Red dot from the moon

October 2012, Balgowlah, Australia

We had a visitor this week; my lovely friend, Clarabelle, whom I have known since we were both the ripe old age of 8. She arrived on Monday and we had four days of chatting and laughter and whirlwind tours of my favourite places in Sydney.

Although amazing friends like Clarabelle require no real effort in terms of falling immediately into our lifelong friendship groove, I pulled out all the stops in preparing for her arrival, which would mark the last 4 days of her month-long tour of Australia. The agenda was easy enough (there are so many places I wanted her to see, many of which we couldn’t fit in) but I knew her nomadic adventures would have seen her sleeping in hotels and on sofas and I wanted her to feel comfy, cosy, at home.

I dropped Miggins at school at 8:30am, grabbed a coffee and told myself that everything would be in order by 12pm, when I would collect Miggins and drive to the airport.

I cleaned and tidied for almost 3 hours to knock the house into sparkling shape and even then there was quite a lot of stuff being shoved into the laundry room (which is thankfully closed off from the rest of the house but which I still felt compelled to show Clarabelle after showing her around…). At 11:47 I made TJ and Miggins a picnic for the car journey to the airport and after a fraught negotiation with TJ about leaving the house, I hared it to school at 11:58. Bad.

The school car park was full so I went to park in the next street along, which was of course blocked by a removals van, so I had to park one more street over. 12:05 and 25 degrees. I grabbed TJ and ran as fast as I could with a 3-stone 2 year old (who was holding his jam sandwich and shouting and laughing ‘Mummy I’m getting jam in your hair’) and got to school a sweaty, panting mess at 12:08. A lovely friend stopped me outside school to give Miggins a belated 5th birthday present and pushing aside my usual British politeness I just blurted ‘I’ve got to be at the airport at 12:30’. Luckily, she was characteristically unflappable, handed me the pressie and stepped aside as we all galloped back to the car, with Miggins shouting breathlessly and excitedly ‘why are we running? why are we running?’, her oversized backpack sloughing from side to side and TJ still trying to finish off the jam sandwich whilst I was now carrying him horizontally like a newborn, my arms breaking. Once in the car and on the road we took a breath and we smoothly pulled into the public pick-up area of Sydney airport twenty minutes later than expected but miraculously just in time to collect Clarabelle, who was none the wiser and, thankfully, a few minutes late herself. We greeted each other like the old friends we are and chatted excitedly about the first stop on our tour.

October 2009, London, 8 months pregnant with TJ

I used to start looking desperately at the clock from about 4pm, knowing that I had precisely 1 hour and 11 minutes to finish everything that I needed to do that day to be able to run to Cannon Street station to catch the 5:21pm train. That train would get me home in time to let our nanny, the wonderful Miss J, finish her day at 6pm and most importantly gave me a precious hour with Miggins before I tucked her into bed.

I know what you’re thinking; a lawyer, finishing at 5pm, how did she land that one? The truth was, there was no finishing. The red light flashed continually on my blackberry, the demands interminable. I had, though, made a promise to myself and to Miggins that I would try my very best to be home every night for bathtime and to tuck her into bed and no matter what pressure that put me under I managed it all but a handful of times, each of those missed opportunities weighing heavier than the last. Guilt crept in at those moments, saw the chink in the shiny armoury that that was my professional, well-groomed, suited self and taunted the maternal instinct that told me I should be there, whatever, no matter what.

There was no doubt that I loved both roles of my dichotomous self, as a lawyer and as a mum, but I have yet to be convinced that it is possible for anyone to truly feel that they ‘have it all’; that they have for themselves and for their family successfully and happily sustained those two parallels.

I digress, but I hope I have set my scene.

I was two weeks from the start of my maternity leave but things were far from winding down. My last meeting that day had overrun and I returned to a plethora of emails and calls, each demanding an urgent answer (their authors fully aware of an imminent handover of their file). 4:57pm. I called Mister – straight to voicemail; he was on a lengthy conference call. I hesitantly called Miss J, who almost always said yes to staying later but who had no choice but to get home on time that night. 5:04pm. I quickly packed a Court bag with work to take home with me, put my trainers on and logged off, diving into the lift. 5:08pm. 6th floor to ground usually took all of 30 seconds but it stopped at floor 3, then floor 2. People in the lift chatted amiably, their day over whilst I just stared at the doors, whispering ‘please, please’ desperately under my breath. As the doors opened on the ground floor I bolted, supporting my bump as I ran, cumbersomely dragging the court bag behind me.

I knew I wouldn’t make it, I couldn’t possibly make it, it was a 10 minute sprint without the 8 month bump, but I jog-walked-jog-walked, all the time bumping that ridiculous bag behind me, which sounded like an express train clattering across the pavement, drawing yet more attention to my ungainly self. I was met with looks of amusement, sympathy, disbelief, a rare anomaly amidst the sea of cloned commuters.

When I finally panted up the steps at Cannon Street station, with that bloody bag thump, thump, thumping up each step behind me, the 5:21 was long gone. I called Miss J, apologising profusely, half sobbing, half breathless and although she assured me in her usual calm, upbeat manner that it was really ok, I knew that she, too, was panicking about getting herself home on time.

In the end, I was twenty minutes late. Just twenty. But by then, I had worked myself up into a hormonal, tired bundle of guilt, and it was Miss J who was witness to my raw, desperate relief as I loped, exhausted, through the front door and into the living room, where 2 year old Miggins, already bathed and in her pyjamas, was happily and obliviously absorbed in her favourite bedtime television programme.

I tucked Miggins into bed, changed into my comfy clothes and sank into the sofa, clicking open the oversized black bag, my companion for the evening.

October 2012, Balgowlah, Australia

I used to say that if you watched me from the moon, you would see a red dot sprinting across London, trying to get home. A red flashing light, the Earth’s own Blackberry.┬áIf you happened to be watching me from the moon this week, you might have seen that frenzied dot again, rushing to get someplace on the other side of the world. But I think you will also have seen a rush of colour in my wake….. and possibly a small amount of strawberry jam in my hair.

A day of firsts…

So today marked the day of a few firsts.

It’s spring here and the sun is shining. Having just returned from a jaunt to the UK (where the rain gave us a fabulous excuse to rug up, drink wine and eat bread) we were ready for sunshine, surfing and salads. We started the day with a small headache (courtesy of Amy and Blackie’s delicious home cooking and endless glasses of yummy red) but a cup of tea and an unexpected lie in sorted us out (the first of the ‘firsts’; TJ (our son, aged 2) actually slept until 8am this morning, delaying our usual early morning call).

We pootled off to brunch at the wonderful Ash’s Table on Manly Beach, ordering a stack of pancakes and maple syrup with bacon, skim flat whites and juice and then took a stroll along the front, with TJ and Miggins (our daughter, aged 5) happily balancing on the wall, watching the surf school ‘little nippers’ running in and out of the sea with their bright yellow swimming caps.

Returning home and with the themometer reading above 20, it could only mean one thing (with a little persuasion from Miggins): the pool. Now, Mister (my husband of 8 years) is a bit of a wuss when it comes to the cold (he will readily admit) and as I have been swimming in ice cold conditions since I was little (having spent the first 8 years of my life living in a classic 70s house in Suffolk with a pool built by my dad in the garden), I couldn’t resist the pleading eyes of Miggins who very much fancied the first dip of the season. After a count of 3 (very slowly, and with a few false starts) we were in. Freezing. Ridiculous. Impossible to breath. But refreshing, exciting and fantastic fun. Miggins was a little smugger than I, as she was wearing her ‘swimming coat’ (aka a wetsuit) whilst I was just in my swimming cossie, but after 10 minutes of bravely swimming about, we stepped out, wrapped up in our towels and lay on the sun-warmed stone tiles next to the pool and it felt lovely. So lovely.

Mister, in the meantime, had been keeping a sensible distance and TJ was in the land of nod. We made a nice pot of tea and reviewed our second ‘first’, which Miggins and I deemed to be a great success. Miggins thinks we should have a daily dip from now on to get the most out of the pool, enthusiasm uncurbed by the icy conditions. Hmmm…

So we sat down together whilst I filled in the diary for the week and Miggins did some colouring with her new colouring set, a birthday present from the aforementioned Amy and Blackie and a big hit. She asked me to tell her a story from when I was little.

Spring 1982, Worlingworth, Suffolk (aged 5). I had a red and blue bike, rather too large for me and a little rusty but it marked the start of many adventures to come. My dad (affectionately know to me as Pooks) was starting to get a little frustrated, to say the least, at my inability to get going with the bike riding. It all became a bit of a fiasco. Weekend after weekend that Spring we would haul the bike out of the garage with fresh hope, Pooks promising to hold onto the back whilst I got my balance and my confidence. However, as with many things in those early years, confidence in my ability was lacking and I was a keen observer rather than a participator. It’s hard to observe your family heading off on a family picnic without you, though (as had been threatened if I didn’t buck up and learn how to ride) so I had to hurry up and get on my bike, as it were.

One weekend things all got a little too much and after getting halfway down the driveway I turned around to see whether Pooks was still holding on and seeing that he wasn’t, I promptly fell to the ground and started to cry. Pooks gave me a smack on the bottom for good measure, which sounds rather harsh but is actually now very funny and indicative of his frustration giving way after hours and hours of patient tutorial. We laugh about it a lot now, as with the incident of me repeatedly asking him whether I could play a record before bedtime when I was about 8, which was finally met with Pooks saying ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no [smack]’, which unbeknownst to him was caught on an audio tape by my sister who was mucking around in the background. We still have the tape and you can hear the smack, although before you start thinking I was smacked quite a lot, I had a wonderful childhood, mostly smack free; those are the only two I can remember.

Anyway, we gave up for a while until one morning I just thought about my red and blue bike resting against the wall of the garage and made myself go in there and just look at it. And then I thought I would just get on, and see how it felt. I sat on the saddle and propelled it forwards with my feet on the floor, exactly as TJ now does effortlessly with his balance bike, until I got to the mossy top of the driveway. Then I pedalled. And wobbled a bit. And pedalled some more and suddenly I had it, completely by myself, unnoticed by anyone, I had done it. And I think that was it. No more drama, perhaps a few more falls, but I mastered it and never looked back.

Well the story hadn’t really captured Miggins’ imagination at that point so I went on to elaborate about a fictitious picnic in a field full of cows, who chased my oldest sister home, which Miggins found hilariously funny (and I did too once I’d visualised it) but as the story ended she announced: “let’s take the stabilisers off my bike”. So we did, and that’s the third ‘first’. Mister wandered off to look up instructions on the internet for taking stabilisers off a bike, whilst I (ever impatient) took the toolbox down and got stuck in, removing the stabilisers just before Mister appeared again to say: “I couldn’t really find anything about that. Oh, you’ve done it.”

In a much less dramatic episode than mine had been, Miggins wobbled about a bit, made sure that I (and then Mister) was holding onto the back of the bike, did a few stints up and down the driveway and then said “I think I’ll go on the trampoline now”.

And then I thought “I think it’s time I wrote a blog”.

It’s been on my mind for a while, since we had such a huge change in our lives about 11 months ago (more on that later) and I was worried that I wasn’t doing a great job of writing down all of these momentous and not so momentous things. I have also dropped my beloved iPhone numerous times, breaking the camera lens and therefore failing to photograph our day to day lives, as I had promised myself I would do.

So that was the fourth ‘first’ of the day. My blog. I hope you like it.