  With a taxi, if the driver says 'eight pounds fifty' I know to say 'make it ten' and hand over a twenty smoothly  and get the right change.  But when a hairdresser says 'that will be six thousand pounds' - or near enough, it seems - I have no idea what to do so I just say 'okay then!' and give them the sticker price.  Because of this, I tend to only go to a hairdresser once. I don't want to get the butchering that would inevitably result from being 'that woman who didn't tip last time'. I really liked my last haircut, though, and would like to return to that salon, so I'd be grateful if you can help me out here, internets.  On a related note: 

• Internet, I'm so glad to have you back. I've missed you - let's never break up again. 

Hamlet Would Approve

I just had to apologise to my son for deliberately pouring a glass of water over his head. What can I say? Mealtimes ain't easy around here, and I finally snapped.

This is how I thought food worked: you try to feed your kids reasonably nutritious food. If they really, really really won't eat the good stuff, you may have to face a situation where you (gasp!) have to feed them (gasp!) nothing but sausages and mashed potato, and, on the bad days, nothing but  (double gasp!) pizza or mac 'n' cheese.

Turns out I knew nothing. Nothing! I would be so happy if my children would eat pizza - they won't even lick it. I'd be dancing on the ceiling if they would eat mac 'n' cheese - they will eat pasta, and they will eat cheese, but they will not eat pasta and cheese together. Seriously, we are talking here about kids who won't eat chicken nuggets. Their eating (or lack of) is off-the-charts crazy. Except that crazy sort of implies fun, and this is not fun. They don't really eat anything. I'm pretty sure they just photosynthesise.

Here is the list of everything that my children will not eat: Ummmm... actually, there's no point typing that out. Basically, it's everything. Everything that does not appear on this next list. So, here is the very short and specific list of food my children will eat:  jam sandwiches cut into the shape of dinosaurs, pasta with butter, fish fingers, pancakes, blueberries (Pink only), frozen peas (ditto) cheese (both, but only 20% of the time) and apples (ditto).

Oh, and they will also eat cake. Or, as they say it, CAAAAAAAAAAKE. It's the only food they truly love - they are like this about cake. Sometimes, in the middle of a totally un-cake-related activity, Blue will turn his little face towards me and say, in a plaintive voice, "caaaaaaaake?" as if I might have just whipped up a three-layer sponge for him while his back was turned. I never have, just for the record.

Thing is - I love food. Love it! It's pretty much my favourite thing. What's not to like about food?  I love cooking almost as much as I love eating, and I was really looking forward to sharing that love with children. Ha, ha, ha. One of my friends recently said "I can't believe that you have such fussy eaters! You are really into cooking, and your kids are, like, the worst eaters I have ever seen!" Ummm, thanks, I think.


I actually did like whipping up the occasional three layered sponge, before I began to find the kitchen the most demoralising room in the house. Honestly, honestly - there is nothing much more depressing than making meal after meal after meal, day after day after day,  knowing that in thirty minutes time I'll be scraping it into the bin after they have said nooooooooooooooo and cried. Again.

If you've been there, you know the feeling. Unfortunately, many people who haven't been there seem to want to dish out advice about how to miraculously get my kids to eat. As if I haven't been trying, or aren't really interested enough to put some effort into making this situation better. Of course, it feels to me like I do nothing but try to make this situation better. And this means that,  whatever they are all primed to tell me, I already know it. I already know it! I'm sorry for sounding prickly about this - it's because, well, I am. It's just so hard to not be able to give my kids food effectively, you know? It's not like I don't care. So. Here is a (prickly) list of things I already know and do not need to be told about my children's eating:

Children object to texture more than taste
They will eat as much as they need and they won't starve themselves
Children need to taste a new food several times before they will accept it
I need to not make a big deal out of it, because they are picking up on my stress
If I was a better person, or at any rate more like the person giving me advice, my children would be snacking on jalapenos right now

And, my favourite: it's mostly mind games, and I shouldn't let it get to me

This is true, of course. I know it must be largely psychological mind games, because they will eat pretty much anything if the person feeding them is someone they don't know very well. Here's the thing, though: not letting something get to you is incredibly easy to say and incredibly hard to do.

 I know that the only way to survive the mind games is to just not make food a battleground. It's not a moral issue, it doesn't have to be a fight. The way we try to do this is following the Ellyn Satter approach of: my job is to decide what we eat and when we eat. The children get to decide if they eat and how much they eat. If they don't like what I serve out, they can eat plain bread but I will not short-order-cook. Neither will I wheedle or plead or emotionally blackmail or bribe or make food into an emotionally charged issue. So, we have an anti-mind-games plan. We even stick to the plan. We do not fight battles about food. Really, it shouldn't be getting to me at all.

What Ellyn Satter never says is that it's also my job not to lose my FREAKING MIND about faking being okay about all of this, and that's by far the hardest part. It's not a decision you make once; it's a constant drain. On a daily basis, 'not letting it get to me' actually looks a bit like this, and it usually starts at lunchtime:

12.15 choosing not to get mad that they push away their sandwiches (even though they are jam, in the shape of dinosaurs, of course) and ask for cake
12.25 choosing not to get mad that they ask for an apple and then don't eat it
12.26 choosing not to get mad that they won't drink any water because it's not in the right bottle, even though the only Blue-approved bottle has been discontinued and I can never buy more, ever again
12.28 choosing not to get mad that they didn't end up eating or drinking anything at all for lunch
12.32 choosing not to get mad that the table is still a disgusting mess despite the lack of eating

Many days, I feel like  choosing not to get mad about food is my full-time job. It sounds trivial, but it's not trivial. It uses up all my daily resources of willpower. , which is particularly hard when there is other stuff going on like sickness (hello, right now) or boundary-pushing (hello, most of this year).

They nap. They wake up. It continues. So:

17.01 choosing not to get mad that they are screaming for dinner, when they wouldn't be so  stupidly hungry if they had actually eaten their lunch
17.22 choosing not to get mad that Blue cries and says No peas! No peas! because he sees me getting the peas out of the freezer, even though I am only adding them to Pink's bowl, like I do every single day
17.43 choosing not to get mad that they don't actually eat anything once it's in front of them
17.44 choosing not to get mad when they ask for cake - again
17.45 choosing not to get mad when they suddenly start frantically shovelling their food in as soon as I take it away
17.45 and 30 seconds: choosing not to get mad when they abruptly stop and decide not to eat anything after all
17.46 choosing not to get mad that Blue wants water, then when I give him water, says 'NO WATER!' and then ten seconds later wants water again, then says 'NO WATER!' when I give it to him, then wants water again, then shoves the water away when I put it down

And that is why, at 17. 47, I picked up what remained in the cup of water and poured it over his head.  He looked at me, shocked and speechless, then said "Blue naughty!" and I said "Yes! You WERE!" and then I took him upstairs and changed his clothes and apologised for getting mad.

And I shouldn't have gotten that mad. Was it mature? No. Was it appropriate? No. Do I recommend it as a parenting strategy? Definitely not. Would my social worker approve? Again, no, no, no.

But, on the other hand: did it do him any lasting harm? No.

And was it a long-awaited, Shakespearean-tragedy-level cathartic experience?  Might as well be honest.

YES. 

A Few Things About Today

• Today, within twenty minutes of waking up, I knew it would be a day spent in the vortex of sick twins. It was tough. 

• Within thirty minutes of waking up, I had decided that the DVD player would probably be on all day. 

• Within forty minutes of waking up, I had decided not to battle about clothes (or, frankly nappies) and left them in their pyjamas all day. 

• Being sick seems to make Pink bossy and demanding, and Blue very sad. To illustrate: Within an hour of waking up, Blue cried and cried because Pink wouldn't let him sit in the toybox with her. Pink seemed quite clear about the fact that Blue was not allowed to sit in the toybox, and told him so in no uncertain terms. She seemed less clear on the fact that she is not allowed to either. 

• He also cried and cried because it was naptime, then because it was time to get up, then because he was still in his pyjamas, then because I changed him out of his pyjamas, then because I put him back in his pyjamas, then because it was time to make dinner, then because it was time to eat dinner, then because dinner was finished. 

• During their putative nap, the doorbell rang. It was a friend from church, needing me to sign something. Defying statistics, she happened to arrive during the 45 minutes I was cramming potato chips into my mouth and watching Alias on DVD. I don't think my day looked to her like it felt to me. 

• I got through the day without once losing my cool at them. I didn't achieve anything else, but I was proud of that.  

• At about 6pm, I was so tired from not-yelling that I fell asleep in front of The Adventures of Spot the Puppy, even though Blue was on my lap and talking to me the entire time. 

• For once, J got home from work at 7pm rather than 8 or 8.30 which meant that he could finish bedtime. It is possible that my frantic texts throughout the day had something to do with that. 

• As soon as he got home, I put on my shoes for the first time, ran out the door and to the supermarket across the road. I dawdled and drew out my errand for much longer than I needed to. I found myself seriously wondering whether yes, I should really get some wok oil or hey, how about an ash removal attachment for my vacuum? In the end I just bought bread and milk. And also maybe some m&ms. 

• I then spent the evening catatonic on the sofa, eating m&ms  with my feet in a foot spa. J gave it to me for Christmas as a joke, but it turns out I really like it. It's very soothing. The instructions say don't add bubbles, but I do it anyway because I'm a risk-taker. The challenge is to get the bubbles up to my knees without turning my lounge floor into a slippery skating rink. 

• On a related note, I really need to get out more. 

• They are sleeping well now, which is a relief. 

• I went in to look at them a second ago, to give me that traditional parental night-time boost. You know, the 'awwwwwww, aren't they lovely, really?' boost that usually comes from watching sleeping children. Unfortunately, this time I just though 'sorry, kids, I still remember how much you annoyed me today'.  I love them, obviously, but.... you know. 

• In eight hours and six minutes, I have to get up and do it all again. Give me strength. And give me calpol. 

I Blame Post-Feminism

At work, recently, I was reading a study about post-natal depression. The researchers did a (very clever) intervention, and found that they were able to reduce the severity and length of PND episodes in post-partum women. They got lots of funding to take it further... to benefit child health. Because after all, post-natal depression is bad for babies.

And that's true, of course, but I couldn't help thinking: isn't post-natal depression also pretty bad for the mothers? Does that not matter?

Not as much as it should. When I was struggling badly a few months ago, I heard some stories from other people that made me incredibly sad. The worst I heard was of a doctor whose patient asked for help because she was struggling with depression and anxiety. When he asked her if she was thinking of harming the children (and she said no) he said "No therapy or meds for you at this stage. Come back if you're thinking about hurting the kids".

Awesome.

That man deserves a giant wedgie, obviously, but sometimes we talk like this ourselves, too. When mothers look at our lives, it's easy to talk as if the only excuse to help ourselves or improve anything is because it ultimately  helps our children. I don't think men talk like this. I think that when a man wants to, say,  go running, he just says that he wants to go running and shuts the door behind him. When a woman wants to go running, she usually has to find some reason why making the time to go running is going to make her a better mother (I'll be a better mother if I get some endorphins; I'll be a better mother if I have some time to myself) before she will let herself lace up her shoes.

I read this article recently (as did every other mother with an internet connection, I think, and if you didn't, FIX THAT NOW) and it made me think about some of this stuff, about how we value ourselves and each other as mothers, as women.

I'm in the thick of young-mothering at the moment. It's hard. There are lots of good bits, but it's hard. It does move fast, and parts of  it are incredibly wonderful, and I can see that there is something special about this time, something that will never come again. I will not always have a child who greets their naked reflection with 'Hello, nipples!' and I will miss that when it is gone. And of course, I already miss this: 

but when children are tiny, they are cute for a reason. If they weren't adorable, we would not put up with their insane demands. We would not let them ruin our lives and then pretend that we don't resent it. (Joking!) (Mostly). 

And people telling us oh enjoy it - enjoy it - enjoy it, it goes so  fast - that tells me that these are the only years of my life worth having. That all that will be left for me in ten years time, or fifteen, is a fading nostalgia for this time, now, when life was worth living.  

What nonsense. 

I think. 

 I hope that I will look back and see, through memory's soft-focussed, gilded  lens, how incredibly privileged I was to mother these two beautiful human beings through their infancy.  But I also hope that, as I am looking back, I will still be mothering these two beautiful human beings. They might not need me to choose their clothes and cut up their toast any more (and please, oh please let them take care of their own bathroom needs eventually) but this, here,  isn't the only way to be a mother. And being a mother isn't the only thing worth doing, either. My life didn't start when I became a mother. It won't end when they leave home. If we had never had children at all, I would still be a person. I love my children, but they aren't what makes me worthy of my space on the

planet. 

(Fellow Christian mothers, I think we have our own specialist version of this kind of thinking. Churches are usually pretty good about valuing motherhood, but I think that sometimes the intense focus on that aspect of what Christian womanhood means can lead to us devaluing a lot of other amazing things that women can (and do) do for God. if we let ourselves believe that THIS IS IT! the time that means something in my life! then we are going to struggle to lead worthwhile, Jesus-focussed lives as our children grow and leave us. Right now, this is my most important Kingdom work. Right now, self-sacrifice and loving like Christ means, most often, changing another nappy with a smile on my face and disciplining my children with consistent love and trying not to scream when they ask me to sing  The Teddy Bear Twist! yet. again. But it won't always be this way.  There will come a time when this job is done and that is okay. That will be a time to find new work, new ways to love other people, new ways to build the Kingdom. It has to be that way.  If we let ourselves believe that intense mothering is the only thing that matters, we are going to waste the next forty years after we have had our turn,  keeping our children's bedrooms like shrines to the time that they were ours rather than saying 'Okay, Lord, what do you need me to do next?')

They aren't what makes me worthy of my space on the planet. Which is just as well. And maybe, whether we enjoy this time or not isn't really the point. And who are the enjoyment police, anyway? No matter how much we enjoy it, or no matter how much time we spend climbing the walls, it's going to end anyway. I think that living, now, knowing that, helps me to keep these sweet and painful days in perspective. There is no amount of enjoying that will stop these days from ending. I cannot wring a day more from this time than I am given, no matter how upbeat my attitude. That's not how time works.

There has to be something else afterwards. I refuse to believe that the next forty years of my life are going to be a wasteland because I won't have toddlers. They are not my only reason for existing. 

So I am trying to learn to refuse to talk as if the only reason to do something I want to do is because it will somehow benefit the toddlers. I think the two are tied together. 

Why do we talk like this, think like this? I don't know about you, but I blame post-feminism*. I think that feminism gave us the idea that our lives should be fulfilling (rather than just the self-sacrifice of motherhood) and then post-feminism told us that we could still get that fulfilment, but that we could get it through motherhood after all. Which, let's be frank, it some pretty serious mis-selling of the whole experience, right? Talking as if motherhood is the only worthwhile (or even the most worthwhile) thing we do reduces mothers to the sum of their mothering, and it reduces childless women to nothing at all. That can't be right. 

This book is very thought-provoking on the subject.  I would like to unpack this a bit more, but I don't want to make this post longer than it already is; I need to go and sit on the sofa for a while and drink some red wine.... (after all, I'm a much better mother if I get a break in the evenings. Ha). 

I think what I'm trying to say is: it's easy to forget that this isn't all there is, that the kids aren't the only people who matter. It's especially easy when we feel guilty about not appreciating this time enough (and we do, obviously, which is why that post resonated with practically the entire western world). 

Kids are nice to have, but we are people too. And that is reason enough to look after ourselves. You, on your own, are enough of a reason to take care of yourself, to go on a date night, to read a book, to occasionally leave your child in bed for a nap for an inappropriately long time while you take a bubble bath. If that self-care somehow helps your kids, that's great. But it's enough to do it for you.

Even saying that, I want to write after all, one of the best things we can teach our children is that the world does not revolve around them! They need to see us having the self-respect to care for ourselves! and maybe that's and true, but it's not the point. And the need I feel to write that is exactly what I'm talking about.

You are reason enough,  tired mother with a teething baby.

You are reason enough, mother whose children have left and gone

You are reason enough, just you, whether you have twelve children or none.

It doesn't have to all be about the kids. 

You are reason enough too. 

*I'm joking! Sort of. I do not have a degree in women's studies. If you do, please don't yell at me in the comments. 

Two Things I've Noticed Recently

I've mentioned before that my children love - no, adore Miffy. In case you haven't met her, Miffy is a rabbit. A small, white rabbit.

Did I mention that Miffy is a white rabbit? Well, she is. Not the peachy, browny, not-actually-white-at-all-but-lets-call-it-white-anyway shade that some of us humans are, but glowing, arctic WHITE.

You know, like a rabbit.

Yeah. So - this is fine with me, obviously. We got series one of Miffy on DVD a while ago, and we loved it. I don't look at the pictures of Miffy and her friends and feeling uncomfortable about race, or worried about what it's doing to my children.  This is partly because actually, Miffy is very diverse programme. It does not only show rabbits interacting; no! Miffy's friends include pigs (pink, of course) bears (brown) and a dog (also brown).  Here are miffy and her friends, circa series one:

So, yes, very diverse. My point is -  I'm not watching Miffy and wondering 'why are all the rabbits white?'. Instead, I am asking more fundamental questions, like 'why is that rabbit talking?' 'why is that rabbit going to school?'  and 'in the wild, wouldn't that dog actually be attacking the rabbit?' 


Along comes series two, and a new character called Melanie. I'm sure the series creators had the best of intentions, but - how can I explain this? I photographed my TV so I could show you what I mean:

Yeah. Now I'm feeling uncomfortable about race. Epic fail, Miffy, epic fail.

*******************

And speaking of pointless, borderline-offensive tokenism: what's up with nappy packaging? What I'm about to describe may be a UK-only thing, (well, obviously in other parts of the world you don't call them nappies at all, but you know what I mean). Or it might be old news to you. But anyway. Here's what newborn nappy packaging looks like over here (this is every brand I could find):

Notice anything? Yeah, all those newborns are white. Here's one exception: 

A very cute kid of indeterminate ethnicity

However. Once you move into the bigger sizes, there are brown kids all over the packets. For example (this is only a sample; there are still white kids in these sizes too, of course)

  But only on the big sizes. It seems to me like all the brown kids are on the big sizes. This can. not. possibly. be a coincidence.  My guess is this: the newborn sizes are the stage where mothers are developing brand loyalty. Those first few sizes, people are still open to switching brands. But after a year or two, who wants to be still thinking about what brand of nappy to put their kid in? Not me, that's for sure. We picked our favourite (which also happens to be the cheapest, which is also not a coincidence) about a year and a half ago. I do not think about what brand to buy now, I just buy it. There could be a big sign saying 'Now with added BPA!' on the package and I would still buy that brand. 

My point is, I don't think it really makes any kind of difference, marketing-wise, what picture the brand puts on the big sizes. So, yeah, when I look at all the white kids on the newborn sizes and then the kids who look like mine on the big sizes, it feels to me like they are saying: We will totally put brown kids on our packets, because we are super-inclusive like that. Just - you know, not at the point in the market where people are developing preferences that result in three years of brand loyalty. 

Did that conversation really happen in marketing departments all across the land? I guess it did.

Am I imagining this? I don't think so. I don't think I'm imagining this.

And then I thought about it, and remembered why I noticed it in the first place. When I was buying tiny nappies, I was looking, (subconsciously at first, then consciously), for a package with children that looked like my own children. I would have bought that brand, if it had existed. And I guess the white mothers mothers with white children want the same thing. And I guess the market says that there are more white children out there than brown children (that's definitely true in the UK).


We are all drawn to children who look like our children, even when - perhaps especially when - we are spending our money. Is that wrong?

I don't think it's wrong. Is it wrong that marketing departments just want to give us what we want? I'm not sure. That's much more complicated.

But it's probably worth noticing, whatever our market power is, whatever colour we are, whatever colour our kids are.

Please Forgive My Nerdiness

I'm in denial about the fact that 2011 is over. I'm still trying to tick off December tasks, to finish up a few things that fell  under the bus that was my life at the end of last year. Bloggingly, I have three (THREE!) book reviews that I am determined to get written and up here by the end of 2011. Yeah, in the past. That self-imposed deadline isn't working out very well for me, as you can see. They are great books. I can't wait to write about them, I just haven't done it yet. (I'm also finishing up the first draft of my own book, which I am definitely going to get done by Christmas 2011, no matter what. Definitely. Oh, hang on....). 

But January is going better than imaginary December. I'm trying to get all of the typical new-year-y type things done, the things that involve being both more (organised) and less (lazy). I haven't skipped a run yet. Aaaaand... I sorted out my computer desktop. I know that sounds like a total non-achievement, but it's been hanging over me for the longest time and in the end it only took about an hour and a half. And now, nerdily, I'm going to share the process with you in case anybody else wants to do something similar. I'm sure I'm not the first person to think of this idea for visually organising a desktop, but I haven't seen it anywhere else so I thought I might as well share it. If you weren't into this kind of thing at least a little bit, you wouldn't have worked out how to read this blog, right? 

Here is my computer desktop as it has looked for longer than I care to remember. It was a good reason not to do any work on the computer. Please note the horrible background (what was I thinking?) and the six million icons for programmes I have never actually heard of, let alone used.  Hello, I'm talking to you, blackberry update utility. I do not own a blackberry. I have never owned a blackberry. 

So. I went to flickr and searched for 'graphic'. On the first search, I found this fabulous picture that is free to reuse (and modify) under creative commons licensing. I downloaded it (by going to view all sizes > download large size). Then I went to picnik.com, opened the file and labelled the bubbles with the categories I wanted using the text tool: 

I then saved the modified file to my computer, opened it up, right-clicked and chose 'set as desktop background'.  (If any of you want to use / modify this file - please do - just click and download. It's creative commons, like I said. Let me know if the uploaded resolution here is too low). 

I've done a similar thing for work, keeping the 'programs' label, but using the other bubbles for the different bits of my job (because otherwise, everything for work would just go in 'boring stuff'. Amiright?)  

Then I did the very unpleasant - but surprisingly quick - task of sorting through all my icons. I deleted a lot of stuff (anybody else have a desktop full of blank word documents, all called 'Doc 1'? What is wrong with me?) I also created a new folder in the 'boring stuff' area called 'I have no idea what this is' and I have to admit, I shoved a lot of things in there. I will probably never need to actually open that folder, but the mystery shortcuts are still there if I ever need them. I don't have to see them, and I don't have to deal with deleter's remorse. Perfect.  

So now, my desktop looks like this: 

and I have to say, I love it. Totally worth the time. Also - easy to maintain because any rogue icons in the top left hand corner will be immediately obvious. So, please forgive my geeky need to share, but this is currently ranking up there with our dinosaur sandwich cutter as my number one favourite thing, and where can I share my geekery if not the internet? 

So. That's all I have to say about that. Book reviews coming very soon. The End. 

And So It Begins

Just before Christmas, this happened:

And I took a picture of it, because I couldn't believe that they were actually playing together. Playing together! I planned to post this picture here with the caption 'It's a Christmas miracle!' because I was pretty sure it was never going to happen again. (I did a similar post in July and that did turn out to be a totally isolated incident).

But before I could post it, this happened:  

She voluntarily climbed up to join him in tooting out tunes on the auroscopes from their new toy medical kits - which they think are kazoos. Again, I ran for the camera thinking it was a one-off. 

But then - then - their medical kits also came with stethoscopes, and shortly after this picture was taken they started running up to each other and shouting 'chestandback! Chestandback!'  as a signal for the other twin to lift their shirt and submit to an examination.  And then they kept on doing it. Taking turns. And now, it suddenly seems that they get it. They have finally worked out that the other twin is a playmate, not just a competitor. We went to the park, and this is what happened: 

She's pushing him in one of the doll strollers....

Then she is kissing him. Yes, it's true, she's actually KISSING HIM... (okay, I prompted, but she did it)

Then he said 'Blue turn! Blue turn!' and they happily swapped places and he pushed her for a while. 

At first, I wondered if I was imagining it. Am I just perceiving things to be better due to the effects of the brain medicine? J says no, no, no - things are definitely changing, and his neurochemistry is unaltered so I guess his assessment is reliable. There is still a bit of squabbling, but that's not the only way they relate any more. This morning when Pink started yelling, I knew that she had probably fallen over before I even turned around. A few weeks ago I would have just assumed that Blue had bitten her.

It really seems like a corner has been turned. They sing together. They play together with their new teaset (Pink calls the teapot the pee-potty, cracking me up every single time), they cooperate to build towers.  It. Is. Absolutely. Incredible. 

Yeah, it is THIS good. 

This morning,  I had fed them their breakfast, then I decided to see if I could do the cleanup right away, without waiting for them to be asleep or otherwise restrained. It's never been a good idea, because if I left them alone they would attack each other, but I thought - no, I think they can do it! Today is a great day to try! and I decided to empty the dishwasher while they played with toys in the next room.  As I scraped and stacked and put away, I spent quite a long time just consciously dwelling on how happy this was making me. Mark the little things, right? It went a bit like this: 

This is probably the first time ever that they have really played together for this long... it's so great.... my life is so wonderful.... I can't believe how awesome my kids are...... it's fantastic that they can finally amuse themselves....I would never, ever have believed that they could turn this corner but they have.... hey, now I've finished the dishwasher and I can start on the sandwiches..... man, life is so good today.... I can't believe they aren't pulling my knees and whining.....oh, here they both come, peeping around the door to check in and say 'hello mummy' .... hello my honeys, mummy loves you!.... this is awesome, my children are so well behaved AND so well attached.... I wonder what they're doing over there, probably posting duplo people into the toybox.... it's so cute that they do that.... I love that their new affection for each other has opened so many new doors for them into creative and cooperative play.... maybe I should open a home daycare, I am clearly such an awesome mother....Oh, I can't resist, I have to go and see what my smart adorable children are up to: 

And then I found out the downside of the sudden appearance of Team Twin in our house: 

They were drawing on the walls, of course.  

Resolutions

I do not generally do resolutions, and if I did I certainly wouldn't write about them here. I do not generally do a word of the year, or goals, or in fact anything that might in any way be construed as inspirational. This is not that kind of blog, people! You know that by now, right? If I'm honest, I think it's probably because I've always thought that goals = something that might not be achieved = one more chance to fail = more than my poor, frail psyche can handle. 

That's probably really stupid. Failure is part of life. Failure is fine. Failure is better than not trying. Also, opening myself up to the possibility of failing also gives me the option of succeeding, right?  (I'm sorry if that sounds inspirational. I didn't do it on purpose, and I promise not to do it again). 

I didn't give 2011 a word when it started, but as it ends I'm going to award it one in retrospect - survival. I'm really glad that I did survive it, but I want 2012 to be better than that. So, here goes. I'm setting some goals for the coming year. I'm only doing two, because the secret to success is low standards I'd rather finish two things than start six.  (These are non-spiritual things. I want to set some God-focused goals too, but I need to do more thinking about that first and I'm not sure that this blog is the right place to seek accountability in that area of my life). So, my two goals. First: 

In 2012, I am going to finish my book.  

That's kind of a predictable goal for me. I've been working on it for ages (more than a year now, which sort of kills me to think about) and with lots more steady work, I can get this done. It needs to happen. Barring major illnesses or accidents, I think it will happen.  In fact, it's kind of a cop-out because I would be doing this whether or not I called it a goal. 

And here's where I wish that we knew each other in real life - not just because you are awesome (which you are) and incredibly good-looking (also true) but because I would like to see you crease up with laughter when I tell you my second goal: 

In 2012, I am going to run 5km. 

I told my sister in law this today, and she screeched with amusement and said you? and I wasn't offended at all, I just said I know, isn't it crazy? and she said crazy? It's insane! and then we had a good chortle about it. I've never been particularly big, but I was always the slowest kid in my class at school, until I moved schools and met a girl called Anna and then for a while I was the second slowest.  And these days, I have the kind of carefully honed body that comes from spending all my spare time writing a book. Oh, and also eating a lot of carbohydrates and butter. 

I sort of feel like I can't do it.  And then I think why not? I've got two legs and two lungs, just like everybody else. (Well, you know, most people). There's no reason I shouldn't be able to do this. I'm doing a couch to 5K programme (although I've done a four runs now, starting in placebo week, and I would argue that couch is a bit of a misnomer) and there is no reason why I shouldn't be able to achieve this. I just have to do it. Sure, there is a 0.00001% chance of me being attacked by a serial killer on the river path, or a 0.0000001% chance of me having a serious asthmatic episode (you know, because I had a really bad one when I was FOUR) but I think there's about a 100% chance that I'm going to die of heart disease in my fifties if I don't start taking better care of my body. I have always had lots of reasons why I couldn't do something like this, and now I'm sick of it. I'm going to do it. 

I guess it's just that running - or any kind of concerted exercise - is an intensely un-Claudia-like thing to be doing. It's hard work, and I'm not good at it, so where's the fun? I run like a toddler, arms and legs swinging wildly in all directions. When I went to buy running shoes, I was wearing a denim miniskirt and bright pink tights and I didn't realise it was the kind of place where they videotape you running on a treadmill in order to sell you the most expensive right shoes. Oh, the shame. I suspect they put me on youtube as soon as I left - the videoed rear view of my denim-clad self jogging while my skirt flapped above my neon thighs was nearly enough to make me quit before I started. I am not a Running Person.  

But the weird thing is that sometimes I dream about running.  In my dreams, I run like I am flying. I spring off the ball of my foot and leap into the air, effortless momentum carrying me forward and up and forward and up until I am airborne, almost floating, before I arc downwards and land on my other foot and spring up again, feeling the wind on my face and the joy of forward motion.  In my dreams, I run like I was born to do it. I want to feel like that in real life, even if only a little bit, even if me running never looks like that to anybody else. Even if it's not what I think of as me.

So that's my goals. One goal that is me being me, and another one that is me being not-me. In some ways, I'm much more excited about the second. And since - I'll admit it - the combination of new year and new brain medicine is making me feel inspired, I'm going to pass it on, unapologetically and totally without cynicism (for once) and ask you - what would you do in 2012 that would be like the you that you already are? What could you do in 2012 that would be a surprising, unnatural version of you? 

Whatever you do do, I want to wish you a happy 2012. 

Placebo Day Brain Wants To Say Thank You (And Merry Christmas)

So, I went to the doctor.  Thing is, I already had an appointment booked about something totally different. Part of me had been thinking 'you should just tell the doctor up what you really want help with' but I was pretty sure I was going to chicken out.  But then, but then I got so many thoughtful, kind, wise words from so many people in comments and emails I thought I'm going to ask for help. 

I should probably back up a little bit and say that, over here, we don't really have therapists like the US. Antidepressants are prescribed by GPs (family doctors) and they are also the people who refer to psychologists if necessary - as a totally separate thing. It's not a great system, because a GP's appointment is only ten minutes long and they are usually in a rush. It's not really enough time for - well, anything. What can I say. I love free healthcare, obviously, but there are lots of things about the NHS that aren't great. This is one of them. Anyway. 

I went to the doctor. And the sooner I forget about that appointment, the happier I will be. First of all - I cried. Immediately. As in, I opened my mouth to say 'I need to ask you for some help' and I bawled like a child. And then everything I said after that was sort of incoherent. He asked me about what was making life feel difficult, and I told him about the children, and stress at work, and the fact that I always struggle with Winter but this year I have felt like February came in October and won't leave. I've seen this guy a few times before and he's been really good, and I guess that maybe, if I heard myself say those things I would probably think that those actual things were the problem.  So, anyway, he said that I should go to 'talking therapies' and believe me, I am in favour of evidence-based psychological counselling, but the leaflet he gave me just looked like ... nothing. An advice service, sort of. I said I'm not sure that this is what I really need. And I said how will this service help me? and he said well, they might be able to give you tips for coping with stressful situations at work. And he also said well, I don't really like prescribing medication for depression. Medication won't make your problems go away.. 

And for a moment, I just sat there. My worst fear about seeing  a doctor was actually that I would screw up all my courage to do it, and then nothing would change. I feared that he would say you know what, Claudia, your life actually is pretty stressful and I guess you're just going to have to suck it up. And I couldn't believe that I was sitting there and that was actually happening.  Not in so many words, but I knew that I needed more help than just tips for coping with stressful situations at work. But I nearly just said okay and walked out, because, well, what else was I going to do? And then, I suddenly realised NO FREAKING WAY AM I LEAVING THIS BUILDING WITHOUT ANY DRUGS. 

It was odd, but it wasn't until that moment that I realised that was what I really wanted. I knew, deep down, that something wasn't functioning properly. I always get Seasonal Affective Disorder through Winter, so I'm familiar with that feeling of a chemical lowness that feels absolutely real until April suddenly comes and suddenly, everything looks different. And I knew it felt the same (but much worse), like my brain wasn't processing enough of something, or too much of something, and that it wasn't anything that I could really fix on my own. I should have realised earlier, but I didn't. 

So, empowered by all your support, and support from friends through email and a few conversations, I shook my head at him and said No. That's not the problem. I could quit my job tomorrow and I would still feel like this. It's not really the situations in my life that are the problem, it's that I'm not coping properly with those situations. Something is wrong in my head. And I decided that I was going to sit on that chair until he would either write me a prescription or at least agree to discuss it further.

He wrote me the prescription. 

It's a super-low dose of antidepressant, and who knows, it might not be The Answer for me, but I feel a hundred times better for having done something concrete to help myself, and not just accepting that I feel awful because I am awful. And also, at the risk of pre-empting myself, I have to admit that I already feel fantastic. I can't quite explain it. I can't quite describe it, except to say that about four hours after taking the first dose, I felt like the sun came out from behind a cloud.  I would think that I'm imagining it, except that a friend said that this particular drug helped her immediately, too. Most likely, it's just the placebo effect, but if that is the case I think everybody should be taking placebos All! The! Time! 

Placebo Day Brain is a fantastic companion. I took her shopping, and she did a great job of finishing off my Christmas gifts. Then we played happily with the children. Then we bought a pair of running shoes (more on that, perhaps, another day). Then, after the children were in bed, we went and got Christmas groceries and we didn't get stressed or unhappy about any of it. When we got home at 10pm, rather than just unpacking as quickly as possible, the two of us saw the pantry and said 'who can stand having such a messy pantry? Let's clean this thing, stat!, and we did. 

And then the next day (today) I cooked two huge meals and was patient with the kids and I looked at all the twinkling lights and listened to some carols and thought oh, isn't this the most wonderful time of year? 

In short, Placebo Day Brain can kick Bad Day Brain's butt. 

I know it's Christmas eve. I should really be wrapping my presents (in the grey paper, heh) but I wanted to write this and say a huge, words-fail-me thank you for all the support that you gave me about this. (I haven't replied to emails yet, I will get to it, I promise!) I really hope that I won't be the only person who benefits from all the wisdom you left in the comments section- I can't tell you what a huge help it was to me. You made me feel like I wasn't crazy. You made me feel like I should reach out and ask for help, and if I hadn't read what everyone wrote, I think I would have just taken that stupid leaflet and spent most of Christmas crying. I don't think that the help I asked for is what everyone would need, but I know there are others of you who are feeling like I am and I want to tell you that it's possible, it's okay, it's worth it to do whatever you need to do to say HELP. Please. If you need it, do it. Go back and read what everyone else wrote and I hope it will give you courage like it did for me. 

And for the rest of you, I this time I actually want to say: 

Oh, and I just had another look at the wrapping paper, and I've decided it's fine. Grey? Meh, no. I'm pretty sure it's silver.