As you'll know if you read this post, my mother has just moved out of her house, downsizing and moving near to my brother. She and my father moved into that house in 1963, so it has been the family home throughout all my life. It's a characterful old house, a former farmhouse, in a beautiful setting. I was down there for a week over half-term, with Husband and the children, and it was a good week, albeit a heavy one. I wrote some reflections.
Look. There's me. I'm being born. November. Half past six in the evening. I'm being delivered by my grandmother and the community midwife. My parents' bedroom. Two windows, one facing west, one facing south. I wonder what my first sight is, when I open my eyes. The midwife? My grandmother? My mother's smiling face? Or the brown wooden railings of the bedhead? That bedhead is still there. Maybe that bedhead, which now sports a sticky label "Bedroom 1", was the very first thing I ever saw.
Look. There's me. I'm two and a half, and my brother is being born in his turn, in my parents' bedroom. My grandmother is here again, and the community midwife, but they can't both be with my mother. My grandmother has to spend precious moments with me. I know something is going on, and I want to know what. I want to see. I want to go into my mother's room. I won't settle in my own bed. There's my grandmother, singing to me, stroking me, outwardly lulling me gently, but inwardly hard urging me to sleep.
Look. There's me. I'm sitting up in the big Silver Cross pram, opposite my brother. You can take a square section of the floor out, leaving a well for a child to put their feet when they sit upright. My feet are in the square, but so are his, and I'm kicking him. It's fun, but I'm annoyed with him too. My mother is stopping us. "Behave, or we won't go out." This is my earliest memory.
Look. There's me. I'm at school now. I'm in my blue school uniform, and I have a brown satchel, which I like, but not as much as my friend Catherine's one. Mine is a dull brown, but hers is a shiny chestnutty brown. On summer days, we walk home from school through the orchards, kicking the cut grass with our school shoes.
Look. There's me. I'm jumping around on straw bales in the farm with my brothers, sister and cousins. We know we're not allowed to climb on the machinery, or go into the cow pens. But we're allowed on the straw bales in the barn, and there's a lovely shivery feeling of danger and strangeness in that big barn, which is so empty and echoey and huge, and it always feels as if we're naughty interlopers when any of the farmhands come by. They know us, though, and leave us alone. My mother rings a bell out of the kitchen window when it's time to go home.
Look. There's me. I'm doing my O' levels and I'm sitting at my desk, working. The garden is hot outside, and I can hear the lazy hum of a bumble bee as it drones past the window. I have the Capital Radio Daily Top 10 on the radio, which I let myself listen to every day, before turning the radio off to concentrate more on my books. Just under my window is the porch over the front door, and when I was younger, I used to think it fun to go out of my bedroom window onto the porch, and into the bathroom from there. Of course it wasn't allowed. We did it anyway.
Look. There's me. I've just moved to London, and started work. The city is big and lonely, and I feel I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't really understand my job, but I'm meant to be good at it, as a graduate trainee. I come home often for Sunday lunch, and somehow the comfort of it makes Monday morning less intimidating.
Look. There's me. It's the 'do' after my father's funeral, and we're outside in the garden in the sunshine - which is odd, come to think of it, since it's early March. I don't really want to talk to anyone, but I have to. Someone asks me whether my mother will stay on in the house. What a strange question to ask someone at a funeral.
Look. There's me. I'm sitting in the garden in the sunshine, more than 41 weeks pregnant with my first child. That last contraction made me shift in my chair. This really is it. My mother has friends round, and I don't want to be dramatic, but my sister-in-law notices and, eyes wide for effect, mouths "GO HOME!" at me.
Look. There's me. We've been back from America for long summer weeks, based at the house, and returning to it from trips elsewhere round the UK. We're all packed up and the taxi to the airport will be here soon, and I'm doing 'the sweep'. I walk through each room, eyes travelling across every flat surface, including the floor, looking for stray items. I think I'm pretty good at the sweep, opening drawers, crouching down to peer under beds, but we always leave a few items: laundry in the airing cupboard, favourite toys under pillows, books under piles of newspapers. My mother holds them as hostage till the next visit. I hate the sweep now. Gone are the days when we're only heading off a few hours away in the car, when the pride of maternal efficiency is the main emotion. Now I can't even meet my mother's eyes as she greets me in the hall with her "Got everything? Well done! You're so organised! " It feels like I'm sweeping away the whole summer, leaving it behind us as we return to our lives in America. Our other lives.
Look. There's me. Back for another summer. Sitting in the garden with Paradise. She's a blogging friend, and I've got to know her so well through emailing, pouring out our expat woes, me from America, she from Albania. Here we are, meeting in the flesh, in real life. We share a long, lazy afternoon, in the sun, our children happily playing together. We'll be heading off in different directions, me to the West, Paradise to the East, but for these few hours, the strings of our lives knot comfortably together, a fixed physical event that tethers the part of my life that is lived in cyberspace.
Look. There's me. I'm sitting on the floor with my mother, sorting a box of old toy cars. I'm taking a few, and we're dividing the rest between two bags, one for the charity shop, the other for the rubbish. I take my favourites, and then the ones I can see my mother is struggling to part with. How do you sift and prioritise memories? These Matchbox cars are the ones that I used to pick for my team, zooming them round the house with my brothers, wearing out the knees of our trousers. I know the feel of them in my hand. I know which doors open, and which wheels are missing. They all had names, but I can't remember those. My children come into the room. "Oh, the cars! Are you giving away these?" The cars are holders of two generations of playtime memories.
Look. There's me. I'm lighting the candles on my son's 16th birthday cake. We're telling him the story of the day he was born, how I sat in the sunshine with my mother and her friends. It feels like a strand of life has joined up into a full circle. I think of two friends who have sons with birthdays on this same date. One is in America whose son is 11, and the other a blogging friend whose son is 2. I reflect how my life has oozed out in various directions, from this place. Sixteen years. And here we are again. Only one more day in this house.
Look. There's me. I'm getting into bed beside Husband. I whisper "This is the last night we'll ever spend in this house", but he's asleep. I bury my face into the back of his warm neck and drape my arm over his body, and I think to myself that I'll never manage to get to sleep. But then it's morning.
Look. There's me. I'm doing the final sweep, and I'm bidding farewell to the house. I go into each room, and say goodbye, out loud. No hostages this time.
Look. There's me. We're in the car, and I'm crying, and I can't stop. I wave out of the window, because that's the ritual. "Do the beep-beeps" says one of the children from the back, and Husband beeps the horn twice. In the wing mirror, I can see my mother waving, and there's something deeply, deeply familiar about that exact way she's standing, the angle of her arm, the movement of it, the position of her head to one side... And the house, standing behind.
.
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Monday, June 10, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
I haven't had a glass of wine and it's not late now
Mornin' all.
Thank you for your comments.
OK, here's the thing I'm really pissed off with, with myself.
I used to love blogging. I found I could write. And people liked reading it (either that, or it was a huge conspiracy, set up by Husband or my mum to make me feel nice).
Then blogging moved on, and I was a bit annoyed, but thought it was ok, really, because there was room in the blogosphere for everyone. Even if you just hung around in a small corner, then so long as it was a nice, fun, interesting place to be, that was fine. And my corner was. If it was a tea shop, I'd call it "The Cozy Corner Caff".
Then I thought I'd turn my blog into a book. I don't have a job. The children are out of the house all day at school. I would have time.
Then I found it impossible to get started, and I can't work out why. I bought a self-help book about procrastination. Which I haven't yet read, but will, soon, honestly.
Then I got busy with other stuff, like... oh you know, life stuff. It all seemed important and part of the process of settling myself and my family into our new place. And I kept telling myself to be patient, because I know that it takes ages and ages to settle into a new place, and while you're doing it, you're slightly tired all the time, and you don't have much internal space for anything.
Then I looked back on the almost-year that we've been here, and I felt like I've achieved nothing. I hate that feeling. It comes from time to time, and it's often a bit of a useful spur to action. But at the moment, it's just a bleurgh feeling, and not a spur, useful or otherwise.
I have tried to get a job, and I've been unsuccessful (but two interviews from the first foray, which isn't bad). And then I've been relieved I haven't got a job, because there's still so much else going on in family life. That sounds so darn pathetic, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of mother who spends her life worrying about whether her son's cricket top is clean or not, because - in spite of the evidence of last night - I'm really not. Or only just a little.
I have looked into studying again, and well, it's still on the back burner, but I never seem to get off the front burner these days.
Then I read the BiBs short list, and I thought about all the bloggers who've used blogging as a springboard into writing a book, or getting a career started in social media, or becoming a writer of some kind or other, and I thought, that could be me, but... it isn't. I realised that actually, I do really want to write my book, and it made me all furious with myself that I just can't quite do it.
Yet.
.
Thank you for your comments.
OK, here's the thing I'm really pissed off with, with myself.
I used to love blogging. I found I could write. And people liked reading it (either that, or it was a huge conspiracy, set up by Husband or my mum to make me feel nice).
Then blogging moved on, and I was a bit annoyed, but thought it was ok, really, because there was room in the blogosphere for everyone. Even if you just hung around in a small corner, then so long as it was a nice, fun, interesting place to be, that was fine. And my corner was. If it was a tea shop, I'd call it "The Cozy Corner Caff".
Then I thought I'd turn my blog into a book. I don't have a job. The children are out of the house all day at school. I would have time.
Then I found it impossible to get started, and I can't work out why. I bought a self-help book about procrastination. Which I haven't yet read, but will, soon, honestly.
Then I got busy with other stuff, like... oh you know, life stuff. It all seemed important and part of the process of settling myself and my family into our new place. And I kept telling myself to be patient, because I know that it takes ages and ages to settle into a new place, and while you're doing it, you're slightly tired all the time, and you don't have much internal space for anything.
Then I looked back on the almost-year that we've been here, and I felt like I've achieved nothing. I hate that feeling. It comes from time to time, and it's often a bit of a useful spur to action. But at the moment, it's just a bleurgh feeling, and not a spur, useful or otherwise.
I have tried to get a job, and I've been unsuccessful (but two interviews from the first foray, which isn't bad). And then I've been relieved I haven't got a job, because there's still so much else going on in family life. That sounds so darn pathetic, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of mother who spends her life worrying about whether her son's cricket top is clean or not, because - in spite of the evidence of last night - I'm really not. Or only just a little.
I have looked into studying again, and well, it's still on the back burner, but I never seem to get off the front burner these days.
Then I read the BiBs short list, and I thought about all the bloggers who've used blogging as a springboard into writing a book, or getting a career started in social media, or becoming a writer of some kind or other, and I thought, that could be me, but... it isn't. I realised that actually, I do really want to write my book, and it made me all furious with myself that I just can't quite do it.
Yet.
.
You really shouldn't blog when you've had a glass of wine and it's late
I've had a glass of wine. It's late.
I've got to wait up because eldest son needs a cricket top tomorrow which was in the laundry basket (actually, it wasn't in the laundry basket, it was draped over the back of the sofa - hadn't even made it to the bedroom floordrobe). So the top is in the washing machine, and I haven't put it on a wash cycle, because even the shortest wash cycle is long. It's on a "rinse only" cycle, with a bit of powder thrown in. Enough to get the garment clean and fresh-smelling, but not too much, because it's not a proper wash cycle, so it won't get rinsed out properly. Do you think that will work? I've never tried it before. I mean, I could have hand-washed the item, which would have taken 5 minutes, but frankly, hand-washing isn't for me any more.
I've really gone off blogging. I've just read the BiB short lists, and I know hardly any of the blogs. It's never been important to me to keep up with the top bloggers for the sake of it, but I spend quite a bit of time moseying around on screen, and it would be nice to recognise a few more names. I mean, who ARE all these zillions of new bloggers? I bet they're really good, but who has time to read them? I'd need a few research assistants if I was to keep up with blogging these days. An intern! That's what I need. A personal blogging intern! You don't have to pay interns, do you? Ideal.
Where do you advertise for a blogging intern?
Blogging, schmogging.
I've written a post about a really important issue. Education. I've got lots to say about it. And I want to say it. But it all came out wrong, and it just sounds like a huge guilt trip about my own children and being a rubbish parent. So what does that mean? That really I feel guilty about being a rubbish parent? Or that I have some things I'd like to say about education that are really sharp and pertinent, and I can insightfully and appositely illustrate them from my own experience. I can't be bothered to think about it.
The best thing about blogging this week was a post called Feckity Arse Biscuits, which - double whammy! - didn't even mention biscuits. Kudos to you, Not from Lapland. I also love the way you've changed from 'Notes from Lapland', to 'Not from Lapland'. Genius. I used to be 'Not wrong, just different'. Maybe I should have changed to 'Not Not wrong, and not very different either'.
I don't like Bloglovin. I don't like the title. Notlovin Bloglovin. I don't like the title, and I don't like the service. Why is Google closing down Google Reader? Not enough earning potential, I expect. Google is trying to take over the world, and no-one has noticed. Stop trying to take over the world, Google. But if you must, at least do the decent thing and pay your taxes in our little corner of it.
I also don't like my Hotpoint washing machine, but I bet Hotpoint pays taxes. I wonder if that cricket top is ready yet. Why did I even wash it? I should just have made him wear it all stinky. He's a teenager. It goes with the territory.
Well, read this post quickly, because I'm probably going to delete it. But comment before you do so, because unless I get at least 6 comments in the next 24 hours, I'm going to give up blogging for ever. Yes, I know that's manipulative, but I don't care.
Did anyone ever discover what IS the point of blogging? It used to feel fun and vaguely worthwhile, in a nebulous sort of a way, and now it just feels... bleurgh. Maybe bleurghing is the new blogging.
You know what they say. Never write and publish a blog post when you've had a glass of wine and it's late. Ha! What about if you're feeling rebellious? What then?
Photo credit: I'm not telling you
.
I've got to wait up because eldest son needs a cricket top tomorrow which was in the laundry basket (actually, it wasn't in the laundry basket, it was draped over the back of the sofa - hadn't even made it to the bedroom floordrobe). So the top is in the washing machine, and I haven't put it on a wash cycle, because even the shortest wash cycle is long. It's on a "rinse only" cycle, with a bit of powder thrown in. Enough to get the garment clean and fresh-smelling, but not too much, because it's not a proper wash cycle, so it won't get rinsed out properly. Do you think that will work? I've never tried it before. I mean, I could have hand-washed the item, which would have taken 5 minutes, but frankly, hand-washing isn't for me any more.
I've really gone off blogging. I've just read the BiB short lists, and I know hardly any of the blogs. It's never been important to me to keep up with the top bloggers for the sake of it, but I spend quite a bit of time moseying around on screen, and it would be nice to recognise a few more names. I mean, who ARE all these zillions of new bloggers? I bet they're really good, but who has time to read them? I'd need a few research assistants if I was to keep up with blogging these days. An intern! That's what I need. A personal blogging intern! You don't have to pay interns, do you? Ideal.
Where do you advertise for a blogging intern?
Blogging, schmogging.
I've written a post about a really important issue. Education. I've got lots to say about it. And I want to say it. But it all came out wrong, and it just sounds like a huge guilt trip about my own children and being a rubbish parent. So what does that mean? That really I feel guilty about being a rubbish parent? Or that I have some things I'd like to say about education that are really sharp and pertinent, and I can insightfully and appositely illustrate them from my own experience. I can't be bothered to think about it.
The best thing about blogging this week was a post called Feckity Arse Biscuits, which - double whammy! - didn't even mention biscuits. Kudos to you, Not from Lapland. I also love the way you've changed from 'Notes from Lapland', to 'Not from Lapland'. Genius. I used to be 'Not wrong, just different'. Maybe I should have changed to 'Not Not wrong, and not very different either'.
I don't like Bloglovin. I don't like the title. Notlovin Bloglovin. I don't like the title, and I don't like the service. Why is Google closing down Google Reader? Not enough earning potential, I expect. Google is trying to take over the world, and no-one has noticed. Stop trying to take over the world, Google. But if you must, at least do the decent thing and pay your taxes in our little corner of it.
I also don't like my Hotpoint washing machine, but I bet Hotpoint pays taxes. I wonder if that cricket top is ready yet. Why did I even wash it? I should just have made him wear it all stinky. He's a teenager. It goes with the territory.
Well, read this post quickly, because I'm probably going to delete it. But comment before you do so, because unless I get at least 6 comments in the next 24 hours, I'm going to give up blogging for ever. Yes, I know that's manipulative, but I don't care.
Did anyone ever discover what IS the point of blogging? It used to feel fun and vaguely worthwhile, in a nebulous sort of a way, and now it just feels... bleurgh. Maybe bleurghing is the new blogging.
You know what they say. Never write and publish a blog post when you've had a glass of wine and it's late. Ha! What about if you're feeling rebellious? What then?
Photo credit: I'm not telling you
.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
My Liz Jones ha'p'orth
Well, Liz Jones has upset mummy bloggers. We are predictably up in arms and writing about it. Writing about ourselves in arms makes a change from writing about babes in arms, I suppose.
The point that I find offensive is this.
The title of the article is "Free? You blogging mums may as well wear burkas", and the concluding comments are
"Women have again been duped into thinking the world exists in their tiny, safe, fragrant homes, that life revolves around burps.
They might just as well don a burka, and shuffle, so narrow is their vision."
Am I the only one who finds this racist? Or if not racist, then religionist? Is published racism now acceptable? (I don't read the Mail, so you may need to fill me in on this one).
I've said enough. It's my policy not to add to these blogging spats, but I felt I had to point out the angle on this one that other people seem to be missing.
.
The point that I find offensive is this.
The title of the article is "Free? You blogging mums may as well wear burkas", and the concluding comments are
"Women have again been duped into thinking the world exists in their tiny, safe, fragrant homes, that life revolves around burps.
They might just as well don a burka, and shuffle, so narrow is their vision."
Am I the only one who finds this racist? Or if not racist, then religionist? Is published racism now acceptable? (I don't read the Mail, so you may need to fill me in on this one).
I've said enough. It's my policy not to add to these blogging spats, but I felt I had to point out the angle on this one that other people seem to be missing.
.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Why Husband is like Obama (and why I am not like the First Lady)
So Obama is President again. As he made his victory speech, there was a small, seemingly insignificant phrase, that resonated in the Manhattan household. You possibly missed it, amidst the background noise of the whole world beyond America breathing a huge sigh of relief. As he paid tribute to his daughters and talked about their return to the White House, he joked "but one dog is enough".
"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."
I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.
One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours, or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.
Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.
"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."
I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.
One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours, or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.
Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Ch... ch... ch... changes
Do you know, I've been blogging for over five years. I have. That's more than 10% of my life. One of my early blogging favourites, Wife in the North, popped up in my reader the other day, saying she was coming back to blogging after a break. I left a comment saying "Oh, it's all changed, you know", and then started thinking about how, exactly, blogging has changed in those five years.
I have had phases when I've got a bit sad about the development of blogging. In my time, I've written the odd post bewailing this: "oh, it's going all commercial", I've lamented. But mostly, I've enjoyed watching it. Watching it? Heck, I've not just watched from the sidelines. I've been part of it. Because that's one of the great things about blogging. You can be part of it, just by doing it.
So, how has blogging changed over the past five years? Here are my thoughts.
It's just so much bigger. I remember the days when I didn't have a reader, but just scooted round blogs from blog roll to blog roll. If a new blog appeared, it felt like everyone popped over to check it out. A new writer on the block. Now, I imagine it must be much harder for new bloggers to jump in. Perhaps that's why it feels as if there's an "in-crowd" (always a favourite topic for a whinge in the blogosphere). I used to deliberately have a look round blogs I hadn't read before, on a frequent basis. Now, I hardly venture outside my comfort zone of known friends. But that's mostly a function of my changing needs as a blogger. I'm not in search of new readers, particularly, so I'm not in search of new reads. But if I was, I'm aware that it would be tougher than it used to be - there are more readers, but there are a lot more writers.
Yes, blogging has got more commercial. But here's the thing. It doesn't have to be. There are people making money out of blogging. There are people making a living out of blogging. There are people using their blog to support and promote their business. But there are still plenty of people like me, who blog for fun, and are happy to have the odd perk, but who would, and do, willingly blog without perks.
Because it's bigger, blogging is more fragmented. Niches are no longer niches, but whole communities. I don't read blogs about new babies any more, because (dare I say it) once you have left that world behind, you lose the intensity of interest in the issues. I clearly remember the day I read a blog post on baby led weaning, and thought "what the heck is that?" I didn't know about it, and so I couldn't have an opinion. I felt a little excluded. It was a moving-on moment. I still found the post quite interesting though, whereas now, my attention isn't grabbed by baby or toddler issues at all. My conclusion is that most people write blogs that are about the generality of their lives, but that they'll only really attract new readers if they are writing for a specific audience, and those audiences are pretty segmented. Those of us who enjoy the luxury of having made bloggy friends in the early days, find that we can drag them along with our general wittering about life. But I'm guessing that you couldn't really start out that way these days (correct me if I'm wrong).
Blogging is no longer just about writing. Once upon a time, people who had fancy blog designs were in the minority. Now, the design is a crucial part of the blog. Blogs have become much more visual. Photography is a huge element of blogging. Just look at the popularity of Tara Cain's Gallery. Writing takes its place alongside other forms of creative expression: photos, videos, music. It's a richer mix than it used to be. Writing has always been the central interest for me, but I love the variety. There are some blogs that I follow exclusively for their photographs.
Blogging used to be just a little bit shocking. It started with people confessing to imperfect parenting. This is something that we now take for granted, but five years ago, confessing to having lost your temper with your children, or to beginning your anticipation of the 7.30pm post-bedtime glass of wine as you clear away breakfast - these were things that you only revealed to a good friend, jokingly. That's one thing I think blogging has seriously influenced. The general perception of parenthood is much more real, and less sugary than it used to be. There are other areas of life that used to be whispered about, that blogging has made it ok to talk about publicly: infertility is a big one, miscarriage, stillbirth, cancer. It's hard to shock now, in the blogosphere. When I wrote about having cancer, it felt very exposing (I wouldn't do it now - it only felt possible when I was pretty much anonymous). But now the blogosphere is dotted with photos of bald chemotherapy heads, mastectomy scars, blow by blow medical details.
Most obviously, blogging has ridden the wave that has been the surging development of social media. Now this is where I have to go quiet, because I'm immediately out of my depth here. I used to feel protective of blogging, feeling that it would be submerged. Remember that song by The Buggles: Video Killed the Radio Star? I used to fear that social media would kill blogging. But it hasn't, and it isn't. It's giving it new platforms, new opportunities. I'm going to stop on that subject, before I reveal my almost total lack of functional knowledge.
Those are my thoughts on how blogging has changed in the past five years. What about you? What do you think? I'd like to tag a few bloggers who've been around a while, to invite them to share their views. It's an interesting topic. So, consider yourself tagged:
Expat Mum
Potty Mummy
Nappy Valley Girl
Who's The Mummy?
Sticky Fingers
A Modern Mother
The American Resident
Rosie Scribble
More Than Just a Mother
Crystal Jigsaw
.
I have had phases when I've got a bit sad about the development of blogging. In my time, I've written the odd post bewailing this: "oh, it's going all commercial", I've lamented. But mostly, I've enjoyed watching it. Watching it? Heck, I've not just watched from the sidelines. I've been part of it. Because that's one of the great things about blogging. You can be part of it, just by doing it.
So, how has blogging changed over the past five years? Here are my thoughts.
It's just so much bigger. I remember the days when I didn't have a reader, but just scooted round blogs from blog roll to blog roll. If a new blog appeared, it felt like everyone popped over to check it out. A new writer on the block. Now, I imagine it must be much harder for new bloggers to jump in. Perhaps that's why it feels as if there's an "in-crowd" (always a favourite topic for a whinge in the blogosphere). I used to deliberately have a look round blogs I hadn't read before, on a frequent basis. Now, I hardly venture outside my comfort zone of known friends. But that's mostly a function of my changing needs as a blogger. I'm not in search of new readers, particularly, so I'm not in search of new reads. But if I was, I'm aware that it would be tougher than it used to be - there are more readers, but there are a lot more writers.
Yes, blogging has got more commercial. But here's the thing. It doesn't have to be. There are people making money out of blogging. There are people making a living out of blogging. There are people using their blog to support and promote their business. But there are still plenty of people like me, who blog for fun, and are happy to have the odd perk, but who would, and do, willingly blog without perks.
Because it's bigger, blogging is more fragmented. Niches are no longer niches, but whole communities. I don't read blogs about new babies any more, because (dare I say it) once you have left that world behind, you lose the intensity of interest in the issues. I clearly remember the day I read a blog post on baby led weaning, and thought "what the heck is that?" I didn't know about it, and so I couldn't have an opinion. I felt a little excluded. It was a moving-on moment. I still found the post quite interesting though, whereas now, my attention isn't grabbed by baby or toddler issues at all. My conclusion is that most people write blogs that are about the generality of their lives, but that they'll only really attract new readers if they are writing for a specific audience, and those audiences are pretty segmented. Those of us who enjoy the luxury of having made bloggy friends in the early days, find that we can drag them along with our general wittering about life. But I'm guessing that you couldn't really start out that way these days (correct me if I'm wrong).
Blogging is no longer just about writing. Once upon a time, people who had fancy blog designs were in the minority. Now, the design is a crucial part of the blog. Blogs have become much more visual. Photography is a huge element of blogging. Just look at the popularity of Tara Cain's Gallery. Writing takes its place alongside other forms of creative expression: photos, videos, music. It's a richer mix than it used to be. Writing has always been the central interest for me, but I love the variety. There are some blogs that I follow exclusively for their photographs.
Blogging used to be just a little bit shocking. It started with people confessing to imperfect parenting. This is something that we now take for granted, but five years ago, confessing to having lost your temper with your children, or to beginning your anticipation of the 7.30pm post-bedtime glass of wine as you clear away breakfast - these were things that you only revealed to a good friend, jokingly. That's one thing I think blogging has seriously influenced. The general perception of parenthood is much more real, and less sugary than it used to be. There are other areas of life that used to be whispered about, that blogging has made it ok to talk about publicly: infertility is a big one, miscarriage, stillbirth, cancer. It's hard to shock now, in the blogosphere. When I wrote about having cancer, it felt very exposing (I wouldn't do it now - it only felt possible when I was pretty much anonymous). But now the blogosphere is dotted with photos of bald chemotherapy heads, mastectomy scars, blow by blow medical details.
Most obviously, blogging has ridden the wave that has been the surging development of social media. Now this is where I have to go quiet, because I'm immediately out of my depth here. I used to feel protective of blogging, feeling that it would be submerged. Remember that song by The Buggles: Video Killed the Radio Star? I used to fear that social media would kill blogging. But it hasn't, and it isn't. It's giving it new platforms, new opportunities. I'm going to stop on that subject, before I reveal my almost total lack of functional knowledge.
Those are my thoughts on how blogging has changed in the past five years. What about you? What do you think? I'd like to tag a few bloggers who've been around a while, to invite them to share their views. It's an interesting topic. So, consider yourself tagged:
Expat Mum
Potty Mummy
Nappy Valley Girl
Who's The Mummy?
Sticky Fingers
A Modern Mother
The American Resident
Rosie Scribble
More Than Just a Mother
Crystal Jigsaw
.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Holding it all together
Life can embrace extremes, and sometimes it's hard to hold those extremes together. If you put one in each hand, your left hand would drag your shoulder down towards the floor, and your right would shoot up above your head.
I am thrilled by the act of taking a box of cast-off books to our local second hand bookshop, and receiving $9 for them. It feels like a good deal. I like the idea of them finding new homes, and helping the bookshop on its way. And $9 is better than nothing. Today we are going to talk to our realtor about dropping the price of our house. What will she suggest? $2,000? $5,000? More? So why did $9 feel so good? Why is my purse stuffed with coupons: 75 cents off a box of cereal?
I am enjoying seeing my everyday people and doing my everyday things. I also have a bucket list (hate that term, but it's convenient short-hand) of things I want to do and see locally. When I do those, I say "I can't believe we've been here five years and I've only just discovered this". The familiar and the unexplored. Both feel important, but they are competing for time. Not only time. Mental space, and emotional space too.
Blogging can be at the extremes too. I read the posts of people for whom life is pottering on, and the content is about school sports day, or chicken pox. I also read the posts of people for whom life is intense, and the content is about dealing with their child's serious long-term health, or a bereavement.
The universe must be reading as I write. I've just been interrupted by my daughter in her dressing gown. I thought we were going to have our usual conversation.
"Can I go on the computer?"
"No, I'm busy writing something."
"When can I go on the computer?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe twenty minutes. Go and play for twenty minutes and then you can."
"I'm bored. I don't know what to do."
But today she cut to the chase.
"I feel sad."
"Why do you feel sad?"
"Because it's June."
So we had a hug, but now she's pottered off, and here I am, still "busy writing something" on the computer, but yes, it's June, and when June is over, we will no longer be here, which has been home for the past five and a half years.
That would be a good way to conclude this post, but wait, I haven't finished yet. Here's another pair of extremes. In my email inbox the other day, one above the other, were three emails asking for my attention, and for air time on my blog. One was telling me all about how I could join in some PR event to try out new strollers. I replied, pointing out that my youngest child is eight years old. That one served only to make me more receptive to the other two, which were personal, thoughtful, and worthwhile. So I offer you, one in each of my hands, the following:
Gemma Robinson, who has sniffed me out as a fellow tea enthusiast, and whose hand-made art prints I am happy to draw attention to. You can find them here. "Parsnips are the enemy" made me laugh (though I really love parsnips, so I'm not sure why).
And Syria. I was invited to write about the horrors that are happening in Syria, to raise awareness. Many other bloggers are doing so today. You can read their posts in the links here. I am shocked and horrified by what I've read. I want to care about Syria. I believe that (as Edmund Burke said, and Potty Mummy quoted) 'All that's necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.' But I can't feel and do very much for Syria at the moment. I just can't.
I am thrilled by the act of taking a box of cast-off books to our local second hand bookshop, and receiving $9 for them. It feels like a good deal. I like the idea of them finding new homes, and helping the bookshop on its way. And $9 is better than nothing. Today we are going to talk to our realtor about dropping the price of our house. What will she suggest? $2,000? $5,000? More? So why did $9 feel so good? Why is my purse stuffed with coupons: 75 cents off a box of cereal?
I am enjoying seeing my everyday people and doing my everyday things. I also have a bucket list (hate that term, but it's convenient short-hand) of things I want to do and see locally. When I do those, I say "I can't believe we've been here five years and I've only just discovered this". The familiar and the unexplored. Both feel important, but they are competing for time. Not only time. Mental space, and emotional space too.
Blogging can be at the extremes too. I read the posts of people for whom life is pottering on, and the content is about school sports day, or chicken pox. I also read the posts of people for whom life is intense, and the content is about dealing with their child's serious long-term health, or a bereavement.
The universe must be reading as I write. I've just been interrupted by my daughter in her dressing gown. I thought we were going to have our usual conversation.
"Can I go on the computer?"
"No, I'm busy writing something."
"When can I go on the computer?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe twenty minutes. Go and play for twenty minutes and then you can."
"I'm bored. I don't know what to do."
But today she cut to the chase.
"I feel sad."
"Why do you feel sad?"
"Because it's June."
So we had a hug, but now she's pottered off, and here I am, still "busy writing something" on the computer, but yes, it's June, and when June is over, we will no longer be here, which has been home for the past five and a half years.
That would be a good way to conclude this post, but wait, I haven't finished yet. Here's another pair of extremes. In my email inbox the other day, one above the other, were three emails asking for my attention, and for air time on my blog. One was telling me all about how I could join in some PR event to try out new strollers. I replied, pointing out that my youngest child is eight years old. That one served only to make me more receptive to the other two, which were personal, thoughtful, and worthwhile. So I offer you, one in each of my hands, the following:
Gemma Robinson, who has sniffed me out as a fellow tea enthusiast, and whose hand-made art prints I am happy to draw attention to. You can find them here. "Parsnips are the enemy" made me laugh (though I really love parsnips, so I'm not sure why).
And Syria. I was invited to write about the horrors that are happening in Syria, to raise awareness. Many other bloggers are doing so today. You can read their posts in the links here. I am shocked and horrified by what I've read. I want to care about Syria. I believe that (as Edmund Burke said, and Potty Mummy quoted) 'All that's necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.' But I can't feel and do very much for Syria at the moment. I just can't.
Life at the extremes. Sometimes all you can do is hold out your hands.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Posts
I'm sitting blogging because I'm in denial about how much needs to be done in the house to get it ready for putting it on the market. There's a blog post in that.
It was lovely getting together with our realtor, reminiscing about when she helped us buy a house five years ago. There's a blog post in that.
The system of buying and selling houses is so much better organised here than in either England or Scotland. Our realtor (and I) can hardly believe how such a major life decision and financial investment can be so poorly taken care of in comparison (though perhaps we are out of date - perhaps new legislation has tightened everything up). There's a blog post in that.
I'm looking out of the window at lightning and heavy rain. I will really miss thunderstorms. I love the drama of them. There's a blog post in that.
A couple of friends who I've just been drinking wine and eating chocolate with, are coming round on Monday morning to take me and my house in hand, and help me dress it for selling. I can't even begin to explain what that would mean without writing a whole blog post.
What's that movie called? The one with Renee Zellwegger as a chic business woman from Miami, who goes to Minnesota to an ailing factory with a mandate to close it down, and eventually suspends her corporate superciliousness, to fall in love with the warmth of the community (as well as a good-looking - supposedly, though he didn't do it for me - widower). That would give you an insight into what kind of decor will help sell our house. I understand American films so much better, now I've lived here. Another blog post there.
I watched 14-yo play tennis yesterday. Ah, I remember those hours of hitting a ball to and fro with a preschooler in the back garden. Now my role is more relaxing. I sit and watch, and chat to friends sideways. Several blog posts in that.
7-yo turned eight, and we hosted a birthday sleepover. Lots of blog posts there.
7-yo asked "Will we sell the house for A THOUSAND dollars?" Certainly another blog post.
11-yo is going on a field trip to a Health Museum tomorrow. I have no idea what the place is all about, but it sounds good. I should probably google it. Then I could write a blog post about it.
We're leaving here. I can hardly believe it. I hardly want to believe it. I am me here. I don't know how to be me anywhere else. I will learn, I will discover. I'm both excited for the future, and sad for the loss of the present. It makes me pensive. Blog posts there, thick and fast.
So many blog posts, so little time.
.
It was lovely getting together with our realtor, reminiscing about when she helped us buy a house five years ago. There's a blog post in that.
The system of buying and selling houses is so much better organised here than in either England or Scotland. Our realtor (and I) can hardly believe how such a major life decision and financial investment can be so poorly taken care of in comparison (though perhaps we are out of date - perhaps new legislation has tightened everything up). There's a blog post in that.
I'm looking out of the window at lightning and heavy rain. I will really miss thunderstorms. I love the drama of them. There's a blog post in that.
A couple of friends who I've just been drinking wine and eating chocolate with, are coming round on Monday morning to take me and my house in hand, and help me dress it for selling. I can't even begin to explain what that would mean without writing a whole blog post.
What's that movie called? The one with Renee Zellwegger as a chic business woman from Miami, who goes to Minnesota to an ailing factory with a mandate to close it down, and eventually suspends her corporate superciliousness, to fall in love with the warmth of the community (as well as a good-looking - supposedly, though he didn't do it for me - widower). That would give you an insight into what kind of decor will help sell our house. I understand American films so much better, now I've lived here. Another blog post there.
I watched 14-yo play tennis yesterday. Ah, I remember those hours of hitting a ball to and fro with a preschooler in the back garden. Now my role is more relaxing. I sit and watch, and chat to friends sideways. Several blog posts in that.
7-yo turned eight, and we hosted a birthday sleepover. Lots of blog posts there.
7-yo asked "Will we sell the house for A THOUSAND dollars?" Certainly another blog post.
11-yo is going on a field trip to a Health Museum tomorrow. I have no idea what the place is all about, but it sounds good. I should probably google it. Then I could write a blog post about it.
We're leaving here. I can hardly believe it. I hardly want to believe it. I am me here. I don't know how to be me anywhere else. I will learn, I will discover. I'm both excited for the future, and sad for the loss of the present. It makes me pensive. Blog posts there, thick and fast.
So many blog posts, so little time.
.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Geographical locations come and go, but blogs go on forever
Of course the great thing about blogging is that even when your life moves geographically, your blog can stay where it is, in its own little cosy corner of the blogosphere. I find that settling, in a life which is suddenly in a whirl. So a big thank you, THANK YOU, to whoever nominated me for the Brilliance in Blogging awards (short lists here). Seems I am short-listed in two categories: I am "Lit!" (as in literary, I think, not as in all alight and on fire), and "Inspire!". You are very very kind, and you may just have persuaded me to keep blogging (for yes, dear Bloggy Friends, it had crossed my mind that once I am no longer an expat writing an expat blog, my blogging days will be over...).
So... I'm in the category "Inspire!", which is lovely of you all. I'm going to let you into a secret. When you have cancer, it's not difficult to be inspiring, because people kind of give you that label without you having to try. But I hadn't reckoned on the cancer effect not wearing off for a couple of years. Nearly three, actually. That's rather nice.
However, since I am about to return to the country where self-deprecation is the norm, I thought I should dust off my skills in this department, and share with you one way in which I have been totally uninspiring this week.
I wrapped the side of my car round a small post, about 18 inches high. It serves me right for using a bank drive-thru (sorry, I have to spell it that way). That is about the third time in five years in the US that I have used the drive-thru, partly as a matter of principle - what is so hard about parking your car, and walking into a building, for heaven's sake? - and partly because I didn't know how you actually operated a drive-thru and was too embarrassed to ask anyone. Or perhaps I had some dreadful premonition, that I would meet a sticky end in a drive-thru, and was avoiding them, but as fruitlessly as the King and Queen who banned all spindles from their kingdom, in an attempt to stop their Princess pricking her finger. Her destiny was to fall asleep for a hundred years. Mine was to mash up the driver's door, the passenger's door, and - ooh, my reactions were slow that day - the back wheel arch of my minivan. She dozed through a century, to be awakened by a Prince's gentle kiss. I endured the mirth of the Bank of America employees watching me from behind the big glass window as I got out to inspect the damage, and then phoned Husband to confess (who was very nice about it, though you can't get a kiss - gentle or otherwise - down a mobile phone). She planned a wedding and drifted off into the sunset. I looked up my car insurance documents, and discovered that we have a deductible of $1,000.
The incident did, however, give me a wonderful opportunity to model to my children how to react to such a situation. First off, I parked the car, and went into the bank to pay in the check. Yes, I did. I am nothing if not determined, when it comes to standing up to inappropriate bank merriment in the face of customer misfortune. I was definitely not going to slink away. I even remembered to make the kids stay in the car, so that they wouldn't get the free tooth-rotting lollipops that the bank gives out to them. (Ah... THAT was why I was doing the drive-thru... I knew there must have been a reason, apart from Destiny, of course.) Then I can't quite recall the details, but it involved shouting at the children, and subsequently listening while 14-yo, bless his tactful teenage heart, helpfully pointed out that I often tell him, if he is angry, not to take it out on another member of the family, and engaging him in a lively discussion about how this situation was in no way comparable to any previous one in which I had given that instruction. See? That is just how inspiring I am.
Oh, and the best bit was this. The reason that I crumpled the side of the car so convincingly, and spread it with the bright yellow paint with which the post was painted (bright yellow... so that people can't miss it...), was because when I heard the bang and the crumply noise, I thought to myself "ooh, don't cardboard boxes make a lovely bang and a lovely crumply noise when you drive over them?". Yup. Pretty darn inspiring, wouldn't you agree?
So... I'm in the category "Inspire!", which is lovely of you all. I'm going to let you into a secret. When you have cancer, it's not difficult to be inspiring, because people kind of give you that label without you having to try. But I hadn't reckoned on the cancer effect not wearing off for a couple of years. Nearly three, actually. That's rather nice.
However, since I am about to return to the country where self-deprecation is the norm, I thought I should dust off my skills in this department, and share with you one way in which I have been totally uninspiring this week.
I wrapped the side of my car round a small post, about 18 inches high. It serves me right for using a bank drive-thru (sorry, I have to spell it that way). That is about the third time in five years in the US that I have used the drive-thru, partly as a matter of principle - what is so hard about parking your car, and walking into a building, for heaven's sake? - and partly because I didn't know how you actually operated a drive-thru and was too embarrassed to ask anyone. Or perhaps I had some dreadful premonition, that I would meet a sticky end in a drive-thru, and was avoiding them, but as fruitlessly as the King and Queen who banned all spindles from their kingdom, in an attempt to stop their Princess pricking her finger. Her destiny was to fall asleep for a hundred years. Mine was to mash up the driver's door, the passenger's door, and - ooh, my reactions were slow that day - the back wheel arch of my minivan. She dozed through a century, to be awakened by a Prince's gentle kiss. I endured the mirth of the Bank of America employees watching me from behind the big glass window as I got out to inspect the damage, and then phoned Husband to confess (who was very nice about it, though you can't get a kiss - gentle or otherwise - down a mobile phone). She planned a wedding and drifted off into the sunset. I looked up my car insurance documents, and discovered that we have a deductible of $1,000.
The incident did, however, give me a wonderful opportunity to model to my children how to react to such a situation. First off, I parked the car, and went into the bank to pay in the check. Yes, I did. I am nothing if not determined, when it comes to standing up to inappropriate bank merriment in the face of customer misfortune. I was definitely not going to slink away. I even remembered to make the kids stay in the car, so that they wouldn't get the free tooth-rotting lollipops that the bank gives out to them. (Ah... THAT was why I was doing the drive-thru... I knew there must have been a reason, apart from Destiny, of course.) Then I can't quite recall the details, but it involved shouting at the children, and subsequently listening while 14-yo, bless his tactful teenage heart, helpfully pointed out that I often tell him, if he is angry, not to take it out on another member of the family, and engaging him in a lively discussion about how this situation was in no way comparable to any previous one in which I had given that instruction. See? That is just how inspiring I am.
Oh, and the best bit was this. The reason that I crumpled the side of the car so convincingly, and spread it with the bright yellow paint with which the post was painted (bright yellow... so that people can't miss it...), was because when I heard the bang and the crumply noise, I thought to myself "ooh, don't cardboard boxes make a lovely bang and a lovely crumply noise when you drive over them?". Yup. Pretty darn inspiring, wouldn't you agree?
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Just sayin'
I think this is bad. Al Fresco holidays ran a competition where they asked you to write a blog post about your best holiday ever. Forty-nine bloggers did. Al Fresco picked a winner. I thought the winning post was good. I didn't think any more about it, until I scrolled down and read a comment that said:
"The winner’s post was very good, but it was more than twice as long as the stated word limit. A 1000 word post is going to be very different to a 500 word one. Was wondering why there wasn’t a level playing field for such a great prize?"
Good point. I went back to the competition launch, and checked what it said:
"Your post should be no longer than 500 words and try to include a picture or two to bring it to life."
Well, Al Fresco thought about it, and said:
"The competition copy suggested the word count, and wasn’t a stated rule, but a suggested length.
All the competition entries were judged on a number of criteria, including length, but also quality of writing, humour, and style – and overall, Inside The Wendy House was the best performing post."
Hm. Tread carefully, Al Fresco holidays. We bloggers are writers. We choose our words attentively. We don't play fast and loose with them. To me "your post should be no longer than 500 words" means that your post shouldn't be longer than 500 words. If the winning post had been 510 words, that's one thing. But 1,000 words? Twice as long?
So why am I posting about this? Of course it sounds a bit sour-grapesy, because I didn't win. (But I knew I wasn't going to, didn't I? I posted a photo of a baby with a beer can for heaven's sake.) I just think that Al Fresco should fess up to having made a mistake - it happens, we're all human - and try a bit harder to make things right, rather than squirm out on a technicality. The company received a lot of publicity from the competition, publicity which depended on the effort of bloggers who were playing by the rules. Where's your good will and sense of fair play, Al Fresco?
I would say this. If you are booking with Al Fresco this summer, do read the terms and conditions very carefully.
If you want to read the story so far, it's in the comments here. And if you want to see the competition rules - sorry, "suggestions" - in the context in which they appeared, you can see them here. But life is short, so I wouldn't bother if I were you. Seriously. Go and spend some time with your kids instead. I just feel the need to back up what I've said.
"The winner’s post was very good, but it was more than twice as long as the stated word limit. A 1000 word post is going to be very different to a 500 word one. Was wondering why there wasn’t a level playing field for such a great prize?"
Good point. I went back to the competition launch, and checked what it said:
"Your post should be no longer than 500 words and try to include a picture or two to bring it to life."
Well, Al Fresco thought about it, and said:
"The competition copy suggested the word count, and wasn’t a stated rule, but a suggested length.
All the competition entries were judged on a number of criteria, including length, but also quality of writing, humour, and style – and overall, Inside The Wendy House was the best performing post."
Hm. Tread carefully, Al Fresco holidays. We bloggers are writers. We choose our words attentively. We don't play fast and loose with them. To me "your post should be no longer than 500 words" means that your post shouldn't be longer than 500 words. If the winning post had been 510 words, that's one thing. But 1,000 words? Twice as long?
So why am I posting about this? Of course it sounds a bit sour-grapesy, because I didn't win. (But I knew I wasn't going to, didn't I? I posted a photo of a baby with a beer can for heaven's sake.) I just think that Al Fresco should fess up to having made a mistake - it happens, we're all human - and try a bit harder to make things right, rather than squirm out on a technicality. The company received a lot of publicity from the competition, publicity which depended on the effort of bloggers who were playing by the rules. Where's your good will and sense of fair play, Al Fresco?
I would say this. If you are booking with Al Fresco this summer, do read the terms and conditions very carefully.
If you want to read the story so far, it's in the comments here. And if you want to see the competition rules - sorry, "suggestions" - in the context in which they appeared, you can see them here. But life is short, so I wouldn't bother if I were you. Seriously. Go and spend some time with your kids instead. I just feel the need to back up what I've said.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Had a header crisis
OK, so I got fed up with that photo on my header, and took it down. And now I'm fiddling around not knowing what to do with that space. I had plans for the day, and they didn't involve re-doing my blog header. Hm... How did this happen? It was a crime of passion when I pressed that delete button. No malice aforethought at all. Anyway, I'm now looking to YOU for ideas.
It could be a statement, like "Why is Google Chrome SO DARN SLOW at the moment, and is it going to get better or will I have to go back to Mozilla Firefox? I'm already hovering between the two, but I really prefer Chrome. SHAPE UP, GOOGLE CHROME."
It could be a picture. I've always quite fancied having a herd of bison up there, (remember the strapline "Among the bison with my dyson"? I've never quite kissed goodbye to that one). But I've spent hours trying to get a picture of a herd of bison long and thin, header-shaped, and it's not easy. Oh Blogger, I do love you, but you are very inflexible when it comes to header design.
I want to avoid the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, tempting though that is, and there are some great pictures on Flickr of cupcakes decorated with the two flags. Isn't the internet amazing? You can go to a photo website, and type in "UK US flags", and poof! up pop pictures of CUPCAKES! It's as if the site can read not only your mind, but your subconscious too.
Are you a brilliant up-and-coming blog designer who'd like to do me a header for free? I'll give you loads of publicity. I'll love you forever. Please...
By the way, while you're thinking about ideas for my header, could you also answer a couple of questions? Does John Humphrys still do the Today programme on Radio 4? Just wondering. And over this side of the Atlantic, do you, or don't you, dial a 1 before a long distance or -800- call? Either way seems to work. What is the point of that 1 if it's dispensable? I've been here too long to ask that kind of question outside the cyber world. That's a "new expat" question, and I'm way past that stage. I'm well into the realm of "embarrassing if you don't know".
I think my blog is feeling a little embarrassed too now. Naked and exposed. Do help her out with that header won't you. Oooh... I said "her". So my blog must be female. I didn't know that. See how the internet can tap right into your subconscious.
It could be a statement, like "Why is Google Chrome SO DARN SLOW at the moment, and is it going to get better or will I have to go back to Mozilla Firefox? I'm already hovering between the two, but I really prefer Chrome. SHAPE UP, GOOGLE CHROME."
It could be a picture. I've always quite fancied having a herd of bison up there, (remember the strapline "Among the bison with my dyson"? I've never quite kissed goodbye to that one). But I've spent hours trying to get a picture of a herd of bison long and thin, header-shaped, and it's not easy. Oh Blogger, I do love you, but you are very inflexible when it comes to header design.
I want to avoid the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, tempting though that is, and there are some great pictures on Flickr of cupcakes decorated with the two flags. Isn't the internet amazing? You can go to a photo website, and type in "UK US flags", and poof! up pop pictures of CUPCAKES! It's as if the site can read not only your mind, but your subconscious too.
Are you a brilliant up-and-coming blog designer who'd like to do me a header for free? I'll give you loads of publicity. I'll love you forever. Please...
By the way, while you're thinking about ideas for my header, could you also answer a couple of questions? Does John Humphrys still do the Today programme on Radio 4? Just wondering. And over this side of the Atlantic, do you, or don't you, dial a 1 before a long distance or -800- call? Either way seems to work. What is the point of that 1 if it's dispensable? I've been here too long to ask that kind of question outside the cyber world. That's a "new expat" question, and I'm way past that stage. I'm well into the realm of "embarrassing if you don't know".
I think my blog is feeling a little embarrassed too now. Naked and exposed. Do help her out with that header won't you. Oooh... I said "her". So my blog must be female. I didn't know that. See how the internet can tap right into your subconscious.
Friday, January 6, 2012
My nephew's a potential blogger!
There are worse things.
My nephew is 21. He's at university, studying French, Spanish and History, and is spending his third year abroad, in Spain, teaching English in a Spanish school. His teaching hours are arranged so that he gets a long week-end every week, so he heads off and is getting to know Spain. He is going to start a blog, and emailed me to ask my advice (I know, I know, how flattering is that?) He is a serious traveler (did South America in his gap year, Central America last summer), and a bit of a photographer too.
So Bloggy Friends, let's do a straw poll on his behalf. Blogger, Wordpress, personal website, or other? Can you recommend any websites that are really helpful on the subject of setting up a blog? I know some of you have written on the subject, in which case feel free to include your own link - though not if it's only relevant to mummy blogging, obviously. I know in our hearts we're all 21 and adventuring every week-end in Spain, but how much did that come across when you were writing that post about setting up a mummy blog?
Please comment if you have something to say, whether you're a regular reader, or just a passing browser. I'm sure it'll help him on his way.
My nephew is 21. He's at university, studying French, Spanish and History, and is spending his third year abroad, in Spain, teaching English in a Spanish school. His teaching hours are arranged so that he gets a long week-end every week, so he heads off and is getting to know Spain. He is going to start a blog, and emailed me to ask my advice (I know, I know, how flattering is that?) He is a serious traveler (did South America in his gap year, Central America last summer), and a bit of a photographer too.
So Bloggy Friends, let's do a straw poll on his behalf. Blogger, Wordpress, personal website, or other? Can you recommend any websites that are really helpful on the subject of setting up a blog? I know some of you have written on the subject, in which case feel free to include your own link - though not if it's only relevant to mummy blogging, obviously. I know in our hearts we're all 21 and adventuring every week-end in Spain, but how much did that come across when you were writing that post about setting up a mummy blog?
Please comment if you have something to say, whether you're a regular reader, or just a passing browser. I'm sure it'll help him on his way.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
12 Days of Blogging
Everybody is at it. Hot Cross Mum, The Potty Diaries, Nappy Valley in New York and Expat Mum. They've all come up with versions of the 12 Days of Christmas. I wanted to join their club, so I've done one of my own, about blogging.
Incidentally I have, actually, already done a truncated version of the well-loved carol, counting down the body parts I've lost, but that was a long time ago: (all my hair, 4 wisdom teeth, 3 moles, 2 boobs, and a lymph node, I believe it went.)
Anyhoo, here is one about blogging. I'm going to cut to the chase, and start at the 12th day.
On the 12th day of Christmas, my bloggy friend sent to me:
12 Tumblrs Tumblring
11 DiggIts Digging
10 Blogger Updates
9 Wordpress Downloads
8 RSS feeds
7 Pics a-Flickr
6 Tweets re-tweeted
5 BritMums Live!
4 Angry Birds
3 Facebook Friends
2 Gurgle Loves
And a Rise in my Site Meteree!
.
Incidentally I have, actually, already done a truncated version of the well-loved carol, counting down the body parts I've lost, but that was a long time ago: (all my hair, 4 wisdom teeth, 3 moles, 2 boobs, and a lymph node, I believe it went.)
Anyhoo, here is one about blogging. I'm going to cut to the chase, and start at the 12th day.
On the 12th day of Christmas, my bloggy friend sent to me:
12 Tumblrs Tumblring
11 DiggIts Digging
10 Blogger Updates
9 Wordpress Downloads
8 RSS feeds
7 Pics a-Flickr
6 Tweets re-tweeted
5 BritMums Live!
4 Angry Birds
3 Facebook Friends
2 Gurgle Loves
And a Rise in my Site Meteree!
.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Guess what I've just done?
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?
.
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?
.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
What I would love about my blog if I were you
A cheeky little title, I know.
This is what I would love about reading Iota's blog, if I were one of you. When I started blogging, it was because I was struggling to make sense of living in a new culture. I was beginning to make 'real life' friends, but that seems to take forever in a new place, and I was lonely. Blogging was an addiction, which in itself isn't bad (hey, who'd be reading this if blogging wasn't a little addictive now and again?), but at that time, I think the addiction spoke of isolation and unhappiness.
Then I had cancer. Remember that? I guess my blog was hard to read at that time. You must have been holding your breath, wondering what the next thing was going to be. Hoping I was going to be ok. Feeling the fear in my situation, even though I was so darn upbeat and jolly about it all, and trying not to let those fears of mine hook into your own buried ones.
The past couple of years have seen a rebuilding of life. But I'm not just back where I started. That was something I really resented about cancer. I was wailing internally "I just want my life back", while at the same time knowing that it was never going to be the same again. But ooh, get me (as they say... well... as I say anyway). I like my life a lot a lot a lot now. I've got a green card. I've got a job (I mistyped that as "I've got a nob", which made me laugh). I love my job. I'm doing a Masters degree. I love my Masters degree. I love how you always see it written with a capital M. Why is that, I wonder? I don't see why it deserves a capital. I actually love living in America (I hear the gasps of surprise followed by the cheering). I am happy. I am content.
You've probably spotted that I don't blog as much. You've guessed that I'm just too busy at the moment. The recycling of a couple of old posts was a bit of a giveaway. Yes, I'm busy, and my blog is getting a little neglected. But don't you even love that about it?
So that's what I would love about my blog if I were you. It's the story of a chunk of a life's journey that was a down and an up, a valley and a journey out of it. I would find that hopeful and heartening. It's more than that, though. It's the story within the story that I like. I feel a difference in myself. I've grown as a person so much over the past 4.5 years (yup, that's how long I've been blogging). I like myself more than I used to. I wonder if you can tell. I wonder if you sniff it out, in the gaps between the words on the screen, in the spaces between one post and the next.
And of course that's what I love about your blogs I've followed over the years. The tales of your lives: the narratives, but more so, the stories of who you are, who you were, and who you're becoming, which somehow, through the magic of writing, leak through the typewritten word.
This is what I would love about reading Iota's blog, if I were one of you. When I started blogging, it was because I was struggling to make sense of living in a new culture. I was beginning to make 'real life' friends, but that seems to take forever in a new place, and I was lonely. Blogging was an addiction, which in itself isn't bad (hey, who'd be reading this if blogging wasn't a little addictive now and again?), but at that time, I think the addiction spoke of isolation and unhappiness.
Then I had cancer. Remember that? I guess my blog was hard to read at that time. You must have been holding your breath, wondering what the next thing was going to be. Hoping I was going to be ok. Feeling the fear in my situation, even though I was so darn upbeat and jolly about it all, and trying not to let those fears of mine hook into your own buried ones.
The past couple of years have seen a rebuilding of life. But I'm not just back where I started. That was something I really resented about cancer. I was wailing internally "I just want my life back", while at the same time knowing that it was never going to be the same again. But ooh, get me (as they say... well... as I say anyway). I like my life a lot a lot a lot now. I've got a green card. I've got a job (I mistyped that as "I've got a nob", which made me laugh). I love my job. I'm doing a Masters degree. I love my Masters degree. I love how you always see it written with a capital M. Why is that, I wonder? I don't see why it deserves a capital. I actually love living in America (I hear the gasps of surprise followed by the cheering). I am happy. I am content.
You've probably spotted that I don't blog as much. You've guessed that I'm just too busy at the moment. The recycling of a couple of old posts was a bit of a giveaway. Yes, I'm busy, and my blog is getting a little neglected. But don't you even love that about it?
So that's what I would love about my blog if I were you. It's the story of a chunk of a life's journey that was a down and an up, a valley and a journey out of it. I would find that hopeful and heartening. It's more than that, though. It's the story within the story that I like. I feel a difference in myself. I've grown as a person so much over the past 4.5 years (yup, that's how long I've been blogging). I like myself more than I used to. I wonder if you can tell. I wonder if you sniff it out, in the gaps between the words on the screen, in the spaces between one post and the next.
And of course that's what I love about your blogs I've followed over the years. The tales of your lives: the narratives, but more so, the stories of who you are, who you were, and who you're becoming, which somehow, through the magic of writing, leak through the typewritten word.
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.
.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Getting better
Well, ten out of ten to those of you who said "it's jetlag, give it a few days". It was jetlag, I gave it a few days.
I've been walking in the beautiful green Buckinghamshire countryside. Oh heaven. I've been eating too much (why does my mother think I don't feed myself properly, though the evidence of the last 30 years would suggest otherwise?) I've introduced my husband and my two oldest kids to the board game that was my total favourite as a child and that still lives in the games chest at my mother's house. A few rounds of Careers has cheered me up no end. There's nothing like a quick dabble in Politics, Hollywood, Farming, Big Business, and Uranium Prospecting to make you feel purposeful in life. Ah, if only real life was like Careers. You decide how much money, fame and happiness you need to win, and then you set about achieving it by shaking the dice and landing on the appropriate squares. A glorious mix of tactics and luck, but mostly luck, both good and bad. I've always loved that game, and it seems to fit the moment perfectly.
I've also taken on 13-yo (14-yo, tomorrow) at Dover Patrol. I used to play that with my big brother. It was another of my favourites. I remember discovering that Dover was a place, and being rather surprised. I'd thought it was an adjective meaning "strategic" or something similar. For Dover Patrol is a game of great strategy. 13-yo and I play it a little differently to how my brother and I played it, because we have the instructions (amazing what you can find on the internet these days). It's rather a shame, in a way. Not knowing the rules has a certain charm, when you're the admiral of the fleet.
Plus all that wonderful bloggy love, of course. You can't beat that. Thank you all so much. That has helped me feel better about my blog. And Cyber Mummy too. Yes, I'll be going, because I would regret it if I didn't. It seems though, from the comments and from two or three people who've emailed me, that I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed, or on the fringes, or out of place. So here's a tip that I found worked for me last year. Be intentional. If there are bloggers you want to meet, email them beforehand and say "can we meet over lunch/coffee/tea?" Even just saying "can we look out for each other?" makes it considerably more likely that you'll meet. Otherwise, the day will pass, and you'll go home thinking "I wish I'd met Blogging Mum" or whoever it is. Meanwhile, if you are feeling on the fringes, take heart. You're clearly not alone.
I just have to share one more thing. I dreamed about Rosie Scribble! How weird is that, when you dream about your blogging life? I dreamed that I'd agreed to pick up her daughter, IJ, from school. Meanwhile, somehow I was at the zoo in the city I live in, in America. The road system in our city is very straightforward, being a grid, with main roads going north-south and east-west. There are, however, a few main roads that go diagonally, and confuse everything. Well, they confuse me, at any rate. One of these diagonal roads is Zoo Boulevard (the clue is in the name). In my dream, I couldn't get to IJ's school, because I kept getting lost on Zoo Boulevard. I didn't have the school's phone number, and I was at a loss as to what to do. Time was ticking on, and I was getting increasingly desperate about ever finding the school, and increasingly anxious as to what I was going to tell Rosie later on about why I had failed to pick up IJ.
Do you think it was an anxiety dream about blogging and Cyber Mummy?
This was a post of rather random things, but life is sometimes like that.
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I've been walking in the beautiful green Buckinghamshire countryside. Oh heaven. I've been eating too much (why does my mother think I don't feed myself properly, though the evidence of the last 30 years would suggest otherwise?) I've introduced my husband and my two oldest kids to the board game that was my total favourite as a child and that still lives in the games chest at my mother's house. A few rounds of Careers has cheered me up no end. There's nothing like a quick dabble in Politics, Hollywood, Farming, Big Business, and Uranium Prospecting to make you feel purposeful in life. Ah, if only real life was like Careers. You decide how much money, fame and happiness you need to win, and then you set about achieving it by shaking the dice and landing on the appropriate squares. A glorious mix of tactics and luck, but mostly luck, both good and bad. I've always loved that game, and it seems to fit the moment perfectly.
I've also taken on 13-yo (14-yo, tomorrow) at Dover Patrol. I used to play that with my big brother. It was another of my favourites. I remember discovering that Dover was a place, and being rather surprised. I'd thought it was an adjective meaning "strategic" or something similar. For Dover Patrol is a game of great strategy. 13-yo and I play it a little differently to how my brother and I played it, because we have the instructions (amazing what you can find on the internet these days). It's rather a shame, in a way. Not knowing the rules has a certain charm, when you're the admiral of the fleet.
Plus all that wonderful bloggy love, of course. You can't beat that. Thank you all so much. That has helped me feel better about my blog. And Cyber Mummy too. Yes, I'll be going, because I would regret it if I didn't. It seems though, from the comments and from two or three people who've emailed me, that I'm not alone in feeling overwhelmed, or on the fringes, or out of place. So here's a tip that I found worked for me last year. Be intentional. If there are bloggers you want to meet, email them beforehand and say "can we meet over lunch/coffee/tea?" Even just saying "can we look out for each other?" makes it considerably more likely that you'll meet. Otherwise, the day will pass, and you'll go home thinking "I wish I'd met Blogging Mum" or whoever it is. Meanwhile, if you are feeling on the fringes, take heart. You're clearly not alone.
I just have to share one more thing. I dreamed about Rosie Scribble! How weird is that, when you dream about your blogging life? I dreamed that I'd agreed to pick up her daughter, IJ, from school. Meanwhile, somehow I was at the zoo in the city I live in, in America. The road system in our city is very straightforward, being a grid, with main roads going north-south and east-west. There are, however, a few main roads that go diagonally, and confuse everything. Well, they confuse me, at any rate. One of these diagonal roads is Zoo Boulevard (the clue is in the name). In my dream, I couldn't get to IJ's school, because I kept getting lost on Zoo Boulevard. I didn't have the school's phone number, and I was at a loss as to what to do. Time was ticking on, and I was getting increasingly desperate about ever finding the school, and increasingly anxious as to what I was going to tell Rosie later on about why I had failed to pick up IJ.
Do you think it was an anxiety dream about blogging and Cyber Mummy?
This was a post of rather random things, but life is sometimes like that.
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Friday, May 27, 2011
Iota's got it bad
I am in England and I am weary.
I am weary because the journey is long and the time difference a pain. It takes a few days to adjust.
I am weary because I landed at Gatwick, raced around the south of England delivering tired but excited children to stalwart members of the family who looked after them while I sped off to join Husband at a job interview. He was glad I was there, but it didn't make any difference. He didn't get the job.
I am weary when I read blogs written by expats. For the first time ever, I can't really be bothered to summon up an opinion on posts which I used to find fascinating, on language, culture, everyday life. Does any of it matter?
I am weary of being an expat. I am tired of people assuming I'd like to back in Britain. They're right, and they base their assumptions on what I've told them. They haven't taken liberties. But I'm annoyed at what they assume, because it somehow devalues my current life in America. I have always tried to live in the moment, not in the future. I have called our house in America "home", and called Britain "Britain". I did that deliberately, but there is also truth in it, truth that took a while to become true, but is now true. At least I think so. I don't even know any more. I feel like other people think my life is in an aeroplane in the stack above London, circling and circling, waiting patiently to land and begin the next chapter. But it's not. My life is in the Midwest, full of friends and fun and family adventure. And yet, of course, they're right, deep down I probably am circling in that stack, and that's why I'm annoyed. I'm not really annoyed with them. I'm annoyed with myself. Because I'm not as free-floating as I pretend.
I am weary when I think of Cyber Mummy. Can I be bothered to go? There's a waiting list, I believe, so I could get my money back. I'm thinking there are better things to spend that cash on. Can't I just meet up for a drink the night before with the bloggy friends I really want to see? That's the bit I honestly want to do.
I am weary when I think of blogging, because I can't keep up, and don't want to keep up. I don't facebook, I don't twitter, and I know this means that I'm on the edge of blogging, that I don't have a future. It's just a matter of time. I've always been of the opinion that there's space for everyone in the blogosphere, but I guess it's not a nice feeling to know that you're just drifting slowly to the edges, making way for the next new generation of bloggers, and the next one, and the next one.
I am weary, because there's lots I'd love to write about, and I can't, because I gave up my lovely anonymity. Writing an anonymous blog is very freeing. You can say what you like. Should I ditch The Iota Quota and start another one secretly, where I can share of myself like I used to? (Ha! Perhaps I already have and I'm bluffing you!)
I am too weary even to polish this into a reasonable piece of writing. I am just going to press "publish post" and see what you all say.
.
I am weary because the journey is long and the time difference a pain. It takes a few days to adjust.
I am weary because I landed at Gatwick, raced around the south of England delivering tired but excited children to stalwart members of the family who looked after them while I sped off to join Husband at a job interview. He was glad I was there, but it didn't make any difference. He didn't get the job.
I am weary when I read blogs written by expats. For the first time ever, I can't really be bothered to summon up an opinion on posts which I used to find fascinating, on language, culture, everyday life. Does any of it matter?
I am weary of being an expat. I am tired of people assuming I'd like to back in Britain. They're right, and they base their assumptions on what I've told them. They haven't taken liberties. But I'm annoyed at what they assume, because it somehow devalues my current life in America. I have always tried to live in the moment, not in the future. I have called our house in America "home", and called Britain "Britain". I did that deliberately, but there is also truth in it, truth that took a while to become true, but is now true. At least I think so. I don't even know any more. I feel like other people think my life is in an aeroplane in the stack above London, circling and circling, waiting patiently to land and begin the next chapter. But it's not. My life is in the Midwest, full of friends and fun and family adventure. And yet, of course, they're right, deep down I probably am circling in that stack, and that's why I'm annoyed. I'm not really annoyed with them. I'm annoyed with myself. Because I'm not as free-floating as I pretend.
I am weary when I think of Cyber Mummy. Can I be bothered to go? There's a waiting list, I believe, so I could get my money back. I'm thinking there are better things to spend that cash on. Can't I just meet up for a drink the night before with the bloggy friends I really want to see? That's the bit I honestly want to do.
I am weary when I think of blogging, because I can't keep up, and don't want to keep up. I don't facebook, I don't twitter, and I know this means that I'm on the edge of blogging, that I don't have a future. It's just a matter of time. I've always been of the opinion that there's space for everyone in the blogosphere, but I guess it's not a nice feeling to know that you're just drifting slowly to the edges, making way for the next new generation of bloggers, and the next one, and the next one.
I am weary, because there's lots I'd love to write about, and I can't, because I gave up my lovely anonymity. Writing an anonymous blog is very freeing. You can say what you like. Should I ditch The Iota Quota and start another one secretly, where I can share of myself like I used to? (Ha! Perhaps I already have and I'm bluffing you!)
I am too weary even to polish this into a reasonable piece of writing. I am just going to press "publish post" and see what you all say.
.
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 9, 2011
Where has blogging taken me now?
Have you noticed how sometimes there’s a topic in the blogosphere that becomes flavour of the month? You read a post about it, and then come across another one. A few days later someone else is talking about the same thing, sometimes linking back to the first post you read, but sometimes seemingly unconnected. Then maybe there’s a little flurry of discussion that might lead you to BMB or beyond. I’m guessing that if you Twitter, this happens more than if you simply blog. It’s as if ideas are birds, flying and settling, here and there. Perhaps it’s just that if something catches your interest, you’ll spot it and it won’t pass you by. Perhaps it’s your own antennae that are responsible, tuning you in to a theme that’s of relevance to your life at that moment. Or perhaps the ideas really are like flocks of noisy starlings, circling and wheeling companionably. Who knows?
The subject that I’ve caught notice of recently is that of why we blog. Ah, the hardy perennial. I’ve seen that one come round more than a few times. When blogging was newer, less established, it was aired more often. Just why, exactly, are we doing this? The idea of a virtual friendship was something that had to be justified. It wasn’t yet normal. A virtual community? How does that work? We needed to talk about that. Now, experience allows us to take it more as read (rather an apt phrase, when it comes to virtual communities). Friendships that started off in cyberspace have been cemented at blogging events, or simply when two or more bloggers decide to meet. We no longer need to tell ourselves we’re not weird for doing it this way.
I’m glad that we seem to have got going on the old chestnut again. Yes. Why indeed do we blog? Time to re-evaluate. Has blogging morphed into something different altogether? Or has it just grown up a little? How long is a piece of string, and what is the price of fish?
Here are the posts I’ve come across recently that have got me a-pondering, from across the pond.
The Potty Diaries: Blogging Changed My Life
More Than Just a Mother: 8 Ways Social Media Changed My Life
and BMB is starting a new feature: Why Do You Blog?
So there we have two bloggers who claim that blogging has changed their lives. Could I say the same for me? Yes, I could. I’ve found a voice, I’ve found I can hold an audience, I’ve found friendship and community, I’ve found confidence. I've had articles published in a local women's magazine, which I wouldn't have attempted to do before. I know I can write. Most of all, I’ve found that writing helps me make sense of life. Daily mundane trivial life, and great big gut-wrenching life. It all seems to benefit from being wrestled into words. I didn't know that before I blogged. From the outside, you wouldn't see much that looked very significant from that. I haven't written a book. I haven't become a journalist. I'm not earning any money from writing. But it is important to me. I have found something out that I am exploring. It's taking a while to find direction, but I'm not too worried about that.
Here’s the new thing I've done with it recently. I’ve started journalling – which I don’t think I’d ever have done if I hadn’t first blogged. It’s just for me, and it really wouldn’t be very interesting for anyone else to read, so it’s a different animal to a blog. I’m not choosing words that will convey my meaning to other people. I’m choosing words that convey my meaning to myself. (Did I just write that sentence? Does Private Eye still run Pseuds Corner?) Actually, it’s not really about choosing words. It’s much more about picking up the pen, and letting thoughts, feelings, random mental preoccupations flow out onto the paper. I have to do it in a notebook with a pen; it doesn’t appear to work so well at a keyboard. I don’t know why. Here’s the odd thing about journalling. It seems to create more time in the day. Somehow I make better use of time available. Maybe it’s something to do with freeing up some mind space for yourself, so that you are an emptier receptacle for whatever the day brings. Maybe it puts you more in touch with yourself, so that you are a more defined person in meeting whatever comes your way. Maybe you access parts of yourself that otherwise lie a little dormant. Maybe Pseuds Corner does still exist.
I don’t journal daily – though you’re meant to. Perhaps that will come with time. I think it will, as I now look forward to my journalling time. It’s a joy, not a chore as it was at first (though only at the very beginning – I discovered the pleasure in it quite quickly).
Does anyone else keep a journal? Did you come to it through blogging, or was it the other way round? Perhaps blogging appealed because you were already in the habit of writing. I’m interested to know.
.
The subject that I’ve caught notice of recently is that of why we blog. Ah, the hardy perennial. I’ve seen that one come round more than a few times. When blogging was newer, less established, it was aired more often. Just why, exactly, are we doing this? The idea of a virtual friendship was something that had to be justified. It wasn’t yet normal. A virtual community? How does that work? We needed to talk about that. Now, experience allows us to take it more as read (rather an apt phrase, when it comes to virtual communities). Friendships that started off in cyberspace have been cemented at blogging events, or simply when two or more bloggers decide to meet. We no longer need to tell ourselves we’re not weird for doing it this way.
I’m glad that we seem to have got going on the old chestnut again. Yes. Why indeed do we blog? Time to re-evaluate. Has blogging morphed into something different altogether? Or has it just grown up a little? How long is a piece of string, and what is the price of fish?
Here are the posts I’ve come across recently that have got me a-pondering, from across the pond.
The Potty Diaries: Blogging Changed My Life
More Than Just a Mother: 8 Ways Social Media Changed My Life
and BMB is starting a new feature: Why Do You Blog?
So there we have two bloggers who claim that blogging has changed their lives. Could I say the same for me? Yes, I could. I’ve found a voice, I’ve found I can hold an audience, I’ve found friendship and community, I’ve found confidence. I've had articles published in a local women's magazine, which I wouldn't have attempted to do before. I know I can write. Most of all, I’ve found that writing helps me make sense of life. Daily mundane trivial life, and great big gut-wrenching life. It all seems to benefit from being wrestled into words. I didn't know that before I blogged. From the outside, you wouldn't see much that looked very significant from that. I haven't written a book. I haven't become a journalist. I'm not earning any money from writing. But it is important to me. I have found something out that I am exploring. It's taking a while to find direction, but I'm not too worried about that.
Here’s the new thing I've done with it recently. I’ve started journalling – which I don’t think I’d ever have done if I hadn’t first blogged. It’s just for me, and it really wouldn’t be very interesting for anyone else to read, so it’s a different animal to a blog. I’m not choosing words that will convey my meaning to other people. I’m choosing words that convey my meaning to myself. (Did I just write that sentence? Does Private Eye still run Pseuds Corner?) Actually, it’s not really about choosing words. It’s much more about picking up the pen, and letting thoughts, feelings, random mental preoccupations flow out onto the paper. I have to do it in a notebook with a pen; it doesn’t appear to work so well at a keyboard. I don’t know why. Here’s the odd thing about journalling. It seems to create more time in the day. Somehow I make better use of time available. Maybe it’s something to do with freeing up some mind space for yourself, so that you are an emptier receptacle for whatever the day brings. Maybe it puts you more in touch with yourself, so that you are a more defined person in meeting whatever comes your way. Maybe you access parts of yourself that otherwise lie a little dormant. Maybe Pseuds Corner does still exist.
I don’t journal daily – though you’re meant to. Perhaps that will come with time. I think it will, as I now look forward to my journalling time. It’s a joy, not a chore as it was at first (though only at the very beginning – I discovered the pleasure in it quite quickly).
Does anyone else keep a journal? Did you come to it through blogging, or was it the other way round? Perhaps blogging appealed because you were already in the habit of writing. I’m interested to know.
.
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