Christmas seemed to go by in a whirlwind. But it was lovely... filled with leisurely bath times with the little one, family visiting for food and cuddles, walks in misty London mornings.
This year I feel that I've accomplished a hell of a lot. We have accomplished a lot. I have felt the pangs of failure, the drifting of time between my fingers, the swells of hope for the coming year and the new baby, the longing for more time with my beautiful little girl, not so little anymore.
Sometimes I feel as if even one second spent on lamenting or complaining would be bad karma, but sometimes it's a necessary evil, when you're a working parent trying to juggle all the balls in your arms. I always want more, I want life to give us more- more children, more love, more beautiful chaos... but with that comes the inevitable: more time, more space to indulge in each other, more quiet moments to take it all in and be thankful.
You're always told: life is what you make it. But really, sometimes I believe life is what makes you. You're molded by what it throws at you. If you react badly, you don't learn anything. It's like a really long road trip that keeps getting stalled by traffic and flat tires. You can't change the environment around you, but you can smile and joke and remember that at the end of the road, at the end of your life, you'll remember the sweetness in the chaos. Because that's the kind of person you've become.
I'm not a naturally positive person. I have to work at it. But when I let go and realise that life is too short, and that my time with my children and my husband is limited.. well, I'm compelled to choose the sweetness.
So here's to having a sweet 2011, and everything that comes along with it.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Love and other assumptions
Should I care what people think? Not really.
I’m in my early 30s. I roughly know what I want and who I am.
Do I care what people think though? Unfortunately, yes, sometimes I do.
Being pregnant with #2 is an interesting situation to be in, in this country. The ‘norm’ is: “two kids and you’re done!”. 2.5 kids, picket-fence perfect little family.
I don’t like, have never liked, being part of the cookie-cutter crowd. It’s not in my DNA. It’s not how I operate. And people repeating the same things make me fear the appearance of a little voice in my head saying... what if they're right? What if your body won't make any more babies?
I’ve never really noticed how my visceral objection would be to this kind of life until I fell pregnant with our second.
The reactions to our news were interesting, to say the least.
Oh... wow.. so soon... wow.
Oh, sure.. well.. congratulations are in order. Well done you, goodness.
Oh, good. You’ll have two, and now you’re done.
Oh dear.. lots of work ahead of you, that’s for sure.
Hmm.. wow. Interesting. Why the rush?
Gosh, where will you find the time? You’re both thinly stretched as it is...!
Mothers will always get strange feedback from family, friends and strangers. It’s what we all have to deal with. But maybe I have a low moron threshold. I feel like I want to grit my teeth and start justifying my actions to people about the kind of life I/we want to live, the kind of size that we want our family to be. Everyone’s “perfect” is different than everyone else’s. Why do I have to live according to someone else’s assumptions of perfect? Chaos, challenges, schedules, work, fun, adevntures and being parents. That’s our personal perfect.
To set the record straight, I will know when I’m done. I will. Not you. Not they. I will know. And 2 kids isn’t “it” for me/us. I realise that some things can’t be helped, but at the moment, and for the foreseeable future, I feel that my body isn’t done yet. It’s a strange yearning. An organic, feel-it-in-my-bones feeling. It's not something I can explain, but it is intense in its profundity.
Maybe it’s tempting fate to let that out there into the universe whilst baking #2... or maybe it’s just a nice thought to let go of and release more love into the world. More hope. More positivity. Maybe it's entirely normal for me to immerse myself this haze of pregnancy because of the complete miracle that it really is. I love it. I did last time, I do now, and I hope to repeat it again in the future.
Thing is, I just have too much love in my heart for my little burgeoning family to ever be in a standard box. It tends to radiate from my pores. Makes me feel really calm and content with the world. And I hope that we’re lucky enough to have as many kids as we feel we want, in order to give them all that kind of life, full of love and sweetness and hope and adventure.
So, to all the judgers: assume all you want. I’ll live my perfect the best I can, and you live yours.
I’m in my early 30s. I roughly know what I want and who I am.
Do I care what people think though? Unfortunately, yes, sometimes I do.
Being pregnant with #2 is an interesting situation to be in, in this country. The ‘norm’ is: “two kids and you’re done!”. 2.5 kids, picket-fence perfect little family.
I don’t like, have never liked, being part of the cookie-cutter crowd. It’s not in my DNA. It’s not how I operate. And people repeating the same things make me fear the appearance of a little voice in my head saying... what if they're right? What if your body won't make any more babies?
I’ve never really noticed how my visceral objection would be to this kind of life until I fell pregnant with our second.
The reactions to our news were interesting, to say the least.
Oh... wow.. so soon... wow.
Oh, sure.. well.. congratulations are in order. Well done you, goodness.
Oh, good. You’ll have two, and now you’re done.
Oh dear.. lots of work ahead of you, that’s for sure.
Hmm.. wow. Interesting. Why the rush?
Gosh, where will you find the time? You’re both thinly stretched as it is...!
Mothers will always get strange feedback from family, friends and strangers. It’s what we all have to deal with. But maybe I have a low moron threshold. I feel like I want to grit my teeth and start justifying my actions to people about the kind of life I/we want to live, the kind of size that we want our family to be. Everyone’s “perfect” is different than everyone else’s. Why do I have to live according to someone else’s assumptions of perfect? Chaos, challenges, schedules, work, fun, adevntures and being parents. That’s our personal perfect.
To set the record straight, I will know when I’m done. I will. Not you. Not they. I will know. And 2 kids isn’t “it” for me/us. I realise that some things can’t be helped, but at the moment, and for the foreseeable future, I feel that my body isn’t done yet. It’s a strange yearning. An organic, feel-it-in-my-bones feeling. It's not something I can explain, but it is intense in its profundity.
Maybe it’s tempting fate to let that out there into the universe whilst baking #2... or maybe it’s just a nice thought to let go of and release more love into the world. More hope. More positivity. Maybe it's entirely normal for me to immerse myself this haze of pregnancy because of the complete miracle that it really is. I love it. I did last time, I do now, and I hope to repeat it again in the future.
Thing is, I just have too much love in my heart for my little burgeoning family to ever be in a standard box. It tends to radiate from my pores. Makes me feel really calm and content with the world. And I hope that we’re lucky enough to have as many kids as we feel we want, in order to give them all that kind of life, full of love and sweetness and hope and adventure.
So, to all the judgers: assume all you want. I’ll live my perfect the best I can, and you live yours.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
But it doesn't look any different.
Men don't get hair.
They think that women can just pop into a salon, say to the stylist "this. I want THIS", and be done in 30 minutes.
Some women can.
I am not one of those women.
I've had terrible luck with stylists, colourists...for the life of me, I have not found one damn person who understands my hair and what I want to do with it. I have thick, long-layered, wavy, past my shoulders hair that's dry, has a mind of its own, and has a chocolatey brown colour to it.
no, I don't want stripey highlights.
no, I don't want a drastic colour change.
yes, I want you to have more than 3 months' experience doing this kind of thing.
no, I don't want to be sold 35 products that will "change" the lifespan of my colour.
Just DO it like I want you to. Is that so much to ask?
So, I've been growing out my hair, and I haven't had it cut in about 8 months. Quick, free trims, yes. But I don't know a good stylist in London, so I haven't chosen to take the risk. The last one I had is now miles away from where we live, and with a 13-month old in the house now, it takes a bit of military-precision planning to even get 2 hours to myself.
I decided to grab a Saturday and book a few hours for an appointment, including travel time. The mister was doing daddy time until the afternoon, when he had to go into the office, but I'd be back by then. Or so I thought. It all seemed perfect.
I got to the salon, and the lady that usually does my hair had left. They recommended another guy to me. He had no idea what he was doing because he had never done what I had requested before. I stopped him right there, and refused to go any further. The last thing I want is to walk out having paid a decent amount of money and be horrified. No thanks. Been there, done that.
I complained to the manager that booked me in. After almost bursting into tears, they sent me to another salon a few streets away that specialised in colour. Before I left, though, I managed to get a free quick trim, which made me feel a little bit better.
I went to the new salon, told them my dilemma, and as fate would have it, one of their senior colourists was available to direct another stylist in what I wanted.
Then I waited to be seen. As a walk-in, I appreciate that I was lucky to even get a slot on a busy Saturday, but still.... I was well aware tha I was on a time limit, and this little window of mine to get my hair done was getting smaller and smaller. After a few "heads up" texts to home, I still hadn't heard anything. So he was either annoyed, or just busy. Oh well.
Finally I was ushered in and they started to work on me. This is after an hour had passed since I began this dramatic morning. So I absorbed the lastest fashion magazines and tried to relax.
After the first part of the colour, and waiting under a heat lamp for 30 minutes, I was getting it shampooed out of my hair. My 4-months along belly now has a mind of its own and as I was lying there in the chair, the protective robe slipped open and revealed my shirt. I was wearing my favourite Breton-striped shirt that goes with everything. All of a sudden I heard a "oh no" and the colourist was furiously dabbing my shirt with a wet towel. I looked down and saw a big blob of brown dye right on the front of my shirt, plain as day. That's never going to come out, I thought. In her haste to clean it, more dye fell off her glove. I asked her to stop and told her it was pointless, the shirt was ruined. Poor woman was so upset she offered to buy me another shirt (which I accepted, thanks very much... but they don't make them at the store that I bought them anymore).
I tried not to let it get to me and just asked her to keep going, because so far, my hair looked pretty decent, and I was getting what I had wanted, colour-wise. Screw the shirt.
I still needed to burst into tears, though, so I call home and tell the mister what was happening and that he could come into town and bring the baby and I would take over and he could go into the office.
I then proceeded to tell him how upsetting it was that one of my favourite shirts was ruined.
He told me it was just a shirt and to stop freaking out about it and get a grip.
Oh. Okay, then. I forgot that I was talking to a very pragmatic male, and not a girlfriend that would probably sympathise. Oh well.
Cut to 2.5 hours later...
Just to give you an idea about how the rest of the day went...I left the house at 8:30 am and was finally done with my hair at 3pm. 6 hours. 6 HOURS! I was exchausted, both emotionally (feeling upset with how this seems to happen to me every time, and guilty that I spent so long on doing something so superficial) and physically (sitting in one place isn't exactly my favourite thing to do). However, I was happy with my results, albeit very subtle. Without posting a picture of myself, here's roughly what it looks like:
The mister and the little miss finally met me at the salon so we could do the handover.
And you know the first thing he says to me after my 6-hour marathon of drama and ruined clothes?
[Squinting] "What exactly did you do to it? Because it doesn't look any different. Everytime you go into a salon, the same thing happens. All this drama about how you want them to do a certain look, and in the end, it doesn't really look like you did anything to it."
"Umm.. does it look nice, though?"
"Sure. It always looks nice."
I repeat. Men really just don't get hair.
They think that women can just pop into a salon, say to the stylist "this. I want THIS", and be done in 30 minutes.
Some women can.
I am not one of those women.
I've had terrible luck with stylists, colourists...for the life of me, I have not found one damn person who understands my hair and what I want to do with it. I have thick, long-layered, wavy, past my shoulders hair that's dry, has a mind of its own, and has a chocolatey brown colour to it.
no, I don't want stripey highlights.
no, I don't want a drastic colour change.
yes, I want you to have more than 3 months' experience doing this kind of thing.
no, I don't want to be sold 35 products that will "change" the lifespan of my colour.
Just DO it like I want you to. Is that so much to ask?
So, I've been growing out my hair, and I haven't had it cut in about 8 months. Quick, free trims, yes. But I don't know a good stylist in London, so I haven't chosen to take the risk. The last one I had is now miles away from where we live, and with a 13-month old in the house now, it takes a bit of military-precision planning to even get 2 hours to myself.
I decided to grab a Saturday and book a few hours for an appointment, including travel time. The mister was doing daddy time until the afternoon, when he had to go into the office, but I'd be back by then. Or so I thought. It all seemed perfect.
I got to the salon, and the lady that usually does my hair had left. They recommended another guy to me. He had no idea what he was doing because he had never done what I had requested before. I stopped him right there, and refused to go any further. The last thing I want is to walk out having paid a decent amount of money and be horrified. No thanks. Been there, done that.
I complained to the manager that booked me in. After almost bursting into tears, they sent me to another salon a few streets away that specialised in colour. Before I left, though, I managed to get a free quick trim, which made me feel a little bit better.
I went to the new salon, told them my dilemma, and as fate would have it, one of their senior colourists was available to direct another stylist in what I wanted.
Then I waited to be seen. As a walk-in, I appreciate that I was lucky to even get a slot on a busy Saturday, but still.... I was well aware tha I was on a time limit, and this little window of mine to get my hair done was getting smaller and smaller. After a few "heads up" texts to home, I still hadn't heard anything. So he was either annoyed, or just busy. Oh well.
Finally I was ushered in and they started to work on me. This is after an hour had passed since I began this dramatic morning. So I absorbed the lastest fashion magazines and tried to relax.
After the first part of the colour, and waiting under a heat lamp for 30 minutes, I was getting it shampooed out of my hair. My 4-months along belly now has a mind of its own and as I was lying there in the chair, the protective robe slipped open and revealed my shirt. I was wearing my favourite Breton-striped shirt that goes with everything. All of a sudden I heard a "oh no" and the colourist was furiously dabbing my shirt with a wet towel. I looked down and saw a big blob of brown dye right on the front of my shirt, plain as day. That's never going to come out, I thought. In her haste to clean it, more dye fell off her glove. I asked her to stop and told her it was pointless, the shirt was ruined. Poor woman was so upset she offered to buy me another shirt (which I accepted, thanks very much... but they don't make them at the store that I bought them anymore).
I tried not to let it get to me and just asked her to keep going, because so far, my hair looked pretty decent, and I was getting what I had wanted, colour-wise. Screw the shirt.
I still needed to burst into tears, though, so I call home and tell the mister what was happening and that he could come into town and bring the baby and I would take over and he could go into the office.
I then proceeded to tell him how upsetting it was that one of my favourite shirts was ruined.
He told me it was just a shirt and to stop freaking out about it and get a grip.
Oh. Okay, then. I forgot that I was talking to a very pragmatic male, and not a girlfriend that would probably sympathise. Oh well.
Cut to 2.5 hours later...
Just to give you an idea about how the rest of the day went...I left the house at 8:30 am and was finally done with my hair at 3pm. 6 hours. 6 HOURS! I was exchausted, both emotionally (feeling upset with how this seems to happen to me every time, and guilty that I spent so long on doing something so superficial) and physically (sitting in one place isn't exactly my favourite thing to do). However, I was happy with my results, albeit very subtle. Without posting a picture of myself, here's roughly what it looks like:
The mister and the little miss finally met me at the salon so we could do the handover.
And you know the first thing he says to me after my 6-hour marathon of drama and ruined clothes?
[Squinting] "What exactly did you do to it? Because it doesn't look any different. Everytime you go into a salon, the same thing happens. All this drama about how you want them to do a certain look, and in the end, it doesn't really look like you did anything to it."
"Umm.. does it look nice, though?"
"Sure. It always looks nice."
I repeat. Men really just don't get hair.
Friday, 12 November 2010
There. But not.
Ever felt like you're in a moment but watching it unfold outside of yourself?
Sort of like... standing in front of the Taj Mahal and saying "hmm. that's nice."
I've noticed this lately.
It's not an apathy, it's more of a functional numbness. As if the activity I'm doing is too precious for me to understand how to absorb it. How to manage it. How to immerse myself in it.
I was giving her some warm milk last night, and as she fed, lying in my arms in the semi-darkness, poking my face and touching my hands, you know what I was thinking? Hmm..wonder what I'll make for dinner later.. wonder when he'll get home tonight.. crap, I have to put the laundry on... did I vacuum her rug today... oh man, I so could just use 10 minutes to myself with a nice cup of coffee and the paper...oh, I feel flutters in my stomach, someone's swimming around in there, how amazing is that.. I'm so lucky...
And then the guilt sets in, and I force myself to be there, shake myself out of my selfish thoughts and be in the moment. With her. It's not fair to do otherwise, because I'll miss these moments when she's older and doesn't need to lie in my arms anymore.
So I correct myself and tune into her. But I feel a bit numb. I look at her and I realise that I helped make this beautiful little creature, with her curved mouth, her full cheeks, her dark green eyes and long lashes... and she's growing up. Too fast. But the combination of all of these thoughts make my brain go thhppppppttt.....bzzzt. Like screen static on a TV.
You see what happens? I go from a 5-lane highway of my own thoughts about my life, to a jumbled mess of thoughts about her, her life.
There is no quiet. No sense of peace within the moment.
I wonder why that is. I know it's not because I don't love her enough. I love her so much that it's painful, sometimes. Is it a coping mechanism so that your heart doesn't explode from too much love? Is it the same kind of coping mechanism when you try and tune out the monotonous bored whines when they're strapped into a buggy and you just want to stuff earplugs in your ears and tell them to just. be. quiet?
Hmm.
I'm there with her, I am. Really. But sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I think I could be better. More present. More affectionate. More motherly. Less functional and schedule-oriented.
And maybe this is the lesson that children teach their parents. Maybe through the next 5 years of children and pregnancies and chaos and sleep deprivation, the most important lesson that I'll learn is to be present. At each and every moment.
To just be.
Sort of like... standing in front of the Taj Mahal and saying "hmm. that's nice."
I've noticed this lately.
It's not an apathy, it's more of a functional numbness. As if the activity I'm doing is too precious for me to understand how to absorb it. How to manage it. How to immerse myself in it.
I was giving her some warm milk last night, and as she fed, lying in my arms in the semi-darkness, poking my face and touching my hands, you know what I was thinking? Hmm..wonder what I'll make for dinner later.. wonder when he'll get home tonight.. crap, I have to put the laundry on... did I vacuum her rug today... oh man, I so could just use 10 minutes to myself with a nice cup of coffee and the paper...oh, I feel flutters in my stomach, someone's swimming around in there, how amazing is that.. I'm so lucky...
And then the guilt sets in, and I force myself to be there, shake myself out of my selfish thoughts and be in the moment. With her. It's not fair to do otherwise, because I'll miss these moments when she's older and doesn't need to lie in my arms anymore.
So I correct myself and tune into her. But I feel a bit numb. I look at her and I realise that I helped make this beautiful little creature, with her curved mouth, her full cheeks, her dark green eyes and long lashes... and she's growing up. Too fast. But the combination of all of these thoughts make my brain go thhppppppttt.....bzzzt. Like screen static on a TV.
You see what happens? I go from a 5-lane highway of my own thoughts about my life, to a jumbled mess of thoughts about her, her life.
There is no quiet. No sense of peace within the moment.
I wonder why that is. I know it's not because I don't love her enough. I love her so much that it's painful, sometimes. Is it a coping mechanism so that your heart doesn't explode from too much love? Is it the same kind of coping mechanism when you try and tune out the monotonous bored whines when they're strapped into a buggy and you just want to stuff earplugs in your ears and tell them to just. be. quiet?
Hmm.
I'm there with her, I am. Really. But sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I think I could be better. More present. More affectionate. More motherly. Less functional and schedule-oriented.
And maybe this is the lesson that children teach their parents. Maybe through the next 5 years of children and pregnancies and chaos and sleep deprivation, the most important lesson that I'll learn is to be present. At each and every moment.
To just be.
Thursday, 28 October 2010
I need a transporter.
My commute to work is getting harder.
The winter has set in in London, which means that when I leave the house at 7:15, it's still dark out. When I come home, it's dark out.
I'm lucky if I manage to wrestle into the train car amongst all the puffy coats, umbrellas, newspapers and elbows askew.
It gets so hot on the train that I take all my layers off.
I transfer to another train halfway to work. And I don't get a seat on that one either.
Before I get out of the train station, I put all my layers back on.
All of that takes about 50 minutes, and then I walk to my office (10 minutes).
I do this trip twice a day, because I love to work and I love my job. Plus, it's pretty entertaining people-watching on the train. I always make up stories about them in my head.. I wonder who's just broken up with her boyfriend... I wonder who has kids... I wonder who has something stolen in their bag... I wonder if that guy likes his job...I wonder if she's going on a trip somewhere soon..
But people-games aside, it's getting exhausting, especially being pregnant. Yes, yes... mama's a-cookin' again. Life is very exciting at the moment. And very hormonal.
I fantasize about living in a country house in a small country village, walking to work and walking back. And getting some farm fresh produce on the way home, for dinner.
Then I realise that I don't exist in a Norman Rockwell painting. I did when I was growing up, but I don't now. Someday, maybe. But for now, I hope I get a transporter for Christmas.
Monday, 25 October 2010
It's been a year.
To the girl who takes me on new adventures, determined and full of wonder.
My heart has never known this much love.
Happy birthday, my magical creature.
My heart has never known this much love.
Happy birthday, my magical creature.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
I want. I don't need.... but I want.
I'm slipping into this new, strange phase. Consumerism. Specifically "things" that make me sound highly materialistic: Shoes. New clothes. Scarves. A new coat.
Is it because my birthday came and went, I spent the money going to a salon and got my hair glossed and taken care of... and it started me down a dangerous path of more more more?
Is it because my hormones are going nuts?
Is it because I want to be selfish and not just think about kids and family all the time?
Is it because I work hard at being a mother and I feel I deserve it somehow?
All of the above, probably.
See, the thing is (calculated justification coming up....), I actually need a nice pair of black boots for winter. Leather. Riding-boot style. Something that goes over jeans or with skirts. Flat heel. I have a pair of brown, faded beat up boots that I've worn with everything, and a different colour would be nice. And my fake-Uggs have a hole in the bottom of them.
I don't have brown shoes. I really want a nice pair to wear with jeans. Wearing Converse all the time is okay, but it would nice nice not to look like I'm 15 sometimes.
I want a big, wooly scarf. A lovely huge one that I can wrap around my neck like a big wooly blanket. A beige one, ideally.
Okay. I let it all out. It feels nice to confess my want, though I always feel guilty for doing so. Our money needs to be spent on other things at the moment, but I can't help but ache for just a few things to tide me over for the winter. It's perversely a constant reminder of how careless I used to be about money, flitting here and there, buying things that I wanted, indulging my desire for pretty things. Most were good purchases. Some were impulse. It's the opposite of how I deal with money nowadays.
Maybe it's intrinsically vain for me to say "but I deserve it because I work so hard and I don't really spend money on me!" I don't really have a right to say that. The mister works damn hard at his job, but he never says "hey, I work 16 hour days every day, I need that shirt!!".
Maybe it's a woman thing. Maybe I shouldn't compare myself to anyone else. Maybe it's okay to want something you know you can't afford, because it makes you appreciate the stuff that you do have, and makes you reinvent how you use/wear things.
Or maybe I should just raise my hand and say out loud: "Hi. I'm Myshka. I have a mild obsession with shopping, and I make no apologies for it. Pleased to meet you. And I really like your shoes."
Is it because my birthday came and went, I spent the money going to a salon and got my hair glossed and taken care of... and it started me down a dangerous path of more more more?
Is it because my hormones are going nuts?
Is it because I want to be selfish and not just think about kids and family all the time?
Is it because I work hard at being a mother and I feel I deserve it somehow?
All of the above, probably.
See, the thing is (calculated justification coming up....), I actually need a nice pair of black boots for winter. Leather. Riding-boot style. Something that goes over jeans or with skirts. Flat heel. I have a pair of brown, faded beat up boots that I've worn with everything, and a different colour would be nice. And my fake-Uggs have a hole in the bottom of them.
I don't have brown shoes. I really want a nice pair to wear with jeans. Wearing Converse all the time is okay, but it would nice nice not to look like I'm 15 sometimes.
I want a big, wooly scarf. A lovely huge one that I can wrap around my neck like a big wooly blanket. A beige one, ideally.
Okay. I let it all out. It feels nice to confess my want, though I always feel guilty for doing so. Our money needs to be spent on other things at the moment, but I can't help but ache for just a few things to tide me over for the winter. It's perversely a constant reminder of how careless I used to be about money, flitting here and there, buying things that I wanted, indulging my desire for pretty things. Most were good purchases. Some were impulse. It's the opposite of how I deal with money nowadays.
Maybe it's intrinsically vain for me to say "but I deserve it because I work so hard and I don't really spend money on me!" I don't really have a right to say that. The mister works damn hard at his job, but he never says "hey, I work 16 hour days every day, I need that shirt!!".
Maybe it's a woman thing. Maybe I shouldn't compare myself to anyone else. Maybe it's okay to want something you know you can't afford, because it makes you appreciate the stuff that you do have, and makes you reinvent how you use/wear things.
Or maybe I should just raise my hand and say out loud: "Hi. I'm Myshka. I have a mild obsession with shopping, and I make no apologies for it. Pleased to meet you. And I really like your shoes."
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