14 Mar 2009 11:24 Mother's Day blogging competition
Mother's Day is looming (22 March in case you didn't know. Well in the UK anyway, in the rest of the world it's in May so don't panic if you're living abroad).
I find Mother's Day an odd thing. I mean besides being a cash cow for Hallmark, why does it exist? Is it to celebrate being a mother and therefore you should spend time with your family revelling in your all singing, all dancing role of MOTHER (or the Mumendant as my ex-military husband likes to call me). OR is it (as I believe it to be) the one sodding day of the year when you don't have to do everything. It's your annual day off. Enjoy it while it lasts.
Except that despite having been a mother for five years now, Mother's Day still seems to belong to my mother and mother-in-law. So instead of lying in bed, being served a delicious breakfast that I won't have to clean up after, followed by a morning of retail therapy washed down with a spa treatment or two, I'll be up in Yorkshire giving my mum-in-law a day like this instead. Only not quite. She, unlike me, won't feel the need for retail therapy or a spa treatment. Because her son is now 41 and to the best of my knowledge, he stopped drawing on walls and hitting people with plastic swords quite some time ago.
So we'll spend the day watching our little boys trash her house, while I help prepare lunch for her. And that's fine. She deserves it. But it comes back to this whole concept of getting a smidgeon of time for yourself every now and then. Which - as some of you now know - is one of the reasons I'm getting five weeks to myself in the middle of the Atlantic later this year. Not quite the same as an aromatherapy massage admittedly - I'll still have no sleep, back breaking work and lots of cooking and cleaning up to do, but there'll probably be less lego involved.
A client of mine, MamaBabyBliss, conducted a survey with mums at the Baby Show late last year. We asked them questions about how much time in any given day they get to themselves. Here are the results:
* 76.6% of mums feel that they neglect themselves in favour of putting their families first
* 60% of mums spend less than 30 minutes on themselves per day
* 25% of mums have a mere 15 minutes or less to themselves per day
* 67.5% of mums said they only treated themselves to a pampering session - like a massage, beauty treatment or long soak in the tub - ‘a few times a year’ or ‘never’
* 93.6% of the mums said that they wish they had more time to pamper themselves
My response to those bulleted items are:
* exactly, which is why I'm finally doing something about it
* I probably spend less than 30 minutes a day on myself - it used to be less than 15 when the boys were younger. Trying to apply mascara with someone tugging on your trouser leg can result in injury.
* I can't remember when last I had a pampering session. My daily treat is a shower in the morning. I used to have the children in the bathroom with me, trying to climb into the shower, flushing each other's heads down the loo, licking the toilet brush, spreading Bob the Builder and his myriad of hard spiky plastic friends across the floor, just waiting in anticipation of my bare feet. All a very relaxing experience. But they've now been trained to stay glued to Cbeebies giving me a blissful ten minutes alone. My bikini line requires a strimmer and my feet last had a pedicure when we last had a hot summer. So some time ago then.
* And yes, yes, yes I wish I had more time to pamper myself. But I don't think I'll be fitting that in this year. Not in the massage type of way anyway.
So in honour of the impending Mother's Day, Justina from MamaBabyBliss, and I are hoping to get a movement going in which mums actually say: Time out! Time to pamper me. We're hosting a Mother's Day Blogging competition.
You write a blog post about the subject of pampering yourself/time to yourself. We don't mind if it's a funny story, a sad tale of woe, some practical tips, your best escape ever - just tell us your 'me time' story. All we ask is that you include a reference (and link) to MamaBabyBliss - you're free to quote the stats. Then send me the link melissa[at]peekaboocoms[dot]co[dot]uk so that I can have a good read.The authors of the first twenty posts I receive will get a bottle of MamaBabyBliss 'Ooh' Bath Soak sent to you (so I'll need your address for that). It's lovely. It smells of lavender. It'll make you drift off to sleep (only to be woken up at 4am no doubt but it'll be good while it lasts).
Then Justina will judge which post she likes best and will send the winner the absolutely gorgeous Mother's Day Gift box worth £40. We've already got entries in so get writing!
And in case I don't have time, a happy mother's day in advance for all the mums out there. May the peace (and quiet) be with you.
I find Mother's Day an odd thing. I mean besides being a cash cow for Hallmark, why does it exist? Is it to celebrate being a mother and therefore you should spend time with your family revelling in your all singing, all dancing role of MOTHER (or the Mumendant as my ex-military husband likes to call me). OR is it (as I believe it to be) the one sodding day of the year when you don't have to do everything. It's your annual day off. Enjoy it while it lasts.
Except that despite having been a mother for five years now, Mother's Day still seems to belong to my mother and mother-in-law. So instead of lying in bed, being served a delicious breakfast that I won't have to clean up after, followed by a morning of retail therapy washed down with a spa treatment or two, I'll be up in Yorkshire giving my mum-in-law a day like this instead. Only not quite. She, unlike me, won't feel the need for retail therapy or a spa treatment. Because her son is now 41 and to the best of my knowledge, he stopped drawing on walls and hitting people with plastic swords quite some time ago.
So we'll spend the day watching our little boys trash her house, while I help prepare lunch for her. And that's fine. She deserves it. But it comes back to this whole concept of getting a smidgeon of time for yourself every now and then. Which - as some of you now know - is one of the reasons I'm getting five weeks to myself in the middle of the Atlantic later this year. Not quite the same as an aromatherapy massage admittedly - I'll still have no sleep, back breaking work and lots of cooking and cleaning up to do, but there'll probably be less lego involved.
A client of mine, MamaBabyBliss, conducted a survey with mums at the Baby Show late last year. We asked them questions about how much time in any given day they get to themselves. Here are the results:
* 76.6% of mums feel that they neglect themselves in favour of putting their families first
* 60% of mums spend less than 30 minutes on themselves per day
* 25% of mums have a mere 15 minutes or less to themselves per day
* 67.5% of mums said they only treated themselves to a pampering session - like a massage, beauty treatment or long soak in the tub - ‘a few times a year’ or ‘never’
* 93.6% of the mums said that they wish they had more time to pamper themselves
My response to those bulleted items are:
* exactly, which is why I'm finally doing something about it
* I probably spend less than 30 minutes a day on myself - it used to be less than 15 when the boys were younger. Trying to apply mascara with someone tugging on your trouser leg can result in injury.
* I can't remember when last I had a pampering session. My daily treat is a shower in the morning. I used to have the children in the bathroom with me, trying to climb into the shower, flushing each other's heads down the loo, licking the toilet brush, spreading Bob the Builder and his myriad of hard spiky plastic friends across the floor, just waiting in anticipation of my bare feet. All a very relaxing experience. But they've now been trained to stay glued to Cbeebies giving me a blissful ten minutes alone. My bikini line requires a strimmer and my feet last had a pedicure when we last had a hot summer. So some time ago then.
* And yes, yes, yes I wish I had more time to pamper myself. But I don't think I'll be fitting that in this year. Not in the massage type of way anyway.
So in honour of the impending Mother's Day, Justina from MamaBabyBliss, and I are hoping to get a movement going in which mums actually say: Time out! Time to pamper me. We're hosting a Mother's Day Blogging competition.
You write a blog post about the subject of pampering yourself/time to yourself. We don't mind if it's a funny story, a sad tale of woe, some practical tips, your best escape ever - just tell us your 'me time' story. All we ask is that you include a reference (and link) to MamaBabyBliss - you're free to quote the stats. Then send me the link melissa[at]peekaboocoms[dot]co[dot]uk so that I can have a good read.The authors of the first twenty posts I receive will get a bottle of MamaBabyBliss 'Ooh' Bath Soak sent to you (so I'll need your address for that). It's lovely. It smells of lavender. It'll make you drift off to sleep (only to be woken up at 4am no doubt but it'll be good while it lasts).
Then Justina will judge which post she likes best and will send the winner the absolutely gorgeous Mother's Day Gift box worth £40. We've already got entries in so get writing!
And in case I don't have time, a happy mother's day in advance for all the mums out there. May the peace (and quiet) be with you.
14 Mar 2009 11:23 Small talk - again
This whole having two blogs and a business to run and a small fund raising mission to complete is all a little time consuming, so this will be brief.
Following on from my last blog post about random conversations with 5 year olds, here was a snippet from today's lastest conversational masterpiece:
"So boys, what do you think daddy will see in America?" (their father's gone there for business this week)
Three year old hears the word America and a lightbulb goes ping in his brain and says: "that man who was the first man to rule America."
Five year old sagely nods, while continuing to shovel dinner into his mouth: "He means Barack Mobama."
"Well remembered both of you," quite gobsmacked that they can remember this, then again they were denied Cbeebies for a full afternoon as I watched the inauguration ceremony so it's probably imprinted on their brains. I do wonder whether Barack Mobama would like to grow a moustache in deference to his new name.
"Can you remember what he's called - what his job is?" I ask.
"He's the president of America," says five year old.
"Well done, yes he is. Do you know what we call the person who runs our country?" I ask ("besides twat," I say under my breath)
"Can't remember," he says.
"He's the Prime Minister. And do you know what our Prime Minister's name is?" I ask again.
"Ummm, no, I think I know but I can't remember," says five year old.
"It's Gordon Brown," I say.
"Oh!" says five year old. "I knew that name, but I thought he was the vicar!"
So there you have it. Based on my son's last conversation about marriage and the fact that God and the vicar get to choose who you marry, it follows that Gordon Brown - being the vicar - can now choose your spouse for you. Now that's what I call a nanny state.
Following on from my last blog post about random conversations with 5 year olds, here was a snippet from today's lastest conversational masterpiece:
"So boys, what do you think daddy will see in America?" (their father's gone there for business this week)
Three year old hears the word America and a lightbulb goes ping in his brain and says: "that man who was the first man to rule America."
Five year old sagely nods, while continuing to shovel dinner into his mouth: "He means Barack Mobama."
"Well remembered both of you," quite gobsmacked that they can remember this, then again they were denied Cbeebies for a full afternoon as I watched the inauguration ceremony so it's probably imprinted on their brains. I do wonder whether Barack Mobama would like to grow a moustache in deference to his new name.
"Can you remember what he's called - what his job is?" I ask.
"He's the president of America," says five year old.
"Well done, yes he is. Do you know what we call the person who runs our country?" I ask ("besides twat," I say under my breath)
"Can't remember," he says.
"He's the Prime Minister. And do you know what our Prime Minister's name is?" I ask again.
"Ummm, no, I think I know but I can't remember," says five year old.
"It's Gordon Brown," I say.
"Oh!" says five year old. "I knew that name, but I thought he was the vicar!"
So there you have it. Based on my son's last conversation about marriage and the fact that God and the vicar get to choose who you marry, it follows that Gordon Brown - being the vicar - can now choose your spouse for you. Now that's what I call a nanny state.
14 Mar 2009 11:23 Bigging up blogs
Blogging is exhausting. It all starts out so simply. A few words bashed out to make some space in your brain. Before you know it, you're replying to comments, making comments, adding blogrolls, linking, meme-ing, reading, reading, reading....often laughing so hard you have a small accident thanks to a non-existent pelvic floor. And sometimes you cry about things that are happening to other people who you don't know at all but can feel their pain from a thousand miles off.
What I love about it is that the people you meet in the blogosphere share real stuff. The kind of stuff that seldom gets discussed at the school gate or coffee mornings. Not even the kind of stuff you share with close real life friends (except after several bottles of wine and you don't really recall any of it in the morning anyway). And even if you did discuss these things in real life, you could never say it quite so eloquently. Blogs are often human poetry.
Take the list of great contributions at the latest Blog Carnival over at Thames Valley Mums. It's a fabulous array of reads that will knock the socks off most TV shows, magazines or even books (then again the books I read most often these days are Chip and Biff books).
It is remarkable how small the world is and how similar we all are. Some people say that blogging and social networking reduce our social skills and our ability to interact with people. That might be true in some regard, but I think it gives many people the chance to be more human. More real. More true to themselves than they ever might be in real life. And I don't see how that can be a bad thing.
Now, I've got some more reading to do...
What I love about it is that the people you meet in the blogosphere share real stuff. The kind of stuff that seldom gets discussed at the school gate or coffee mornings. Not even the kind of stuff you share with close real life friends (except after several bottles of wine and you don't really recall any of it in the morning anyway). And even if you did discuss these things in real life, you could never say it quite so eloquently. Blogs are often human poetry.
Take the list of great contributions at the latest Blog Carnival over at Thames Valley Mums. It's a fabulous array of reads that will knock the socks off most TV shows, magazines or even books (then again the books I read most often these days are Chip and Biff books).
It is remarkable how small the world is and how similar we all are. Some people say that blogging and social networking reduce our social skills and our ability to interact with people. That might be true in some regard, but I think it gives many people the chance to be more human. More real. More true to themselves than they ever might be in real life. And I don't see how that can be a bad thing.
Now, I've got some more reading to do...
14 Mar 2009 11:21 Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!
Why you ask?
Last night son 2 - aged 3.5 - slept without a nappy and kept the bed dry. First time ever.
He normally manages to fill a nappy with so much wee that it leaks. But last night he said he didn't want to wear a nappy. And he was fairly adamant about it.
I was willing to give it a go. He emptied his bladder before bed and I managed to put him on the loo at 10pm (on the few occasions I've tried this before, all of hell's fury has been unleashed by the small boy).
I put him back into bed, crossed my fingers (and his legs) and this morning he woke up DRY!!
Ironically I bought a new pack of pull up nappies yesterday, cursing under my breath that I was still buying sodding nappies, five years on (taking both boys into account).
Now it seems that our nappy days might be over. Small miracles.
Last night son 2 - aged 3.5 - slept without a nappy and kept the bed dry. First time ever.
He normally manages to fill a nappy with so much wee that it leaks. But last night he said he didn't want to wear a nappy. And he was fairly adamant about it.
I was willing to give it a go. He emptied his bladder before bed and I managed to put him on the loo at 10pm (on the few occasions I've tried this before, all of hell's fury has been unleashed by the small boy).
I put him back into bed, crossed my fingers (and his legs) and this morning he woke up DRY!!
Ironically I bought a new pack of pull up nappies yesterday, cursing under my breath that I was still buying sodding nappies, five years on (taking both boys into account).
Now it seems that our nappy days might be over. Small miracles.
14 Mar 2009 11:21 The question of marriage
Can men marry men mummy? asked five year old son yesterday.
Hmmm. Tricky question alert.
"Why do you ask?" I deflected.
"Just because. So can they?"
"It depends on where you live but yes they can, although it's more common for men and women to get married."
"Oh."
"Why? Do think you'd rather marry a man or a woman?"
"A man," he says.
Ok then. He's five and fairly anti girls which might be why .... or not. He has always preferred pink and is a massive Abba fan and did ask for ponies in my pocket for his birthday.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Dunno," he says kicking a football repeatedly against the kitchen cupboard.
More kicking. I slice vegetables for dinner.
"Mummy, do you have to get married?" he starts up again.
"No, you don't," I say.
"What happens when you get married?" he continues.
"Well you see what mummy and daddy do. We live together. We do the chores. We play with you boys. We go on holidays together. We do stuff together because we're married," I attempt.
"No, I mean when you actually get married, at the wedding," he says.
"Oh right. Well that can happen in lots of different ways. Often it's in a church and the lady wears a pretty dress and the man wears a smart suit. All your friends and family are there. You stand in front of the priest..."
"What's a priest?" he interrupts.
"Like Daniel's dad," I explain.
"He's not a priest, he's a vicar," he informs me.
"Right, same sort of thing really. Anyway, you stand in front of the vicar and you make promises to each other about how you will always love each other and look after each other no matter what. And because you're making these promises in a church, you're making the promise to God too, so it's really important that you don't break the promise. And you wear a ring to remind you of the promises you made," I say sounding far more religious than I actually am.
"Oh.." he contemplates.
A few more kicks of the ball.
"Do you get to choose who you want to marry then?" he asks.
"Yes."
"So God and the vicar don't choose?"
"No."
Silence. More kicking.
"Why are you interested in marriage, is it something you talked about at school?" I ask wondering where this is all coming from.
"Just wondered," he said and sauntered off.
What on earth is going on in that small brain? Is this normal five year old conversation?
Hmmm. Tricky question alert.
"Why do you ask?" I deflected.
"Just because. So can they?"
"It depends on where you live but yes they can, although it's more common for men and women to get married."
"Oh."
"Why? Do think you'd rather marry a man or a woman?"
"A man," he says.
Ok then. He's five and fairly anti girls which might be why .... or not. He has always preferred pink and is a massive Abba fan and did ask for ponies in my pocket for his birthday.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Dunno," he says kicking a football repeatedly against the kitchen cupboard.
More kicking. I slice vegetables for dinner.
"Mummy, do you have to get married?" he starts up again.
"No, you don't," I say.
"What happens when you get married?" he continues.
"Well you see what mummy and daddy do. We live together. We do the chores. We play with you boys. We go on holidays together. We do stuff together because we're married," I attempt.
"No, I mean when you actually get married, at the wedding," he says.
"Oh right. Well that can happen in lots of different ways. Often it's in a church and the lady wears a pretty dress and the man wears a smart suit. All your friends and family are there. You stand in front of the priest..."
"What's a priest?" he interrupts.
"Like Daniel's dad," I explain.
"He's not a priest, he's a vicar," he informs me.
"Right, same sort of thing really. Anyway, you stand in front of the vicar and you make promises to each other about how you will always love each other and look after each other no matter what. And because you're making these promises in a church, you're making the promise to God too, so it's really important that you don't break the promise. And you wear a ring to remind you of the promises you made," I say sounding far more religious than I actually am.
"Oh.." he contemplates.
A few more kicks of the ball.
"Do you get to choose who you want to marry then?" he asks.
"Yes."
"So God and the vicar don't choose?"
"No."
Silence. More kicking.
"Why are you interested in marriage, is it something you talked about at school?" I ask wondering where this is all coming from.
"Just wondered," he said and sauntered off.
What on earth is going on in that small brain? Is this normal five year old conversation?
