Oh alright then. I'll tell you.
I've just booked my ticket for BritMums Live! Even though I don't like that exclamation mark. Couldn't it just be BritMums Live please? I had to put that "please" in, because otherwise it looked like I'd replaced the exclamation mark with a question mark, though come to think of it BritMums Live? has a certain pleasing ironic tone to it. Anyway... whatever... I've booked. (And I have to add that I prefer the title to CyberMummy.)
Do you know who is responsible? My big brother. Yes. Charlesinparis. When we were in Chicago a few weeks ago, and he was generally looking after me and being fabulous, we got talking about blogging. And he said
"What on earth was all that about?"
And I said
"What?"
And he said
"All that [putting on a little girlie voice at this point and waggling head] Oh, I don't know if I'm going to go to the conference or not. We all KNEW you were going to go. Of course you were going to go."
I started protesting, because honestly, last time round, (and the time before, come to think of it), I really didn't know whether I wanted to go, but the more I used the word "honestly", or the word "really", the more he waggled his head and shrugged his shoulders and went all older brother-ish on me.
Maybe he had a point. Anyway, the net result is that this time, I've signed up super-early. So early that it's frankly a bit silly. I mean, I don't even know if we'll be in England next June. And there's no returning the ticket back to BritMums Live! if I turn out not to be (in England, I mean, not Live!... I certainly hope to be Live!) However, I can sell it on to someone else, and I'm hoping there's enough Goodwill Live! in the blogosphere that I'll be helped out and I won't be saddled with a ticket to an event I can't get to. I'm hoping.
It was the yoga session, and the promise of cake and wine, that finally tipped the balance for me. Oooh. I've just thought of a much better name for the event. CakeMums WineLive! Doesn't that sound more appealing? Really. Have the organisers got no marketing expertise at all?
.
Showing posts with label Cyber Mummy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cyber Mummy. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
And that's why I did labels
Sounds like the opening line of a short story competition, doesn't it? If you want, you can leave me a comment telling me what your short story would be, if it began with that line. It was, in fact, what I said to husband in my sleep last night. "And that's why I did labels."
Wouldn't it be interesting to know more about sleep and dreams? It's such an undiscovered world still. I mean, why do we all conk out for several hours a day? Why do we sometimes dream and sometimes not? Why do some dreams seem to make sense, and some are entirely random? Why do we sometimes speak out loud? I suppose it's the brain, left undisturbed, getting on with its work of processing experiences, cogitating on them, filing them away, bringing up old memories, working out how they tie in, imagining new possibilities. All very clever.
What a preoccupation sleep is for new parents. I can remember periods when I'd have given anything at all for a week of undisturbed nights. What am I saying? I'd have given anything for one undisturbed night. Impossible to believe that it will ever pass, but if you're in that phase of life, take heart. It does. I'm hardly ever disturbed at night by the children these days. If I am, I've lost the art of dealing with it. I'm all groggy, hardly functional. "House on fire? Are you sure? It's probably ok. Go back to bed and I'll deal with it in the morning." Then I can't get back to sleep again. Not like the old days when my on/off switch was brilliantly effective.
Sleep is a mercy, isn't it? Whatever the true extent of all of its mysterious unknown functions, it is one of life's blessings. The chance to lay aside worries and burdens for a few hours, the chance to recharge physical batteries. I've always been a good sleeper. I can't imagine how horrible long-term insomnia must be.
Let's go back to where we started. "And that's why I did labels" came, of course, from a dream about the toy shop. Price labels are my nemesis. You'd think it was simple, in the grand scale of things, to stick the right price label on the right object. I guess my education didn't prepare me properly for such tasks. I know I always used to write on job applications "attention to detail" as one of my impressive skills, but my experience with labels in the toy shop have led me to see that as something of a fib (though what else is a cv but a list of fibs?) Too many toys are similar, but not quite the same. That is the essence of the problem. And the importance of accurate stock control. Bleugh. Whatever.
So in my dream, having been given complicated instructions about which set of labels went on which boxload of items, I found I was four labels short. So I was trying to print out the extra four labels on the computer, and making a bit of a hash of it, and then my boss came over and asked me what I was doing, and I went into a lengthy explanation of the whole issue, most of which was to do with the personalities of the other people working in the shop, and ending with "and that's why I did labels".
Then I was in a cake shop, ordering a birthday cake (Husband's 50th birthday this week?) and wondering how on earth I was going to carry it home on a London bus and the tube in the rush hour (memories of Sarah Brown's story at CyberMummy? and my own journey to CyberMummy on buses, as the tube line was closed? - perhaps, in my dreams, I AM Sarah Brown?). Then the cake shop lady started insisting that I buy some new clothes as well (sartorial insecurities?), and I noticed that it was a shop selling cakes and clothes (odd... or perhaps a brilliant idea for a new small business venture?). But then as I ran for the bus, my top kept falling down, and it turned out to be a dream about mastectomy scars. Ha! You didn't see that one coming did you? Nor did I, at the time.
I rest my case. Sleep. Dreams. Fascinating stuff.
Wouldn't it be interesting to know more about sleep and dreams? It's such an undiscovered world still. I mean, why do we all conk out for several hours a day? Why do we sometimes dream and sometimes not? Why do some dreams seem to make sense, and some are entirely random? Why do we sometimes speak out loud? I suppose it's the brain, left undisturbed, getting on with its work of processing experiences, cogitating on them, filing them away, bringing up old memories, working out how they tie in, imagining new possibilities. All very clever.
What a preoccupation sleep is for new parents. I can remember periods when I'd have given anything at all for a week of undisturbed nights. What am I saying? I'd have given anything for one undisturbed night. Impossible to believe that it will ever pass, but if you're in that phase of life, take heart. It does. I'm hardly ever disturbed at night by the children these days. If I am, I've lost the art of dealing with it. I'm all groggy, hardly functional. "House on fire? Are you sure? It's probably ok. Go back to bed and I'll deal with it in the morning." Then I can't get back to sleep again. Not like the old days when my on/off switch was brilliantly effective.
Sleep is a mercy, isn't it? Whatever the true extent of all of its mysterious unknown functions, it is one of life's blessings. The chance to lay aside worries and burdens for a few hours, the chance to recharge physical batteries. I've always been a good sleeper. I can't imagine how horrible long-term insomnia must be.
Let's go back to where we started. "And that's why I did labels" came, of course, from a dream about the toy shop. Price labels are my nemesis. You'd think it was simple, in the grand scale of things, to stick the right price label on the right object. I guess my education didn't prepare me properly for such tasks. I know I always used to write on job applications "attention to detail" as one of my impressive skills, but my experience with labels in the toy shop have led me to see that as something of a fib (though what else is a cv but a list of fibs?) Too many toys are similar, but not quite the same. That is the essence of the problem. And the importance of accurate stock control. Bleugh. Whatever.
So in my dream, having been given complicated instructions about which set of labels went on which boxload of items, I found I was four labels short. So I was trying to print out the extra four labels on the computer, and making a bit of a hash of it, and then my boss came over and asked me what I was doing, and I went into a lengthy explanation of the whole issue, most of which was to do with the personalities of the other people working in the shop, and ending with "and that's why I did labels".
Then I was in a cake shop, ordering a birthday cake (Husband's 50th birthday this week?) and wondering how on earth I was going to carry it home on a London bus and the tube in the rush hour (memories of Sarah Brown's story at CyberMummy? and my own journey to CyberMummy on buses, as the tube line was closed? - perhaps, in my dreams, I AM Sarah Brown?). Then the cake shop lady started insisting that I buy some new clothes as well (sartorial insecurities?), and I noticed that it was a shop selling cakes and clothes (odd... or perhaps a brilliant idea for a new small business venture?). But then as I ran for the bus, my top kept falling down, and it turned out to be a dream about mastectomy scars. Ha! You didn't see that one coming did you? Nor did I, at the time.
I rest my case. Sleep. Dreams. Fascinating stuff.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Who were you at CyberMummy?
I have a real life friend (yes, honestly) who follows my blog faithfully, and comments as either Josephine or Someonesmrs. She left a comment on my previous post, which I thought would make rather a good post in itself. She said:
When you lot all meet up (I am a non-blogger; I just lurk at others blogs) do you call each other Potty, Nappy, HomeOfficeMum or whatever, or do you find out each other's real names and use them, and then is it weird to come back to blogosphere names again?
Yes, that is an interesting point. Who am I at CyberMummy? At this point, I want to witter off into pages and pages of musings about identity, because this is an aspect of blogging that I find truly fascinating. But I'll restrain myself, or I'll restrain Iota at any rate (aaargh, see what I mean...), and I'll just answer the question, and then let you all answer it too.
When I introduced myself to people I didn't know at CyberMummy, waggling my lanyard in front of them, I tended to say "I'm Iota, my blog is The Iota Quota, my real name is Myrealname". But that didn't happen very often because honestly I wasn't all that interested in meeting new random people. I was either with people I knew, or looking out specifically for people I wanted to meet. A couple of friends I already knew did ask me at CyberMummy "would you rather be Iota or Yourrealname?", and I replied that either was fine. That's honestly how I feel. I answer to either name. In the context of CyberMummy, I suppose I felt more easy with the name Iota. It's who I am in the blogging world. And I really like the name. I like it more than Myrealname, actually.
That probably answers your second question too, "Josephine". For me, it's not weird at all to skip from one name to the other. I'm quite happy being Myrealname in a conversation, and then commenting the following day on someone's post as Iota. I'm just a crazy mixed-up kid.
What about the rest of you? Did you use your real names, and if so, how did it feel reverting to your blog name in the blogosphere? If you email blogging friends, do you use your blog name or your real name? And how does having a twitter handle add to the mix?
.
When you lot all meet up (I am a non-blogger; I just lurk at others blogs) do you call each other Potty, Nappy, HomeOfficeMum or whatever, or do you find out each other's real names and use them, and then is it weird to come back to blogosphere names again?
Yes, that is an interesting point. Who am I at CyberMummy? At this point, I want to witter off into pages and pages of musings about identity, because this is an aspect of blogging that I find truly fascinating. But I'll restrain myself, or I'll restrain Iota at any rate (aaargh, see what I mean...), and I'll just answer the question, and then let you all answer it too.
When I introduced myself to people I didn't know at CyberMummy, waggling my lanyard in front of them, I tended to say "I'm Iota, my blog is The Iota Quota, my real name is Myrealname". But that didn't happen very often because honestly I wasn't all that interested in meeting new random people. I was either with people I knew, or looking out specifically for people I wanted to meet. A couple of friends I already knew did ask me at CyberMummy "would you rather be Iota or Yourrealname?", and I replied that either was fine. That's honestly how I feel. I answer to either name. In the context of CyberMummy, I suppose I felt more easy with the name Iota. It's who I am in the blogging world. And I really like the name. I like it more than Myrealname, actually.
That probably answers your second question too, "Josephine". For me, it's not weird at all to skip from one name to the other. I'm quite happy being Myrealname in a conversation, and then commenting the following day on someone's post as Iota. I'm just a crazy mixed-up kid.
What about the rest of you? Did you use your real names, and if so, how did it feel reverting to your blog name in the blogosphere? If you email blogging friends, do you use your blog name or your real name? And how does having a twitter handle add to the mix?
.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
CyberMummy 2011, the dark side
Well, CyberMummy 2011 was - of course - a fantastic occasion, and I loved it to bits. I'm sure there are a multitude of posts out there, if you want to read about the quality speakers, and the opportunities for digging into areas of interest. Or the uncovering of the many ways in which bloggers are moving cyber life forward, and the fun of being part of that whole movement. Or the excitement of meeting other bloggers, putting faces to names, being amongst old friends and new. Or the really rather delicious sausage casserole with a mashed potato topping. But you're not going to read about those things here. No. I'm going to confess to you that CyberMummy 2011 was, for me, the first step on what might become a downward spiral into a life of crime.
I committed a theft. I did. You're surprised, aren't you? You're thinking "that Iota... she seemed like a nice lady, who'd have thought it?" Alas. I fear it's downhill all the way from here. I can see you all, in the public gallery in the courtroom, as the judge pronounces the sentence, tutting sadly, and shaking your heads, more in sorrow than in anger. Then you'll go home, and tell your friends and neighbours "I was there, where it all started, back in 2011... at a conference, it was... such a shame..."
I was in the sponsors room. I was looking for a cup of tea. Oh, it started innocently enough. A cup of tea. That's all I wanted. But then there was all this STUFF... all this FREE STUFF. And nice smiley people wanting to talk to you, and give you leaflets, and tell you about their FREE STUFF. If you read my post on the CyberMummy blog, you'll know that I've decided to start earning a bit of money from my blog, and maybe some material goods. So I was trying to be open to any opportunities that came my way. That's when I saw the Crocs stand. By the stand, there were baskets full of Crocs, and people were rubbling through them. And the couple of bloggers I was with started asking each other "are those free Crocs?", and I thought "ooh, I've never owned a pair of Crocs". So then I got into the throng of people who were waiting to chat to the nice Crocs people, and I was going to ask if I could take a pair of Crocs, and try them, and write a review about them, and feeling like I was on the brink of venturing successfully into this commercial blogging lark that up till now I've deliberately distanced myself from. But the crowd wasn't moving, and the nice Crocs people were a bit overwhelmed, and I couldn't get through all the other bloggers to speak to anyone, and then the blogger I was with handed me a pair of bright yellow Crocs, size 1, and said "here, would these be the right size for any of yours?", and then I started feeling just a little bit smug for knowing 7-yo's UK shoe size as well as her US one, which just happens to be a size 1, and I pictured her little excited face as I would hand her the shoes. There was a bit of kerfuffling, as still no-one seemed to know what the baskets of Crocs were for, but I said to another blogger I was with "they wouldn't have brought them here, just to take them back again, would they? They must have wanted people to help themselves, mustn't they?", and she replied "oh, stick 'em in your bag, let's go". It wasn't my fault, you see. I was led astray by people who, quite frankly, should have known better. Mentioning no names, but you know who you are.
So there it is, M'Lud. I was a victim of circumstances. And it was all for my children. My little daughter. She was 7. She needed shoes. I did it for her. And I was thinking I could write a review for Crocs. That's how it works, isn't it? You get a freebie, you write a review. Yes, I must confess that someone did mention to me later on in the day that the Crocs in the baskets were samples for people to look at, but that's all I've done. Looked at them. In the comfort of my own home.
The review? Oh. Well, M'Lud, you see what happened was that I gave the Crocs, the bright sunshiney yellow Crocs, to my young child. Her face shone with gratitude as she softly whispered "oh Mummy, not a second helping of gruel AND new shoes!". Then she tried them on, and was very insistent that actually her feet were a size-1-but-very-nearly-a-size-2 and that her toes were pushing right up at the end in a most uncomfortable way. She said "the thing is, Mummy, I don't like Crocs. They're not really my style". So I couldn't review them. But I WOULD have done. Honest.
And that's how it all started. My first step on the slippery slope, M'Lud. Don't blame me. Blame CyberMummy.
.
I committed a theft. I did. You're surprised, aren't you? You're thinking "that Iota... she seemed like a nice lady, who'd have thought it?" Alas. I fear it's downhill all the way from here. I can see you all, in the public gallery in the courtroom, as the judge pronounces the sentence, tutting sadly, and shaking your heads, more in sorrow than in anger. Then you'll go home, and tell your friends and neighbours "I was there, where it all started, back in 2011... at a conference, it was... such a shame..."
I was in the sponsors room. I was looking for a cup of tea. Oh, it started innocently enough. A cup of tea. That's all I wanted. But then there was all this STUFF... all this FREE STUFF. And nice smiley people wanting to talk to you, and give you leaflets, and tell you about their FREE STUFF. If you read my post on the CyberMummy blog, you'll know that I've decided to start earning a bit of money from my blog, and maybe some material goods. So I was trying to be open to any opportunities that came my way. That's when I saw the Crocs stand. By the stand, there were baskets full of Crocs, and people were rubbling through them. And the couple of bloggers I was with started asking each other "are those free Crocs?", and I thought "ooh, I've never owned a pair of Crocs". So then I got into the throng of people who were waiting to chat to the nice Crocs people, and I was going to ask if I could take a pair of Crocs, and try them, and write a review about them, and feeling like I was on the brink of venturing successfully into this commercial blogging lark that up till now I've deliberately distanced myself from. But the crowd wasn't moving, and the nice Crocs people were a bit overwhelmed, and I couldn't get through all the other bloggers to speak to anyone, and then the blogger I was with handed me a pair of bright yellow Crocs, size 1, and said "here, would these be the right size for any of yours?", and then I started feeling just a little bit smug for knowing 7-yo's UK shoe size as well as her US one, which just happens to be a size 1, and I pictured her little excited face as I would hand her the shoes. There was a bit of kerfuffling, as still no-one seemed to know what the baskets of Crocs were for, but I said to another blogger I was with "they wouldn't have brought them here, just to take them back again, would they? They must have wanted people to help themselves, mustn't they?", and she replied "oh, stick 'em in your bag, let's go". It wasn't my fault, you see. I was led astray by people who, quite frankly, should have known better. Mentioning no names, but you know who you are.
So there it is, M'Lud. I was a victim of circumstances. And it was all for my children. My little daughter. She was 7. She needed shoes. I did it for her. And I was thinking I could write a review for Crocs. That's how it works, isn't it? You get a freebie, you write a review. Yes, I must confess that someone did mention to me later on in the day that the Crocs in the baskets were samples for people to look at, but that's all I've done. Looked at them. In the comfort of my own home.
The review? Oh. Well, M'Lud, you see what happened was that I gave the Crocs, the bright sunshiney yellow Crocs, to my young child. Her face shone with gratitude as she softly whispered "oh Mummy, not a second helping of gruel AND new shoes!". Then she tried them on, and was very insistent that actually her feet were a size-1-but-very-nearly-a-size-2 and that her toes were pushing right up at the end in a most uncomfortable way. She said "the thing is, Mummy, I don't like Crocs. They're not really my style". So I couldn't review them. But I WOULD have done. Honest.
And that's how it all started. My first step on the slippery slope, M'Lud. Don't blame me. Blame CyberMummy.
.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
CyberMummy 2011
Just to let you know that I've guest posted over at the Britmums blog about CyberMummy. For some reason, it's titled "CyberMummy, a Critic's View", which is odd, because I think I was at my least critical when I wrote it. I suspect they wrote the title before they received the text. Ha! I'm full of surprises, me.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
A mystery revealed
All is revealed. Well, not all. But "one thing is revealed" doesn't sound so good, does it?
I am the mystery blogger. Ooh, get me, as they say. Actually, I'm not sure anyone except me does say that, but "Ooh, get me, as I say" doesn't sound so good, does it?
Yes, it was me. I met up with Michelloui, writer of the blog The American Resident, in a Braum's, in a small town, in the middle of America. And it was fabulous.
The opening moments weren't so fabulous. I arrived at Braum's, and over the other side of the restaurant, by the serving area, there was Michelloui, smiling and waving at me. Except I didn't recognise her at all. Sure, she was medium height, long brown hair, friendly face. But it wasn't the same person who I'd met and sat next to at CyberMummy 2010. It's always amazing, in retrospect, how fast the human brain can work at moments like this. I smiled back and waved, and started walking towards her, while my mind processed the following questions: aaaagh, what am I going to do? how am I going to open the conversation with this woman I don't recognise at all? how has she changed her appearance so much? aaaagh, why does she look like that? what's wrong with the memory I have of her? why is my memory so bad these days? it didn't used to be, and aaaagh, who then was that person at CyberMummy I thought was Michelloui? I'm sure it was her... but it obviously wasn't... so who was it? aaaagh...
All that was whirring through the impressive organ that is my brain, while I was smiling and walking towards this woman, who was smiling and waving... and looking right past me... at the person who'd followed me in through the door.
Phew.
So then Michelloui and her husband arrived, and she did look remarkably like the woman who I thought was her at CyberMummy 2010 after all.
As Michelloui talks about here, there is something very lovely about meeting up with a blogger whose blog you've followed. It's like meeting an old friend and a new, all wrapped up in the same person. She brought her husband along with her, and within a minute, the three of us were yabbering away as if we'd known each other for years.
The best bit, if there was a best bit, was talking about the richness that you bring to your life, and to your children's lives, with getting to know another culture from the inside. I have this slightly guilty voice inside me, which says things like "you've ruined your children's education, they don't know their cousins very well, they aren't learning to love the English countryside, they can't spell 'favourite'", and though I try not to listen to that voice, it is there. So it was wonderful to have the affirmation of people who understand my situation from the inside, and could say "but look at all the experience is giving them", and not just the obvious things, but some of the intangibles that are really hard to identify and describe.
So thank you, Michelloui, for fitting me into your American trip. Thank you for finding somewhere easy for us to meet, and arranging it all. Thank you for bringing your husband along - it was fun to meet him. Thanks for the hobnobs. Thanks for a really fun lunchtime.
I am the mystery blogger. Ooh, get me, as they say. Actually, I'm not sure anyone except me does say that, but "Ooh, get me, as I say" doesn't sound so good, does it?
Yes, it was me. I met up with Michelloui, writer of the blog The American Resident, in a Braum's, in a small town, in the middle of America. And it was fabulous.
The opening moments weren't so fabulous. I arrived at Braum's, and over the other side of the restaurant, by the serving area, there was Michelloui, smiling and waving at me. Except I didn't recognise her at all. Sure, she was medium height, long brown hair, friendly face. But it wasn't the same person who I'd met and sat next to at CyberMummy 2010. It's always amazing, in retrospect, how fast the human brain can work at moments like this. I smiled back and waved, and started walking towards her, while my mind processed the following questions: aaaagh, what am I going to do? how am I going to open the conversation with this woman I don't recognise at all? how has she changed her appearance so much? aaaagh, why does she look like that? what's wrong with the memory I have of her? why is my memory so bad these days? it didn't used to be, and aaaagh, who then was that person at CyberMummy I thought was Michelloui? I'm sure it was her... but it obviously wasn't... so who was it? aaaagh...
All that was whirring through the impressive organ that is my brain, while I was smiling and walking towards this woman, who was smiling and waving... and looking right past me... at the person who'd followed me in through the door.
Phew.
So then Michelloui and her husband arrived, and she did look remarkably like the woman who I thought was her at CyberMummy 2010 after all.
As Michelloui talks about here, there is something very lovely about meeting up with a blogger whose blog you've followed. It's like meeting an old friend and a new, all wrapped up in the same person. She brought her husband along with her, and within a minute, the three of us were yabbering away as if we'd known each other for years.
The best bit, if there was a best bit, was talking about the richness that you bring to your life, and to your children's lives, with getting to know another culture from the inside. I have this slightly guilty voice inside me, which says things like "you've ruined your children's education, they don't know their cousins very well, they aren't learning to love the English countryside, they can't spell 'favourite'", and though I try not to listen to that voice, it is there. So it was wonderful to have the affirmation of people who understand my situation from the inside, and could say "but look at all the experience is giving them", and not just the obvious things, but some of the intangibles that are really hard to identify and describe.
So thank you, Michelloui, for fitting me into your American trip. Thank you for finding somewhere easy for us to meet, and arranging it all. Thank you for bringing your husband along - it was fun to meet him. Thanks for the hobnobs. Thanks for a really fun lunchtime.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Quantum Jumping
Now then. The other day I was chatting to my younger brother on Skype. For some reason, his camera is at desk level and can't be moved, so I see a huge chin and big nostrils, and if he doesn't turn off the light behind him, it looks like he has a halo. Or perhaps since I saw him last summer he has turned into an angelic creature with a weird face. All things are possible.
Which brings me right to the heart of this post. Am I the only one, or is everyone else getting bombarded with adverts for Quantum Jumping? They're everywhere I go in my virtual life. They invade my gmail account. Whoever is organising the campaign must have a huge advertising budget (and no, this isn't a sponsored post, before you wonder).
This is what the Quantum Jumping website says:
The abundant you. The inventor you. The creative you. In alternate universes, everything you desire has already taken place. Tap into this infinite potential with Quantum Jumping...
Every decision you make in life causes a “split” in reality...
In these alternate universes, alternate versions of YOU are living out their lives...
And then:
This revelation may be a little hard to swallow...
Yup. That last one, I go with.
Help. I'm just getting to grips with the fact that something called 4G might exist. I'm not ready for alternative realities. Actually, and perhaps this is why I find Quantum Jumping a little threatening, I'm a really bad one for 'what if?'ing in my life. I have come to see that it's a very unproductive activity, so I've been trying to drop 'what if?' in favour of 'what next?' - a much more helpful approach. Quantum Jumping is the ultimate 'what if?'. Not only can you explore what hypothetically you might have been or done, but it seems that you can literally do so.
I asked my younger brother if he thought one day we'd be able to get beamed up and down by Skype, rather than just being able to see and hear each other through the medium of a screen. He said something about molecules.
So what do you think? Are you all getting the ads and links? Who is behind it all? Is it possible to explore our other virtual lives? Am I, perhaps, a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist, a supermodel or a kindergarten teacher, a hooker or a zookeeper, and I just don't know about it? And if we can hop about from one life to another, from real life to virtual life, will we all still need to go to Cyber Mummy to meet up?
.
Which brings me right to the heart of this post. Am I the only one, or is everyone else getting bombarded with adverts for Quantum Jumping? They're everywhere I go in my virtual life. They invade my gmail account. Whoever is organising the campaign must have a huge advertising budget (and no, this isn't a sponsored post, before you wonder).
This is what the Quantum Jumping website says:
The abundant you. The inventor you. The creative you. In alternate universes, everything you desire has already taken place. Tap into this infinite potential with Quantum Jumping...
Every decision you make in life causes a “split” in reality...
In these alternate universes, alternate versions of YOU are living out their lives...
And then:
This revelation may be a little hard to swallow...
Yup. That last one, I go with.
Help. I'm just getting to grips with the fact that something called 4G might exist. I'm not ready for alternative realities. Actually, and perhaps this is why I find Quantum Jumping a little threatening, I'm a really bad one for 'what if?'ing in my life. I have come to see that it's a very unproductive activity, so I've been trying to drop 'what if?' in favour of 'what next?' - a much more helpful approach. Quantum Jumping is the ultimate 'what if?'. Not only can you explore what hypothetically you might have been or done, but it seems that you can literally do so.
I asked my younger brother if he thought one day we'd be able to get beamed up and down by Skype, rather than just being able to see and hear each other through the medium of a screen. He said something about molecules.
So what do you think? Are you all getting the ads and links? Who is behind it all? Is it possible to explore our other virtual lives? Am I, perhaps, a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist, a supermodel or a kindergarten teacher, a hooker or a zookeeper, and I just don't know about it? And if we can hop about from one life to another, from real life to virtual life, will we all still need to go to Cyber Mummy to meet up?
.
Monday, January 10, 2011
2010 in pictures
So there's a free ticket being given away for Cybermummy 2011. I don't know which side of the Atlantic I'll be this summer, but against the possibility that I might be in England, I'm going to enter. The competition is 'Your 2010 in Pictures'. You can post either a single picture, or a montage. You can see all the entries here.
OK... So... My 2010 in pictures. I've been browsing back through my photos of the year, and the trouble is, I don't post pictures of my kids or myself, and it would be too boring to sum up the year in nature shots, so I was a bit stuck. But then I found a few that 6-yo took. She is very interested in photography, and is saving up her pocket money and Christmas money for a camera of her own. We occasionally let her use ours, as a special treat, and back in January 2010, she took these. I'm calling them "Barbie meets Postman Pat".
Here's the first in the series. It's Alexa from Barbie in The Diamond Castle. For those of you who are not familiar with the film, it's a heart-warming tale of how two sisters, who live together in a cottage in the countryside growing flowers to sell in the market, come across a magic mirror, in which a Muse called Melody is trapped. Melody entreats them to help, and they set out on a quest which is... you know what? If you are not familiar with the film, relax and count yourself lucky.
The second in the series features Barbie in an evening gown which 6-yo designed herself. Do you like the tasteful single green flower on the front? She looks a little disheveled, in an after-the-party kind of a way.
Photo number three shows Barbie in more casual attire.
I'm titling the next one "Barbie prepares to bite off Pat's nose".
Here is Hallowe'en Barbie. That fire is perilously close to her dress. No wonder her hair is standing on end.
And as a finale, here is the complete Barbie line-up. Postman Pat, it's your lucky day. What would Mrs Goggins make of it all? Reverend Timms, control yourself.
So why do these pictures sum up my 2010? Well, I can think of so many reasons. First, there's my growing girl. She was 5-yo and a Kindergartener when she took these pictures, and now she's 6-yo and a big First Grader. She knows her months of the year, and has no need for this jigsaw puzzle any more. I have no idea why she used the puzzle as a backdrop for her Barbie parade, and I marvel at the ingenuity and creativity that is a child. I love the mystery of their small minds.
Then there's the intelligent juxtaposition of our Englishness and Americanness. "Barbie meets Postman Pat" sums it up so perfectly. Look at her, all glamorous and movie star. And look at him, all homeliness and cups of tea in the post office. This is brilliantly chosen symbolism of a childhood split emotionally between Britain and America. The composition is significant too. 6-yo hardly knows who Postman Pat is. He's the man in this jigsaw puzzle, but she doesn't see him on television or lunchboxes, in magazines and colouring books. He's there in the background, but he's not part of the activity of her life, as Barbie is. The composition of the photos perfectly reflects the reality.
The photos speak to me of our fourth year in the US completed, and the continuing erosion of our familiarity with British life. There's Barbie in her Hallowe'en dress. We hardly knew what Hallowe'en was, four years ago, and now we are past masters at choosing costumes and knowing which streets in our neighborhood are good for trick or treating. Meanwhile, the puzzle shows Reverend Timms carefully putting together his harvest festival display, Bonfire Night in November, children dancing round a Maypole. These are celebrations of which 6-yo knows nothing (though the Maypole? Really? Does anyone still do that?) Does that make me sad? Yes, of course it still does. But I have also found out that it's ok to let those things go. And as time goes by, I know that my children will make sense in the future of this strange split identity that they are acquiring, because I see them doing it in the present. We spent the summer in the UK, and they loved every minute of it. They are proud of their nationality, but they love life here in America too. Their maturity and their confidence in this astonishes me.
Yes. I think this is a good way to sum up 2010.
By the way, I haven't fixed, cropped or edited any of the photos in any way. They are exactly as 6-yo took them.
.
OK... So... My 2010 in pictures. I've been browsing back through my photos of the year, and the trouble is, I don't post pictures of my kids or myself, and it would be too boring to sum up the year in nature shots, so I was a bit stuck. But then I found a few that 6-yo took. She is very interested in photography, and is saving up her pocket money and Christmas money for a camera of her own. We occasionally let her use ours, as a special treat, and back in January 2010, she took these. I'm calling them "Barbie meets Postman Pat".
Here's the first in the series. It's Alexa from Barbie in The Diamond Castle. For those of you who are not familiar with the film, it's a heart-warming tale of how two sisters, who live together in a cottage in the countryside growing flowers to sell in the market, come across a magic mirror, in which a Muse called Melody is trapped. Melody entreats them to help, and they set out on a quest which is... you know what? If you are not familiar with the film, relax and count yourself lucky.
The second in the series features Barbie in an evening gown which 6-yo designed herself. Do you like the tasteful single green flower on the front? She looks a little disheveled, in an after-the-party kind of a way.
Photo number three shows Barbie in more casual attire.
I'm titling the next one "Barbie prepares to bite off Pat's nose".
Here is Hallowe'en Barbie. That fire is perilously close to her dress. No wonder her hair is standing on end.
And as a finale, here is the complete Barbie line-up. Postman Pat, it's your lucky day. What would Mrs Goggins make of it all? Reverend Timms, control yourself.
So why do these pictures sum up my 2010? Well, I can think of so many reasons. First, there's my growing girl. She was 5-yo and a Kindergartener when she took these pictures, and now she's 6-yo and a big First Grader. She knows her months of the year, and has no need for this jigsaw puzzle any more. I have no idea why she used the puzzle as a backdrop for her Barbie parade, and I marvel at the ingenuity and creativity that is a child. I love the mystery of their small minds.
Then there's the intelligent juxtaposition of our Englishness and Americanness. "Barbie meets Postman Pat" sums it up so perfectly. Look at her, all glamorous and movie star. And look at him, all homeliness and cups of tea in the post office. This is brilliantly chosen symbolism of a childhood split emotionally between Britain and America. The composition is significant too. 6-yo hardly knows who Postman Pat is. He's the man in this jigsaw puzzle, but she doesn't see him on television or lunchboxes, in magazines and colouring books. He's there in the background, but he's not part of the activity of her life, as Barbie is. The composition of the photos perfectly reflects the reality.
The photos speak to me of our fourth year in the US completed, and the continuing erosion of our familiarity with British life. There's Barbie in her Hallowe'en dress. We hardly knew what Hallowe'en was, four years ago, and now we are past masters at choosing costumes and knowing which streets in our neighborhood are good for trick or treating. Meanwhile, the puzzle shows Reverend Timms carefully putting together his harvest festival display, Bonfire Night in November, children dancing round a Maypole. These are celebrations of which 6-yo knows nothing (though the Maypole? Really? Does anyone still do that?) Does that make me sad? Yes, of course it still does. But I have also found out that it's ok to let those things go. And as time goes by, I know that my children will make sense in the future of this strange split identity that they are acquiring, because I see them doing it in the present. We spent the summer in the UK, and they loved every minute of it. They are proud of their nationality, but they love life here in America too. Their maturity and their confidence in this astonishes me.
Yes. I think this is a good way to sum up 2010.
By the way, I haven't fixed, cropped or edited any of the photos in any way. They are exactly as 6-yo took them.
.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Crismis
So this is Crismis. Or that’s what it says on the calendar on my kitchen wall. Written by 6-yo way back last January, when she was a mere Kindergartener, and she went through the calendar painstakingly writing in birthdays and holidays in letters larger than the space allowed. Of course now she is a First Grader, she would know how to write Crismis properly. That’s what a year does for you. And when we went swimming yesterday, she insisted that I use the Winnie the Pooh towel, which is too babyish for her now, though it was a favourite in the summer. Time passes and things change.
If I were feeling in a philosophical mood, I would reflect that this has been a year of two halves for me. It started badly, with that trip, when Husband was head-hunted and it all came to naught. Then I don’t really remember much about the spring, except I couldn’t really get back in the groove, and I was truly fed up with people telling me to be gentle with myself and not expect too much of myself, and that getting over a major trauma like cancer would take time. Don’t you just hate it when you know the answers, and people keep telling you them, and it doesn’t make the darnedest bit of difference?
The year’s half time was our trip to the UK, which was lovely. I remember day after day in the sunshine in my mother’s garden, trips to beaches, a very hot visit to Paris, walks on the North York Moors, resting and recuperating. There were tears in the gardens of Grosvenor Square, sprung out of the sheer frustration and anguish involved in getting through the US visa system. I remember that.
Then the second half began with the arrival of my green card, and a job in a toy shop. Morale improved. I was busy. It’s easier to make good use of time at home, when you’re not at home all the time. All three children made happy starts to the school year. I joined the church choir, remembered how very much I love choral singing, and wondered why I’ve done so little of it over the past ten years. We celebrated Thanksgiving in Colorado, which has become something of an annual tradition. I spent a week-end in Chicago with five other British bloggers living in the US, leaving Husband to look after the children and pass a kidney stone (or not pass a kidney stone, as it turned out – it had to be blasted apart a week later). That man is a saint.
In terms of blogging, well, I was a finalist in the MADs awards, in the category ‘Best Writer’, and now it seems I’m a finalist in the BMB Brilliance in Blogging list, in the category ‘Inspirational’. Ooh, get me. The blogging highlight of the year for me was reading out a blog post at Cyber Mummy. I loved doing that. I was really nervous, truth be told. Given that it was an emotional topic, my youngest child’s first day at school, I wasn’t sure I would make it through without tears, so I’d given a copy to a friend in the front who could take over if necessary. Be prepared, as they say in the boy scouts (although I’ve never actually been a boy scout, so I don’t know for sure that that’s what they say). Reading that post reflected how I like to think my blog plays out in the blogosphere. Some members of the audience had never read my blog, so for them, the post would have been an interesting commentary on school life in America through an English woman’s eyes. All the audience at Cyber Mummy were mums (or dads), so the post would have tapped into some of the feelings that all mothers experience from time to time, when our children move on and grow up. The specific interest and the general appeal - a good balance in a post. But there were some people, who have followed my blog through thick and thin, and for them, the post was loaded with significance. They would remember that my daughter started school in the middle of my 12 weeks of chemotherapy, and that it was only by the fortunate chance of where the date fell in the 3-week cycle, that I was well enough to take her. They knew how important that was to me. They knew that at the back of my mind were thoughts not only of her first day at school, but where I would be for her last day of school. I spotted tears at the front table. I love that about blogging – the way we all connect in different ways, and on different levels. It’s a rich web of interactions.
Enough about blogging. Another year has gone by. The tree is decorated. The wicker reindeer is on the front lawn, bedecked in lights. The organic turkey will be collected tomorrow. The egg nog is in the fridge. So this is Crismis.
If I were feeling in a philosophical mood, I would reflect that this has been a year of two halves for me. It started badly, with that trip, when Husband was head-hunted and it all came to naught. Then I don’t really remember much about the spring, except I couldn’t really get back in the groove, and I was truly fed up with people telling me to be gentle with myself and not expect too much of myself, and that getting over a major trauma like cancer would take time. Don’t you just hate it when you know the answers, and people keep telling you them, and it doesn’t make the darnedest bit of difference?
The year’s half time was our trip to the UK, which was lovely. I remember day after day in the sunshine in my mother’s garden, trips to beaches, a very hot visit to Paris, walks on the North York Moors, resting and recuperating. There were tears in the gardens of Grosvenor Square, sprung out of the sheer frustration and anguish involved in getting through the US visa system. I remember that.
Then the second half began with the arrival of my green card, and a job in a toy shop. Morale improved. I was busy. It’s easier to make good use of time at home, when you’re not at home all the time. All three children made happy starts to the school year. I joined the church choir, remembered how very much I love choral singing, and wondered why I’ve done so little of it over the past ten years. We celebrated Thanksgiving in Colorado, which has become something of an annual tradition. I spent a week-end in Chicago with five other British bloggers living in the US, leaving Husband to look after the children and pass a kidney stone (or not pass a kidney stone, as it turned out – it had to be blasted apart a week later). That man is a saint.
In terms of blogging, well, I was a finalist in the MADs awards, in the category ‘Best Writer’, and now it seems I’m a finalist in the BMB Brilliance in Blogging list, in the category ‘Inspirational’. Ooh, get me. The blogging highlight of the year for me was reading out a blog post at Cyber Mummy. I loved doing that. I was really nervous, truth be told. Given that it was an emotional topic, my youngest child’s first day at school, I wasn’t sure I would make it through without tears, so I’d given a copy to a friend in the front who could take over if necessary. Be prepared, as they say in the boy scouts (although I’ve never actually been a boy scout, so I don’t know for sure that that’s what they say). Reading that post reflected how I like to think my blog plays out in the blogosphere. Some members of the audience had never read my blog, so for them, the post would have been an interesting commentary on school life in America through an English woman’s eyes. All the audience at Cyber Mummy were mums (or dads), so the post would have tapped into some of the feelings that all mothers experience from time to time, when our children move on and grow up. The specific interest and the general appeal - a good balance in a post. But there were some people, who have followed my blog through thick and thin, and for them, the post was loaded with significance. They would remember that my daughter started school in the middle of my 12 weeks of chemotherapy, and that it was only by the fortunate chance of where the date fell in the 3-week cycle, that I was well enough to take her. They knew how important that was to me. They knew that at the back of my mind were thoughts not only of her first day at school, but where I would be for her last day of school. I spotted tears at the front table. I love that about blogging – the way we all connect in different ways, and on different levels. It’s a rich web of interactions.
Enough about blogging. Another year has gone by. The tree is decorated. The wicker reindeer is on the front lawn, bedecked in lights. The organic turkey will be collected tomorrow. The egg nog is in the fridge. So this is Crismis.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Chicago Six
So there I am, sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant in downtown Chicago, listening to another English woman tell a story which begins “so there I am…”, and I’m thinking “I love that – the way English people tell stories in the present tense. I miss that here.”.
Get me, though. Chicago. Chi-ca-go. I’m having this FABULOUS week-end. We’re eating, we’re drinking, we’re being driven around on our own personalized tour, we’re looking at pictures in the Art Institute, we’re strolling around Chicago in the late autumn sunshine… We’re having the best week-end, and all the time, we’re talking, talking, talking. I think I haven’t ever talked so much in a 2-day period in my entire life. We talk as if talking is going to be banned tomorrow. We talk as we eat, we talk as we walk, we talk as we sit in a taxi, we talk when we’re ready for bed and should be going to sleep. I don't mean 19 to the dozen; it’s more like 91 to the dozen. We use much-loved phrases, rarely heard in our American lives: we speak about a fortnight, faffing around, losing the plot, being all over the shop, going to the loo. It’s the conversational equivalent of comfort food. I feel enveloped in a warm blanket of spoken words.
The cast list. You want to know the cast list. There were the two Chicagoans who organized us and looked after us. Thanks, Expat Mum, for your knowledgeable guided tour, and Nicola, I’m in awe of anyone who can wear a white wool coat and keep it looking that good. There were the two Californians, who turned up in bikinis carrying surfboards. Hope you’ve warmed up, Calif Lorna and Geekymummy. The East Coast was represented by Nappy Valley Girl, with her tales about visiting New York's Museum of Modern Art, (though I suspect she’d just got lost in her own neighborhood and was looking at the Hallowe’en decorations, which, if her blog is anything to go by, are works of art of museum quality in their own right). And then me, feeling like I’m one of the hicks from the sticks, though I think I impressed them all with my tales of how we have electricity and hot running water in every house, and a Wal-mart on both sides of town.
I remember a period of time when bloggers in the UK started meeting together. In real life. In the flesh. Sometimes it was an ad hoc group, sometimes it was arranged by British Mummy Bloggers. There was a flurry of ‘meet-ups’. If I’m honest, I hated reading those reports. I felt I was missing out big time. I wanted to know what it felt like to clap eyes on a completely strange face, and yet know the person behind it so well. I wanted to join in all the posting and commenting: “you were JUST like I imagined you! Can’t wait to see you again!” Sometimes living abroad really sucks. Then last summer, I was thrilled at the thought of meeting people at Cyber Mummy 2010, but I was also a little irritated that the blogging wagon had rolled on without me. Everyone was over the novelty of the whole meet-up thing, and was moving on, before I had even had my first taste. People were going to Cyber Mummy because they wanted to attend the sessions and learn stuff, when all I wanted to do was sit at a succession of coffee cups and talk. Not even talk… Just chat… I’m even going to confess (sorry, Susanna, Jen, Sian) that in advance of the conference, I emailed a few bloggers who I really wanted to meet, and sought to lure them out of sessions, so that I could fill my day with my own personal serial meet-up. (It only partially worked.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say, in amongst all this wittering on, is that this week-end in Chicago was not only a fun-filled, chat-filled, friendship-filled two days which will live in my memory for years to come, but it also somehow made up for all those meet-ups in England which I missed. And in Chi-ca-go, for heaven’s sake. Yup. I think I’ve caught up now.
Thank you, fellow members of The Chicago Six. I wish I could put all those conversations we had over the week-end in bottles, and uncork them over the next few weeks. I'd love to re-run them and chew them over again and again. There was so much great content!
PS Since someone is bound to ask, I don’t know if I’m going to Cyber Mummy 2011. Don’t know if I’ll be in England at the time. But if I am, and you fancy a quick coffee and a chat behind the bike sheds when teacher isn’t looking, email me.
Get me, though. Chicago. Chi-ca-go. I’m having this FABULOUS week-end. We’re eating, we’re drinking, we’re being driven around on our own personalized tour, we’re looking at pictures in the Art Institute, we’re strolling around Chicago in the late autumn sunshine… We’re having the best week-end, and all the time, we’re talking, talking, talking. I think I haven’t ever talked so much in a 2-day period in my entire life. We talk as if talking is going to be banned tomorrow. We talk as we eat, we talk as we walk, we talk as we sit in a taxi, we talk when we’re ready for bed and should be going to sleep. I don't mean 19 to the dozen; it’s more like 91 to the dozen. We use much-loved phrases, rarely heard in our American lives: we speak about a fortnight, faffing around, losing the plot, being all over the shop, going to the loo. It’s the conversational equivalent of comfort food. I feel enveloped in a warm blanket of spoken words.
The cast list. You want to know the cast list. There were the two Chicagoans who organized us and looked after us. Thanks, Expat Mum, for your knowledgeable guided tour, and Nicola, I’m in awe of anyone who can wear a white wool coat and keep it looking that good. There were the two Californians, who turned up in bikinis carrying surfboards. Hope you’ve warmed up, Calif Lorna and Geekymummy. The East Coast was represented by Nappy Valley Girl, with her tales about visiting New York's Museum of Modern Art, (though I suspect she’d just got lost in her own neighborhood and was looking at the Hallowe’en decorations, which, if her blog is anything to go by, are works of art of museum quality in their own right). And then me, feeling like I’m one of the hicks from the sticks, though I think I impressed them all with my tales of how we have electricity and hot running water in every house, and a Wal-mart on both sides of town.
I remember a period of time when bloggers in the UK started meeting together. In real life. In the flesh. Sometimes it was an ad hoc group, sometimes it was arranged by British Mummy Bloggers. There was a flurry of ‘meet-ups’. If I’m honest, I hated reading those reports. I felt I was missing out big time. I wanted to know what it felt like to clap eyes on a completely strange face, and yet know the person behind it so well. I wanted to join in all the posting and commenting: “you were JUST like I imagined you! Can’t wait to see you again!” Sometimes living abroad really sucks. Then last summer, I was thrilled at the thought of meeting people at Cyber Mummy 2010, but I was also a little irritated that the blogging wagon had rolled on without me. Everyone was over the novelty of the whole meet-up thing, and was moving on, before I had even had my first taste. People were going to Cyber Mummy because they wanted to attend the sessions and learn stuff, when all I wanted to do was sit at a succession of coffee cups and talk. Not even talk… Just chat… I’m even going to confess (sorry, Susanna, Jen, Sian) that in advance of the conference, I emailed a few bloggers who I really wanted to meet, and sought to lure them out of sessions, so that I could fill my day with my own personal serial meet-up. (It only partially worked.)
Anyway, what I’m trying to say, in amongst all this wittering on, is that this week-end in Chicago was not only a fun-filled, chat-filled, friendship-filled two days which will live in my memory for years to come, but it also somehow made up for all those meet-ups in England which I missed. And in Chi-ca-go, for heaven’s sake. Yup. I think I’ve caught up now.
Thank you, fellow members of The Chicago Six. I wish I could put all those conversations we had over the week-end in bottles, and uncork them over the next few weeks. I'd love to re-run them and chew them over again and again. There was so much great content!
PS Since someone is bound to ask, I don’t know if I’m going to Cyber Mummy 2011. Don’t know if I’ll be in England at the time. But if I am, and you fancy a quick coffee and a chat behind the bike sheds when teacher isn’t looking, email me.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Train of thought
7.35am, and I’m sitting in the Pumpkin Café, York station, with cup of tea and bacon roll. On my way to the US Embassy to renew my visa. Mine and the children’s. Probably want to take them back with me when I go. Be a shame if I had a visa and they didn’t.
Bit of an adventure getting here. Had planned to leave house by 6.10, to get 6.53 train from Malton to York. Woke up at 6.28. Don’t know how this happened. My alarm clock was set. Husband’s alarm clock was set. Did we both mis-set them? Did they both fail to go off? Freakish. Or did we both sleep through them? Perhaps we need a holiday. Oh. We’re on holiday. Does the part of me that doesn’t want to renew my visa have more say when I’m asleep? So anyway, 6.28. That left me 25 minutes exactly to get up, dressed, drive 8 miles to Malton, find somewhere to park (no station car park at Malton and I don’t know the town, only ever been to the station to pick up or drop off), and buy a ticket.
I made it. Still now quite sure how, though remember finding a miraculously free car park (didn’t know those existed any more), and running to the station, wiping tears out of my eyes as the chill morning wind whipped by my face (wind, because I was running like the, not because it was a windy morning - just to clarify). Even had time for little chat with booking office clerk, who said he’d been a bit late for work himself and it must be one of those days. Hope the Embassy staff don’t mind my hair, or my unshowered aroma.
8.05am, and I’m on the train to London King’s Cross. I love train travel. Love it with a passion that makes me wonder if I was born in the wrong era. Thank goodness I had sons, because they’re nothing if not a good excuse for the occasional steam train ride.
Got a seat with a table, and have The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which I’m told (by many, though not all) I won’t be able to put down, but I know that for most of the journey, I won’t write or read. I’ll look out of the window. Why ever not? Flashing through probably the most beautiful county in probably the most beautiful country on earth.
Might have to move. There’s a woman with a mobile phone, a written report, and a very loud voice.
“Well, Jason, I think I’m just going to put 2.5 as regards that figure, because that’s what all the other sites have done, and so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
I don’t see why she shouldn’t either, but I don’t want to listen all the way to King’s Cross. Train is remarkably empty (why?), so plenty of choice.
Power stations – one on my left, one on my right. Countryside very flat now. That’ll teach me to write “probably the most beautiful county…”.
Haven’t got a laptop. Just in case you were picturing me, all high tech and wired up. Or wire free. No, not allowed electrical things in the US Embassy. Not even allowed a clicky key fob. Lucky I had an old-fashioned turn-in-the-lock one, though intriguingly it only worked in the passenger side door. That required about 3 precious seconds in the car park. The remembering and the sprinting round to the other side.
Now, Bloggy Peeps. Should that be Peops? Trouble is, that looks like Pee-ops. But Peeps is a bit Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll call you Bloggy Friends.
Now, Bloggy Friends. I know I’m on a blogging break, but I thought you might like to know about my summer so far. Just a few highlights.
Cyber Mummy
Oh my goodness, I loved Cyber Mummy (except for the name, sorry, I just can’t love that name). There was something very fulfilling, in the genuine sense of that word, about meeting women who I’d got to know so well online over the past three years. I mean, three years is hardly a whirlwind romance, so these are people who have had a window into a measurable percentage of my adult life, and I into theirs. Yours.
There were some excellent moments. One of my faves was when I won a month’s supply of Garofalo pasta in the prize draw. I and the friend I was sitting next to thought it was Gruffalo pasta, because she’d just been telling me about interviewing Julia Donaldson. Gruffalo pasta. Why the heck not?
More summer highlights:
over-riding my vertigo to go up the Eiffel Tower – to the top, mind you – and finding I thoroughly enjoyed it;
sitting in the front garden, sharing a bottle of evening wine with my husband and brother, the temperature somewhere around the high 80s, the air scented with jasmine, still, and heavy, the conversation punctuated by Parisians nodding Bonsoir to my brother as they walked past;
watching my temperature-resistant children swim in the sea with cousins in both Brighton and St Andrews (different cousins – we don’t carry a set round with us on our travels);
the mundane familiarity of small English things, like being called ‘Love’ by shop assistants;
visiting ruined abbeys and having picnics;
staying with my mum, who is quite definitely one of Britain’s National Treasures;
old friends, with their children 2 years older than last time I saw them;
going to a museum, or two or three, including the Natural History Museum in London, where 9-yo decided he wants to become a geologist;
bumping into some friends at Abington services on the M74. We were driving north from Yorkshire to the Scottish Highlands. They were driving south from Edinburgh to the Lake District. What were the chances? We last saw them in October 2006, just before we went to America. We gave them lamps that we couldn’t take with us (different voltage in the US). I’d forgotten. They now have a 2 year old.
Oh so many more, but this is a blog, not a novel, so I must stop. One low point to report: 9-yo breaking his collar bone when he fell off a bike. Hurrah for the NHS, I must say. In and out of A&E within an hour and a quarter - friendly nurses, friendly doctor, x-rays, pain-killers, and a sling - no forms to fill in, and not a penny to pay. Horrid to see him in pain and shrunk into himself, though. He's doing fine now - thanks for asking - and having an arm in a sling doesn't stop him doing much. Cricket, football, swimming, building sandcastles, DS, monopoly, sibling squabbling... all these summer activities are possible one-armed. Just as well he's not a blogger. Blogging one-handed would be frustrating.
More anon.
.
Bit of an adventure getting here. Had planned to leave house by 6.10, to get 6.53 train from Malton to York. Woke up at 6.28. Don’t know how this happened. My alarm clock was set. Husband’s alarm clock was set. Did we both mis-set them? Did they both fail to go off? Freakish. Or did we both sleep through them? Perhaps we need a holiday. Oh. We’re on holiday. Does the part of me that doesn’t want to renew my visa have more say when I’m asleep? So anyway, 6.28. That left me 25 minutes exactly to get up, dressed, drive 8 miles to Malton, find somewhere to park (no station car park at Malton and I don’t know the town, only ever been to the station to pick up or drop off), and buy a ticket.
I made it. Still now quite sure how, though remember finding a miraculously free car park (didn’t know those existed any more), and running to the station, wiping tears out of my eyes as the chill morning wind whipped by my face (wind, because I was running like the, not because it was a windy morning - just to clarify). Even had time for little chat with booking office clerk, who said he’d been a bit late for work himself and it must be one of those days. Hope the Embassy staff don’t mind my hair, or my unshowered aroma.
8.05am, and I’m on the train to London King’s Cross. I love train travel. Love it with a passion that makes me wonder if I was born in the wrong era. Thank goodness I had sons, because they’re nothing if not a good excuse for the occasional steam train ride.
Got a seat with a table, and have The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which I’m told (by many, though not all) I won’t be able to put down, but I know that for most of the journey, I won’t write or read. I’ll look out of the window. Why ever not? Flashing through probably the most beautiful county in probably the most beautiful country on earth.
Might have to move. There’s a woman with a mobile phone, a written report, and a very loud voice.
“Well, Jason, I think I’m just going to put 2.5 as regards that figure, because that’s what all the other sites have done, and so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
I don’t see why she shouldn’t either, but I don’t want to listen all the way to King’s Cross. Train is remarkably empty (why?), so plenty of choice.
Power stations – one on my left, one on my right. Countryside very flat now. That’ll teach me to write “probably the most beautiful county…”.
Haven’t got a laptop. Just in case you were picturing me, all high tech and wired up. Or wire free. No, not allowed electrical things in the US Embassy. Not even allowed a clicky key fob. Lucky I had an old-fashioned turn-in-the-lock one, though intriguingly it only worked in the passenger side door. That required about 3 precious seconds in the car park. The remembering and the sprinting round to the other side.
Now, Bloggy Peeps. Should that be Peops? Trouble is, that looks like Pee-ops. But Peeps is a bit Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll call you Bloggy Friends.
Now, Bloggy Friends. I know I’m on a blogging break, but I thought you might like to know about my summer so far. Just a few highlights.
Cyber Mummy
Oh my goodness, I loved Cyber Mummy (except for the name, sorry, I just can’t love that name). There was something very fulfilling, in the genuine sense of that word, about meeting women who I’d got to know so well online over the past three years. I mean, three years is hardly a whirlwind romance, so these are people who have had a window into a measurable percentage of my adult life, and I into theirs. Yours.
There were some excellent moments. One of my faves was when I won a month’s supply of Garofalo pasta in the prize draw. I and the friend I was sitting next to thought it was Gruffalo pasta, because she’d just been telling me about interviewing Julia Donaldson. Gruffalo pasta. Why the heck not?
More summer highlights:
over-riding my vertigo to go up the Eiffel Tower – to the top, mind you – and finding I thoroughly enjoyed it;
sitting in the front garden, sharing a bottle of evening wine with my husband and brother, the temperature somewhere around the high 80s, the air scented with jasmine, still, and heavy, the conversation punctuated by Parisians nodding Bonsoir to my brother as they walked past;
watching my temperature-resistant children swim in the sea with cousins in both Brighton and St Andrews (different cousins – we don’t carry a set round with us on our travels);
the mundane familiarity of small English things, like being called ‘Love’ by shop assistants;
visiting ruined abbeys and having picnics;
staying with my mum, who is quite definitely one of Britain’s National Treasures;
old friends, with their children 2 years older than last time I saw them;
going to a museum, or two or three, including the Natural History Museum in London, where 9-yo decided he wants to become a geologist;
bumping into some friends at Abington services on the M74. We were driving north from Yorkshire to the Scottish Highlands. They were driving south from Edinburgh to the Lake District. What were the chances? We last saw them in October 2006, just before we went to America. We gave them lamps that we couldn’t take with us (different voltage in the US). I’d forgotten. They now have a 2 year old.
Oh so many more, but this is a blog, not a novel, so I must stop. One low point to report: 9-yo breaking his collar bone when he fell off a bike. Hurrah for the NHS, I must say. In and out of A&E within an hour and a quarter - friendly nurses, friendly doctor, x-rays, pain-killers, and a sling - no forms to fill in, and not a penny to pay. Horrid to see him in pain and shrunk into himself, though. He's doing fine now - thanks for asking - and having an arm in a sling doesn't stop him doing much. Cricket, football, swimming, building sandcastles, DS, monopoly, sibling squabbling... all these summer activities are possible one-armed. Just as well he's not a blogger. Blogging one-handed would be frustrating.
More anon.
.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Taking a break
I’ve really struggled with this post. You see, I want to take a break from blogging over the summer. I thought I could get to you to click on the play button below, and create in your minds a picture of me shimmying off into the distance, passport in one hand, mug of tea in the other, no way of carrying a laptop too. “I’m heading to the UK, and I don’t want to be writing blog posts all summer”, I would have said breezily. And that would have been a fair picture. Well, fair-ish anyway. So go ahead and click (it’s a great song, you’ll enjoy it).
See that shimmying? Then I started writing a bit more honestly about why I want to take a break, and several hundreds of words later, I thought “this is way too long, and do I really want this uber-personal stuff to sit on my blog as the top post for weeks?”, but I liked the honesty of it, and so I didn’t know what to do with it. It had paragraphs that started:
One of the thoroughly miserable things about having had cancer is that you can't go back to being quite how you were...
Returning to normal life after a trauma like cancer is a little like running a sprint, and then being asked unexpectedly to tack a half-marathon on the end of it...
Here's the difficult thing. I find it very hard to complain about any of this without feeling very guilty. I mean, shouldn't I just be so grateful? The fact that I've got through so far seems to have deprived me of the right to feel hard done by about anything else...
I know I'm very bad at the whole head/heart balance thing. Thing is, Head has got it all so sussed, and knows that it needs to get out of the way and let Heart have a turn at running things, but for all its cleverness, it doesn't know how to do that...
I do see someone to talk to (since you're all going to suggest that), and yes, it does help. And I know it will take time (so if you mention that in a comment, prepare to have your comment deleted, since I’m quite irritable on that point)...
Does that give you enough of a flavour? Each one could be the subject of a whole blog post, and there was lots more where that came from too, but truth to tell, I am a little fed up of writing all this stuff. You know how I always love writing, and blogging? Well, I have to confess I’ve slightly fallen out of love with this blog over the past few weeks. It's seen me through so much, but it's recently become a bit of a burden as well as a pleasure. Has that shown?
So, in an honest nutshell, that’s why I'm going to take a break.
There's one little loose end. Do you remember that conference I said I wanted to run? You know. The yoga bottoms and chocolate cake one? Well, I was, actually, quite serious about it, for a short while. But then a very wise bloggy friend (you know who you are) said "Don't run a conference. Spend your precious summer enjoying time with family and friends." And I thought "she's absolutely right". I haven’t seen my immediate family for two years. Two years! Hello Mum, I'm waving at you now! I have good friends to catch up with. I want to sit on beaches, walk in woods, eat picnics in fields, have days out in historic cities. We're flying on Sunday. So I’m not going to organise that conference, but I am going to Cyber Mummy (probably not in my yoga bottoms), and if your summer will be incomplete without meeting me in the flesh, you can see me there. I'm looking forward to meeting so many of you. It feels a little weird – I know you, and you certainly know me, more than is normal for first time meetings, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.
At Cyber Mummy, the tables at lunch are going to centre round different themes, to get people with similar interests together, and to get conversation going. I’m hosting a table, discussing Identity and Anonymity (kind of ironic, since I’ll be giving up the latter to attend Cyber Mummy). So please come and join me if you’d be interested in those topics - or if you spot me sitting all on my own. (And psst… between you and me, no-one made me sign a contract saying I would stick to the subject, so if we want to share pictures of our kids or talk about chocolate cake, then I think we can get away with it.)
And the music? Well, that song has become something of a theme tune for me over the past few weeks. 6-yo asked for ‘a grown-up cd’ for her birthday, and while browsing in Dillons, I came across a compilation one: Summer of ’67. It had a picture of a chiffon-clad, long-haired, wafty woman in soft focus on the front which I knew would appeal to 6-yo. It is a fabulous cd. Wow, they knew a thing or two about music in 1967. Somehow this song has become the place I’ve gone to when I just haven’t been able to connect with the world, as well as being the accompaniment to lots of happy moments. It has suited every mood. Wistful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it. Isn’t it odd, what gets you through? (And that line at 1.58, “you and me and Leslie” is actually “you and me endlessly” – makes me laugh every time.)
Oh, and if you've been lurking all this time, why don't you come on out and say hello to me? I'm only going on a break; I'm planning to be back; but you never know what the future holds, and look how long it took Ross and Rachel to get together again.
There. I’ve packed my virtual suitcases (or soupcases, as 6-yo calls them), and I’m off on my break.
Happy blogging...
.
See that shimmying? Then I started writing a bit more honestly about why I want to take a break, and several hundreds of words later, I thought “this is way too long, and do I really want this uber-personal stuff to sit on my blog as the top post for weeks?”, but I liked the honesty of it, and so I didn’t know what to do with it. It had paragraphs that started:
One of the thoroughly miserable things about having had cancer is that you can't go back to being quite how you were...
Returning to normal life after a trauma like cancer is a little like running a sprint, and then being asked unexpectedly to tack a half-marathon on the end of it...
Here's the difficult thing. I find it very hard to complain about any of this without feeling very guilty. I mean, shouldn't I just be so grateful? The fact that I've got through so far seems to have deprived me of the right to feel hard done by about anything else...
I know I'm very bad at the whole head/heart balance thing. Thing is, Head has got it all so sussed, and knows that it needs to get out of the way and let Heart have a turn at running things, but for all its cleverness, it doesn't know how to do that...
I do see someone to talk to (since you're all going to suggest that), and yes, it does help. And I know it will take time (so if you mention that in a comment, prepare to have your comment deleted, since I’m quite irritable on that point)...
Does that give you enough of a flavour? Each one could be the subject of a whole blog post, and there was lots more where that came from too, but truth to tell, I am a little fed up of writing all this stuff. You know how I always love writing, and blogging? Well, I have to confess I’ve slightly fallen out of love with this blog over the past few weeks. It's seen me through so much, but it's recently become a bit of a burden as well as a pleasure. Has that shown?
So, in an honest nutshell, that’s why I'm going to take a break.
There's one little loose end. Do you remember that conference I said I wanted to run? You know. The yoga bottoms and chocolate cake one? Well, I was, actually, quite serious about it, for a short while. But then a very wise bloggy friend (you know who you are) said "Don't run a conference. Spend your precious summer enjoying time with family and friends." And I thought "she's absolutely right". I haven’t seen my immediate family for two years. Two years! Hello Mum, I'm waving at you now! I have good friends to catch up with. I want to sit on beaches, walk in woods, eat picnics in fields, have days out in historic cities. We're flying on Sunday. So I’m not going to organise that conference, but I am going to Cyber Mummy (probably not in my yoga bottoms), and if your summer will be incomplete without meeting me in the flesh, you can see me there. I'm looking forward to meeting so many of you. It feels a little weird – I know you, and you certainly know me, more than is normal for first time meetings, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.
At Cyber Mummy, the tables at lunch are going to centre round different themes, to get people with similar interests together, and to get conversation going. I’m hosting a table, discussing Identity and Anonymity (kind of ironic, since I’ll be giving up the latter to attend Cyber Mummy). So please come and join me if you’d be interested in those topics - or if you spot me sitting all on my own. (And psst… between you and me, no-one made me sign a contract saying I would stick to the subject, so if we want to share pictures of our kids or talk about chocolate cake, then I think we can get away with it.)
And the music? Well, that song has become something of a theme tune for me over the past few weeks. 6-yo asked for ‘a grown-up cd’ for her birthday, and while browsing in Dillons, I came across a compilation one: Summer of ’67. It had a picture of a chiffon-clad, long-haired, wafty woman in soft focus on the front which I knew would appeal to 6-yo. It is a fabulous cd. Wow, they knew a thing or two about music in 1967. Somehow this song has become the place I’ve gone to when I just haven’t been able to connect with the world, as well as being the accompaniment to lots of happy moments. It has suited every mood. Wistful. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve listened to it. Isn’t it odd, what gets you through? (And that line at 1.58, “you and me and Leslie” is actually “you and me endlessly” – makes me laugh every time.)
Oh, and if you've been lurking all this time, why don't you come on out and say hello to me? I'm only going on a break; I'm planning to be back; but you never know what the future holds, and look how long it took Ross and Rachel to get together again.
There. I’ve packed my virtual suitcases (or soupcases, as 6-yo calls them), and I’m off on my break.
Happy blogging...
.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thoughts on blogging
There’s another reason I’m sad, as well as yesterday's general grief. When the Cyber Mummy conference details were published, I looked at them, and thought “well, those sessions are not really for me, but I’ll get something out of them, I’m sure, and I’d love to meet up with everyone”. But for a few days it’s been really getting under my skin, and I’ve been trying to work out why. I mean, I’ve said more than a few times that I’m not bothered if other people want to work with PR companies, get their blog into a league table, worry about their reader stats. It’s just not for me. That’s my position: the blogosphere is big enough for all of us, right?
But I confess that I do also sense an increasing disconnect, which the conference has thrown into focus for me, between where I am, and where the whole mummy blogging ship is sailing. And I feel that disconnect as something of a bereavement. I really do. I just hadn’t quite realised it before in that way. It’s partly because I’m simply growing out of the world I used to thrive in. It’s hard to share the intensity of feeling about the woes of potty training and sleep deprivation when you’re out of that stage of life. Mummy blogging will always be more about babies and toddlers than school kids. I know that. I notice that a lot of the more mature mummy bloggers are writing for Powder Room Graffiti. It’s almost like a class reunion over there. But I don’t feel I quite fit there either.
So these are mostly my issues. Growing up, growing out, moving on. (I blame it on being an expat: we think too much about moving on.)
But I also do think there IS something sad for the majority of mummy bloggers here. I’m going to say this, and I’m not going to be popular. Yes, my “there’s room for us all” philosophy has a lot of truth in it, but it’s more complicated than that. I do feel that the more blogging becomes the carrier of commercial interests, and the more that becomes the norm and the expectation, the harder it is to exist without buying into that. And that represents a loss of some kind.
The phenomenon of blogging has been amazing in giving people a voice. People who wouldn’t otherwise have much of a voice: mums at home, lonely expats, people with cancer, couples struggling with infertility, women who’ve lost babies. What have these people found with that voice? They’ve found two things, I think. Connection. Moments when they’ve read a blog post and felt “yes, that’s JUST how it is – how lovely that someone has been able to encapsulate it so perfectly in words”. Or when they’ve written a post and provided that moment for someone else, who’s left a comment to tell them so. There’s something about not being alone in an experience which is terribly important to the human condition.
First, connection. Second, writing. I know for sure that I’m not the only one who has found that the process of taking an experience or a feeling, and wrestling it into words, words that others will comprehend, somehow makes a big difference. Sometimes it offers insight, sometimes it has a transformative effect. I haven’t worked it all out yet, but I just know that it is important. Blogging has taken its place in the long history that story-telling and debate has occupied in cultures down the ages. Being able to make people laugh, cry, understand… this is an important thing.
There. I’ve said my piece. I’m sure I’ll come to Cyber Mummy, because I can’t see myself staying away, and even an old Luddite like me can recognise that I could do with some ideas on tarting up my blog a little. This isn’t meant to be a polemic about the conference or its organizers. I can see that for many people, having windows opened on to ways that your blog can earn you money, or freebies, can be tremendously confidence-boosting (quite apart from the value of the items themselves). If the commercial world is interested in your opinion, you have a voice that you didn’t have before. It’s a different voice to the one I have, or want, but it’s a voice, for sure. I can see that it’s a big ship that’s a-sailing in that direction, so I guess it must be me who is different (not wrong, just different).
But when I’m sitting in that session ‘figuring out whether good writing matters’, don’t catch my eye, because I’ll either cry or get an attack of the giggles. Because I know that for me, and for many, that is something we got figured out way back.
Well, that’s where I am. I know that things move on, and that new things come. So I suppose the challenge for me now is to find where and how I can continue to pursue my own interest, and leave others to pursue theirs, without making it into a conflict or a competition. Part of me wants to run an alternative conference (at a different time to Cyber Mummy) which would have this kind of a schedule:
Opening session: yoga (so we’d all come in yoga bottoms, and therefore not have to worry about what to wear)
Morning session: why did you start blogging? How has it changed you? Has it been entirely positive? What about the negatives?
Lunch: very long, lots of opportunity to chat, requirement to move between tables at least twice in order to mix everyone up, definitely involving cake and/or chocolate
Afternoon session: is your blog anonymous? Why? How does your online persona differ from your real self? Is that significant? Do you have a vision for the future of your blog?
Tea: a drink with jam and bread
Final session: Cyber-friends: as real as real life friends? Friendship as part of the whole blogging experience.
I’m kind of half serious about this, because these are the kind of things that interest me about mummy blogging. Maybe people are getting together to discuss these kinds of things already, and I just haven't found out. If so, please point me in the right direction. Otherwise, if enough of you fellow touchy-feelies out there are interested, maybe I could hire a life coach to be a facilitator, and a caterer, and a venue (or get a sponsor to let us use their premises), and… just thinking out loud here.
And next… The Garage Sale!
[I want to add that I hadn’t realized that Cyber Mummy is not put on by BMB. That does change things a little, though I think the Cyber Mummy conference has just served as a focus for things I’ve already been mulling over in a more vague way.]
But I confess that I do also sense an increasing disconnect, which the conference has thrown into focus for me, between where I am, and where the whole mummy blogging ship is sailing. And I feel that disconnect as something of a bereavement. I really do. I just hadn’t quite realised it before in that way. It’s partly because I’m simply growing out of the world I used to thrive in. It’s hard to share the intensity of feeling about the woes of potty training and sleep deprivation when you’re out of that stage of life. Mummy blogging will always be more about babies and toddlers than school kids. I know that. I notice that a lot of the more mature mummy bloggers are writing for Powder Room Graffiti. It’s almost like a class reunion over there. But I don’t feel I quite fit there either.
So these are mostly my issues. Growing up, growing out, moving on. (I blame it on being an expat: we think too much about moving on.)
But I also do think there IS something sad for the majority of mummy bloggers here. I’m going to say this, and I’m not going to be popular. Yes, my “there’s room for us all” philosophy has a lot of truth in it, but it’s more complicated than that. I do feel that the more blogging becomes the carrier of commercial interests, and the more that becomes the norm and the expectation, the harder it is to exist without buying into that. And that represents a loss of some kind.
The phenomenon of blogging has been amazing in giving people a voice. People who wouldn’t otherwise have much of a voice: mums at home, lonely expats, people with cancer, couples struggling with infertility, women who’ve lost babies. What have these people found with that voice? They’ve found two things, I think. Connection. Moments when they’ve read a blog post and felt “yes, that’s JUST how it is – how lovely that someone has been able to encapsulate it so perfectly in words”. Or when they’ve written a post and provided that moment for someone else, who’s left a comment to tell them so. There’s something about not being alone in an experience which is terribly important to the human condition.
First, connection. Second, writing. I know for sure that I’m not the only one who has found that the process of taking an experience or a feeling, and wrestling it into words, words that others will comprehend, somehow makes a big difference. Sometimes it offers insight, sometimes it has a transformative effect. I haven’t worked it all out yet, but I just know that it is important. Blogging has taken its place in the long history that story-telling and debate has occupied in cultures down the ages. Being able to make people laugh, cry, understand… this is an important thing.
There. I’ve said my piece. I’m sure I’ll come to Cyber Mummy, because I can’t see myself staying away, and even an old Luddite like me can recognise that I could do with some ideas on tarting up my blog a little. This isn’t meant to be a polemic about the conference or its organizers. I can see that for many people, having windows opened on to ways that your blog can earn you money, or freebies, can be tremendously confidence-boosting (quite apart from the value of the items themselves). If the commercial world is interested in your opinion, you have a voice that you didn’t have before. It’s a different voice to the one I have, or want, but it’s a voice, for sure. I can see that it’s a big ship that’s a-sailing in that direction, so I guess it must be me who is different (not wrong, just different).
But when I’m sitting in that session ‘figuring out whether good writing matters’, don’t catch my eye, because I’ll either cry or get an attack of the giggles. Because I know that for me, and for many, that is something we got figured out way back.
Well, that’s where I am. I know that things move on, and that new things come. So I suppose the challenge for me now is to find where and how I can continue to pursue my own interest, and leave others to pursue theirs, without making it into a conflict or a competition. Part of me wants to run an alternative conference (at a different time to Cyber Mummy) which would have this kind of a schedule:
Opening session: yoga (so we’d all come in yoga bottoms, and therefore not have to worry about what to wear)
Morning session: why did you start blogging? How has it changed you? Has it been entirely positive? What about the negatives?
Lunch: very long, lots of opportunity to chat, requirement to move between tables at least twice in order to mix everyone up, definitely involving cake and/or chocolate
Afternoon session: is your blog anonymous? Why? How does your online persona differ from your real self? Is that significant? Do you have a vision for the future of your blog?
Tea: a drink with jam and bread
Final session: Cyber-friends: as real as real life friends? Friendship as part of the whole blogging experience.
I’m kind of half serious about this, because these are the kind of things that interest me about mummy blogging. Maybe people are getting together to discuss these kinds of things already, and I just haven't found out. If so, please point me in the right direction. Otherwise, if enough of you fellow touchy-feelies out there are interested, maybe I could hire a life coach to be a facilitator, and a caterer, and a venue (or get a sponsor to let us use their premises), and… just thinking out loud here.
And next… The Garage Sale!
[I want to add that I hadn’t realized that Cyber Mummy is not put on by BMB. That does change things a little, though I think the Cyber Mummy conference has just served as a focus for things I’ve already been mulling over in a more vague way.]
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