Posts Tagged ‘parenting’
Tonight I am sitting on a panel for an event hosted by the Female Empowerment Network. We will be discussing whether women can have it all and stay sane, a hot topic for Mental Health Awareness Week. It seemed the perfect excuse to re-publish this letter, which originally appeared in Bristol Woman magazine…
Thank you for not judging me. But for listening, and nodding without telling me I was being silly. You never tried to fix me. You never tried to change me. You knew I was ill and you knew I’d get better. Even when I doubted I even wanted to.
Thank you for not abandoning me. For sticking by me even though I wasn’t very nice to be around, or easy to communicate with. For spending time with me when I couldn’t be alone. And for leaving me in peace when I needed the isolation.
Thank you for accommodating my paranoia without making me feel paranoid. You made the impossible seem possible and made me feel safe. You allowed me time to process decisions and events and protected me when I was unable to think clearly enough to do even the simplest of things.
Thank you for feeding me. And for making sure my children were fed when I was trapped on the sofa unable to move for fear of waking the baby. For the take away meals and cups of tea. For the juice and the dark chocolate.
Thank you for understanding why you couldn’t hold the baby. Or that you had to hold the baby when I couldn’t anymore. For getting why I cancelled plans and hid away. For still phoning even when I wouldn’t answer the phone or return your texts.
Thank you for calming me down when I couldn’t breathe. For never telling me I needed to pull myself together or that I was crazy. For staying strong when I was weak. For being patient.
Thank you for coming with me to the doctors and talking to them honestly about how I was behaving. For not showing your fear. For looking after me. For loving me.
Thank you for still being my friend, my mum, my husband, my family.
Thank you for giving me hope.
Love, me x
Overeaction: To react with unnecessary or inappropriate force, emotional display, or violence.
There was a gif on social media last week that had a man laughing with the words, ‘for every male reaction there is a female overreaction.’ And yes, yes unsurprisingly this angered me. It was a man rolling his eyes at all women and branding us drama queens and emotional wrecks who flip at the smallest of things. And maybe in some way I proved him right by feeling annoyed by it, but the main thing I thought was, has nothing changed? Are women still viewed as these highly strung and hugely emotive, sensitive little souls?
And then I went to Blogfest16 and was proved very wrong. Women are not meek, they are not mild and as Shappi Khorsandi said, they ‘are running the world.’ There were amazingly engaging panels filled with inspirational women talking about issues in a measured and thought provoking way. The panel sessions discussed female presence on line, looked at campaigns strong women have led and are leading and talked about finding your voice when others want to silence you. And yes, by ‘others’ the speakers often meant men, because in their experience it always was white men who were trying to silence them. White men who send threatening tweets and attempt to make these women disappear through fear, by sending vile tweets or leaving hideous comments often attacking the women and their children. Miranda Sawyer described them as drunk men in a pub who should be left well alone, and I agree.
But I also agree that not all men are like this, and that sadly the many who are ruin it for the good ones. But yesterday the good ones joined in. They criticised a phenomenal event for not acknowledging them. They were upset by the ‘man bashing,’ and whilst I concur that bringing men down is never a way to thrust women up, the attacks weren’t personal. They were in context, they were real. Damn right Jess Phillips MP should get cross when asked if her husband is going to ‘babysit’ their children. And hell yes Sara Khan should bash the men who threatened to gang rape her in every orifice.
Mumsnet’s tagline is ‘parenting for parents’ and I know, I KNOW that means everyone – for there are many different people who come under that umbrella – but the event was headlined by big female names and many of the sessions were clearly focussed on women and were obviously going to have a strong feminist vibe. And if you were a man and you attended those sessions then I am not sure what else you expected. And it makes me angry that in an environment that should have been a safe space for women to come together and support each other and scream loud and clear about inequality (many of us technically working for free now until 2017 thanks to the delightful gender pay gap) and for me that was tarnished by the men who felt they weren’t acknowledged or catered for.
The friend I went with is running a blog for her business. She is not a mummy blogger and she knew full well that in some of the sessions she would have to work hard to take what she was listening to and adapt it for her purpose. She expected it to be pro female and strongly feminist, trusted the strong line up, and wasn’t disappointed.
Why couldn’t the male attendees do the same? Of course Mumsnet are going to target the majority of the audience and they do not need the men there, or indeed at home in their own little filter bubble, criticising the event for not meeting their expectations.
Every day women are made to feel vulnerable and repressed and out of place in their lives or not good enough. Women have jobs purely because companies need to tick a box and employ a certain number of females. Mothers are made to feel inadequate for staying at home and raising children. They are over looked for jobs they could be awesome at if there’s a man interviewing next to them. If they judge critically they are seen as moaners, if they are unhappy they will be criticised for saying so.
Sara Khan rightly said that there is ‘nothing more dangerous than a female with an opinion,’ and last night on Twitter she was proved right after I attempted to point out the hypocrisy of a tweet only to then be called a hypocrite myself, with my point being completely twisted and misinterpreted. I was not belittling daddy bloggers. I was not turning everyday sexism around and being sexist. I was not saying men were not welcome at Blogfest. I was trying to point out how this is how women feel ALL the bloody time and get shot down for fighting against it. That isn’t hypocritical. That is the exact opposite. Why the hell we can’t have an event for women about women without having a man complaining about it and trying to turn it into something it isn’t destined to be is enraging. We do not need men taking over everything. I think women would like to keep certain things just for themselves. And damn right they should to.
Blogfest16 for me was diverse, thought provoking and inspiring and I think women are even more wonderful now than I did this time yesterday.
And that is what I am going to hold on to. And I know I am not overreacting when I say that women, we really can rule the world.
This all looks very exciting. I’m thrilled to be taking my boys to the Gromit making session. Sign up now, it’s free!
13th September 2016
Kids of all ages can have gripping Encounters with cinema in Bristol
The programme for the 2016 Encounters Short Film and Animation Festival features special screenings for children and teenagers plus hands-on workshops where you can make your own version of Aardman Animations’ favourite characters.
The festival, which runs from 20th to 25th September at the Watershed in Bristol, features special sessions of family-friendly films. Using a unique approach, organisers asked children to review a selection of films and pick their favourites to be shown at Encounters, so all the movies have been already approved by younger audiences.
On Saturday 24th from 9.30am an hour of films for those aged seven and over will be shown. These include First Snow, the story of a curious hedgehog trying to find his way home in winter, and Wolf, the tale of ballet-loving carnivore looking for somewhere to practice in the woods.
Later day, from 11am, teenagers aged 14 and over can enjoy a programme of films reviewed and selected by those of the same age. This collection includes Ollie Boy, the story of Paris resident Malick who skateboards all day and dreams of escaping to America.
As well as these carefully-selected short films and animations aimed at different age groups, younger festival-goers can get hands-on to construct their own version of an Aardman Animations’ favourite.
On Saturday September 24th at 3pm an Aardman expert will be on hand to help children, accompanied by an adult, make their own Shaun the Sheep to take home. This workshop is free but tickets must be booked in advance. There will also be a workshop for making another Aardman character – Gromit – at 1pm the same day.
The two workshops are part of the festival’s way of marking 40 years of Aardman’s incredible movie making. On Tuesday 20th September Aardman’s co-founders Peter Lord and David Sproxton will make a rare joint public appearance to look back at their films, which have thrilled cinema audiences for the past four decades.
Tickets for Encounters cost £4.50 for anyone under 24, with adult tickets costing £6, £5.50 concessions. For a full programme for Encounters, which features more than 40 live events and 100 films, see encounters-festival.org.uk
When do we start planning the lives of our children? Is it when we conceive? Or is it earlier than that? Does everyone, unconsciously at least, absorb events, feelings, hopes and dreams, and hold them in a tiny part of their brains ready to transmit to those they may give birth to.
We may think, as a stroppy teenager, angry at the world that we will never speak to our children in the way our parents do to us. Or we will find a love in something so powerful that it absolutely has to be passed down to our children so they can exact the same pleasure we have from it.
However the hopes and wishes for our children manifest themselves in our minds there is always one enduring want – for them to be healthy. You often hear people comment when asked, probably for the millionth time, ‘Do you know what you’re having?’ that they don’t care as long as ‘it’s’ healthy.
And so, what happens, when your child isn’t healthy when they are born? Or are diagnosed with a life changing disease when they are still young and vulnerable? Do your ideals for their lives flash before your eyes, like time is said to do when on your deathbed? Do visions of what could’ve been dance and flicker before you when dealt with such a hand?
I should know. I should know because I have been there. I am that mum. I have sick children. And ever since their diagnosis I have been struggling to find the right way of describing how our lives have changed. How what we thought was before us was snatched and tarnished with the threat of a life changing and life threatening illness.
And until now I have found no way to explain how that feels. What their diagnosis has done to them, to my husband and I and to our family, who are all affected. But then, two nights ago, I watched a documentary on the Aurora Borealis, where the night sky is lit up by the most beautiful, natural lights in an awesome show of colour. And it got me thinking. Whenever I see the lights in photos, or on the television, they fill me with pleasure. One day I’d love to see them for real and experience nature at its most awe inspiring.
The journey there wouldn’t, of course, be stress free. Especially if I went with the children. There would be arguments along the way. We’d be oh so very tired when we got there, but would marvel at the relative ease with which we are now able to travel around the world. We’d laugh at the time our suitcases went missing and have fond memories of the time we caught a plane for our honeymoon and talked about doing this, seeing the Northern Lights, with our family complete. We’d be making the journey with a multitude of other people from all different countries and backgrounds. And there’d be a plan. A guide telling us what we needed to look out for and the best times to travel and see them. It would be an adventure and one that we would all be on together, with other people who, like us, would want to offer their children the very best experiences in life.
And then I took this dream and put it out of context. For not everyone gets to go to see the lights, even though they may want to. Some people are forced to watch fireworks instead. Something that is noisy, artificial, and dangerous. Fireworks have the ability to wow and hurt at the same time. They are not predictable. There isn’t just one destination where they can be seen – they are not always let off at the same time and in the same place.
My family wanted to see the Aurora Borealis, but instead we’ve been singled out to observe the fireworks. At first we watched from afar, not wanting to be herded in with the other people there. We watched the different colours and patterns and oohed and ahhed. But all the while believing this wasn’t go to be all we were going to see forever. We’d be allowed to go to the lights at some point. But then, over time, we were pushed deeper into the crowd. It didn’t matter if we closed our eyes to shut out the bright, artificial lights, or the noise – the fireworks were still there. And they had the ability to catch us off guard. Make us jump, like when a firework is set off at 5pm on the first of April instead of 5th November after it’s dark.
And fireworks burn. Scar. Leave you with physical injuries that, although they aren’t painful and raw forever, remain as a reminder of what happened and where you are. Where you can’t escape.
Some people in the crowd walk away from the fireworks. You can hear them scream, ‘I didn’t sign up for this shit,’ and as it’s all a bit loud and unpredictable, they go. To where I don’t know for I don’t believe you can fully ever leave the fireworks once you’ve been forced to go to the show. There’s always someone nearby ready to set one off and rock your world once more. It can be peaceful for a time, but never for ever.
And so at the moment, this is where my family is. We are repeatedly being surprised by loud noises and sudden fires, and even though we’ve remained relatively unscathed so far, it’s been bloody hard work. We have to tend to the field where the firework show is daily, and it’s tough fighting the fire to make sure we don’t get burnt. But we are doing it. We’re getting used to this new future. This new place we find ourselves in. The Firework Show. And The Northern Lights and all the hope and wonder they would’ve brought remain a distant memory. Nature has played us this cruel hand instead.
And all the while, the most important thing is to make sure the children enjoy the show. That not for one minute do they feel they are missing out on something more spectacular. So we embrace the show, buy them sparklers and candyfloss and take them on every single ride we can.
They know no different and for as long as I am fighting fireworks, I will fight to keep it that way.
Relentlessness: a good word for describing something that’s harsh, unforgiving, and persistent, like the hot sun in the desert, or a cold that keeps you in bed for days with a nose like a strawberry. When you’re relentless about something, you mean business.
Being a mum to poorly children, as I’ve said many time before, is not easy. It comes with a whole heap of extra anxiety and guilt and is an endless cycle of hospital visits, frantic emergency appointments as well as cancelling of plans and much needed escapes.
I’m that mum. The mum who doesn’t want to always dominate coffee mornings or evenings out with the talk of the responsibility and stress I face every day. The mum who quietly gets on with physiotherapy, organises hospital appointments, dishes out medicines like sweets, calms fears, soothes pains, and rarely asks for help. I know many parents all do this, but it is relentless when you have children with genetic illnesses. The fear doesn’t ever go away. Not when you are living with a life changing and life limiting diagnosis.
And in my case it isn’t for one child, but two. Double the responsibility. Double the anxiety. Double the fear.
And as the mum it is hard. I have a firm grasp of their diagnosis and treatment and so when people talk to me about my boys I’m often seen as the expert, the doctor, not the mum who has sick children. I don’t want to talk about them in terms of statistics or medical data. I don’t want to be told I’m being a great physiotherapist/nurse and meeting their needs. I want to be held close and allowed to freak the fuck out because I’m bloody terrified.
For four years I faced doctors on a regular basis, my instincts telling me that my middle child was desperately poorly, only to be told he had a dairy allergy, asthma, reflux. I had medicines thrown at me and at one point her was on a cocktail of seven different meds daily. None of it helped and whilst he was wasting away and vomiting thick yellowy-grey phlegm several times a day whilst coughing his guts up all night his right lung was slowly dying. And by the time I was properly listened to it was too late. And it could not be saved.
And that hangs over me constantly. That fear that somewhere in their tiny, fragile bodies, irreversible damage is being done.
I watch other mums at the school gates, worried about their child’s spelling test or whether or not they’ve been put up a reading level and I wish I was one of them. Because I stand there and worry about whether his temperature will spike during the day. Whether his medicines are working. Whether I’ve made him do enough physiotherapy to clear the mucus from his lungs. Whether anyone on the class has been sent to school ‘calpolled up’ full of a nasty bug that could destroy his remaining lung. Whether he is looking skinnier than his classmates and what I can feed him to bulk him out and give him strength more. Whether he’ll be able to keep up when they play in the playground at lunchtime. Whether my phone will go during the day to tell me he is unwell or has been sick. Whether he is happy and enjoying his childhood enough in spite of all the crap he has to face.
When someone says their child is poorly I feel unreasonable anger that their child probably just has a cold and will be ok with some love and a day or two off school. And then I feel guilty for being such a bitch. Because I don’t have the monopoly on sick children.
Being that mum, the one with the sick children is hard. Trying to be normal and accept it is hard. Trying not to wish that it wasn’t your children is hard.
Trying not to scream everyday that is so shittingly unfair is hard.
Maybe a return to blogging every now and again, to purge my brain of all this crap, may just very well be the answer…
Blame: feel or declare that (someone or something) is responsible for a fault or wrong.
2016 was meant to be a tad more positive than 2015 was for me, but several days in and I already doubt whether that’s even possible. Not because of my situation or circumstance, but because of the general anger that appears to be gripping the majority of people I come into contact with.
I’ve been noticing it building for a while. There have been more incidents of unnecessary road rage. Politeness is becoming a fast declining quality. People everywhere seem to begrudge everything and lack any kind of empathy for anyone other than themselves. I know everyone has stresses in their lives, but that doesn’t justify taking it out on some poor unsuspecting person who undoubtedly has their own crap going on. But how did we get here? How did everyone end up so angry?
Maybe the culture of blame, which has been developing over many years, is an important part of how this has happened. The media and its scaremongering propaganda feed on blame. There’s always someone or something to blame for the atrocities the world is facing. No responsibility. No justification for the blame, but blame nonetheless. Making people feel hard done by, put upon, unlucky. Confirmation bias then bonds people through mutual annoyance. Who even cares what they are annoyed about or why they were annoyed in the first place? It’s not their fault they are annoyed. They are not in charge of their own destiny. Hell no. And then, pretty soon, bad things become expected. Looked for even. And worse case – you end up having no one to blame but yourself.
I listened to the news on the radio last week, to a piece about the sex attacks in Cologne. Women, it would seem, are expected to prepare for such things mentally as if they are a given and destined to happen. It was implied that in a crowded place where everyone is fuelled by alcohol what more could these women have expected? Of course they were going to be assaulted and if they cannot deal with that then it was their fault for not being prepared mentally for such an event. And if they were then affected by being assaulted it’s their fault for not having expected it. Or the fault of the government who, the news are reporting, have let the men into the country as asylum seekers. And whom do they blame? The culture they were brought up in where rape is committed and not talked about. Or the bombers who have destroyed their once safe home.
There are more examples of blame in the news – the gender pay gap makes you depressed, it’s what you get for being a woman and having children. Magazines on shelves and celebrity DVDs blame you, yes you, for being fat and unhealthy. The government is to blame for education being messed up and the NHS being on the brink of collapse – ok, I’ll give you that one, you’re perfectly entitled to be enraged by both of those things. But I bet you still blame the government. Right?
Blame isn’t healthy. When you blame you hold on to emotions and feelings that are never positive. Of course you may think that if you blame another it absolves you of all guilt, but it will eat away at you nonetheless. Blame serves no purpose and – back to my original paragraph – makes people angry. And angry people make other people angry. It’s a vicious cycle.
And yes…yes there are some things in life that will make you angry. And justifiably so. I’m still pissed off my dad died when I was twenty-two, and I am fuming that two of my children will have to live their lives blighted by an incurable genetic illness, but if I let that anger absorb me then it would destroy me and many others along the way. Life is too short. There are some circumstances where you can choose to be angry, or choose to see things in an alternative light. It’s not as hard as it sounds to make a change. It could be something simple, it just requires a change of mindset. What is harder is accepting the things that we can’t change and have no control over. In those cases anger is an understandable emotion, but it doesn’t have to be a way of life.
I’ve learnt that the hard way…and in all fairness…who can blame me?
Opinion: In general, an opinion is a judgment, viewpoint, or statement about matters commonly considered to be subjective.
There was, as you are all undoubtedly aware and completely unsurprised about, another Twitter debate that involved/angered a large proportion of tweeps earlier this week.
And I watched and read every tweet with interest. Just as I did after the election.
But not just because of what the debate/argument was about, but more to see how it played out.
You see, I have been involved in many debates of the last few months, mostly during university sessions, and I have become fascinated by the way in which they work. People have always interested me and I always try and look behind the bravado and the words and to work out why they are saying or behaving in the manner with which they are.
Usually it’s about what has happened to them. Their past and all of the many varied experiences they have had which culminate in this thing we call an ‘opinion’.
And, more often than not, when people no longer have a valid argument or line with which they can follow, their response is ‘well it’s my opinion and I’m entitled to it.’
I think it’s that word that sits uncomfortably here. What makes someone ‘entitled’ to something? And does being entitled to an opinion qualify it and protect it from attack?
Opinions are constructed over time from influences both socially and culturally. For example, natural desires and behaviours corresponding to the female body are born from natural occurrences, whereas feminism stems from cultural constructiveness.
Everyone’s differing points of view are huge bubbling pots of individuality, into which ingredients have been slowly added and combined since each individual was born. In went what their parents thought. Followed by what they heard from their peers. Spoonfuls of ideas gathered from reading magazines, books, and newspapers. A large dollop of what they have watched on the television, or listened to the radio. Snippets soaked up from having travelled to different places peppered with the suffering of a range of illnesses and hardships.
And then…the wonder that is confirmation bias enables people to surround themselves with likeminded people who compound their beliefs. That flavour their opinion soup, so to speak. I mean, having experienced something that means you’re entitled to an opinion on it…right?
But then doesn’t everyone experience everything in a unique way? So won’t each person’s opinion be a different one?
I’m digressing somewhat. Which isn’t a surprise given that I am attempting to discuss something as diverse and complex as this.
Let’s take parenting a newborn as example. You’ll find that everyone has an opinion on that whether they’ve had a baby or not. And, oh, what a variety of opinions on how to handle a newborn there are, some of which are extreme polar opposites. They vary between genders, classes and generations. Instincts are those natural occurrences that feed desires and behaviours whether we are aware of them or not. And then there is the culturally constructed side of parenting. The attachment parents, the cry it outs, to name two. I’m intrigued as to what makes one mum differ so much from another and believe, sometimes vehemently so, that their opinion on how babies should be handled it without doubt the only valid one. It’s like the old nature verses nurture debate. Or…
Nature v Culture. Or…
Naturally occurring v produced. Or…
Natural instinct v human nurture. Or…
Emotion v reason.
I could go on.
The debate this week wasn’t one sided, it wasn’t even two sided, and was almost too complex for me to follow at times. But what I did follow was anger towards someone, who was technically expressing an opinion, a thought, voiced through many differing opinions. There didn’t seem to be any middle ground or initial questioning of the tweet that caused the outrage. There were sweeping statements and judgments and at times became painfully personal.
For me, what there wasn’t enough of was evidence. Some people believe that in order to have an opinion that you are ‘entitled’ to, you don’t only need to have experienced something, but studied it. Learnt the facts. Be able to back up your argument with truths and statistics from reputable sources.
One could argue that your own emotions are a reputable source and that you have an opinion because you wholeheartedly believe it.
Trouble is, those opinions are the easiest to attack and criticise. Not so much opinions, but beliefs maybe.
They are personal. They are individual. And they are real to the person who holds them.
In my opinion, we all need to be a bit more tolerant of those who do not share our views. Especially where those individuals in question are attempting to support and help others.
You are entitled to your own opinions, but what you are not entitled to do, is attack someone else because they don’t share the same ones.
I wrote this post a couple of months ago, and today, on #timetotalk day where everybody is encouraged to take 5 minutes to talk about mental health, I thought I’d temporarily come out of blogging retirement and publish it.
Backwards: (of an object’s motion) back towards the starting point.
So where am I right now. Well, it’s safe to say I’m not somewhere good. It would seem life is handing me more shit and I’m firmly back at square one. Back where I never wanted to be. Except now it’s not post natal depression, it’s just plain old depression. And it fucking sucks.
It all started with a panic attack that came out of no-where and knocked me for six. A few weeks of trying to convince myself and everyone around me that I was fine only served to allow the depression to fully take hold until I couldn’t do anything anymore except take myself back to the doctors and admit it. And now, four days into a brand new batch of antidepressants, I am feeling worse than ever. It’s so cruel that the one medicine that helps cure this evil illness makes you feel a million times worse before you feel any better, and that it can take weeks and even months before you do feel better.
I forgot how much hard work goes in to simply surviving when you feel like this. A shower can feel like a huge achievement, actually managing to leave the house a fucking miracle. My anxiety is at a level I never knew existed and insomnia has taken hold once more. And we all know sleep deprivation is bloody cruel. My body feels like it is on fire and I am battling minute by minute not to let it overwhelm me.
Oh and the guilt. I feel like such a failure for being here again. I feel like I am letting everyone down. My husband, already not fully recovered from the last time I lost it, my children, all now that little bit older and that little bit more aware, and my friends, who have to deal with phone calls and texts at all hours when I can’t get my fears and emotions under control. I feel like a burden to everyone.
I am angry too. Angry that I’m here again. This year has been one of the most challenging in a long time and I thought I was coping well. Turns out that sitting at your desk on a daily basis crying because your job is so horrendously stressful, then leaving said evil job and embarking on a Masters with three demanding children possibly isn’t the best thing to do for good mental health. If only I spoke up more and asked for help and support instead of putting on the smile, being the joker and hiding behind my, often inappropriate, sense of humour. I knew a long time ago I wasn’t right, but refused to admit it or do anything about it. Powering on through really is a load of bollocks at times.
So what now. Well now I will wait for the side effects to go and the tablets to kick in. Thankfully this is the last week of university before we break up for the holidays so once my assignments are handed in on Thursday some of the pressure is temporarily relieved.
I will not let this beat me. I recovered once and I’ll be damned if I can’t recover again.
As you all know I love being a BRITAX Mumbassador! Recently I was lucky enough to be given another amazing opportunity through them, and was sent the new BOB Revolution® PRO to review. It’s a pushchair unlike one I’ve ever had before, and has fast become one of my favourites.
Since reviewing the B-Motion 3 I’ve favoured three wheeled pushchairs, they’re easier to push, and in my opinion a smoother ride. The BOB Revolution® PRO was no exception! Perfect for travelling easily over different terrains it is a dream to control when power walking or running, and is very easy to manoeuvre.
Designed with the busy parent in mind, the new BOB Revolution® PRO stroller is the first pushchair on the market that has a front swivel wheel which is safe and approved for running in the UK and Europe. So you can run to the shops and back all with your little one in tow! It also has hand-activated rear drum brakes and is perfect for using on steep hills!
Things I love about the BOB Revolution® PRO
*Ease: The pushchair is extremely easy to put up and collapse and is one of the easiest systems I’ve seen. By pressing on two leavers and pushing the top of the stroller forwards it neatly folds up, then you can pull up on a handle to place in a car or to where it’s stored. There is a strap and clip to keep it folded down, however I rarely use this as it sits neatly in the boot of my car without needing it to be clasped shut.
*Manoeuvre: As I’ve already mentioned this pushchair is a dream to push, whether you’re walking, power walking or running in sport mode, it is smooth and can easily be pushed and controlled using one hand. Lifting the front wheel up to go up onto a pavement is done using a light touch, and the break on the handlebar offers extra control. Its state-of-the-art adjustable suspension system provides an exceptionally smooth ride. The pushchair has high-impact polymer composite wheels with pneumatic tyres to take on tough terrain. I’ve used it in woodland, on the beach and off road and it has been amazing!
*Extra features: We love the large viewing window on the top of the canopy. I can easily see if my toddler has fallen asleep and he can see me when he needs to. The little pockets at the side of where he sits are also brilliant, allowing me to place a water bottle or snack there ready for when he’d like them so I don’t have to interrupt my walk/run. The canopy is also extra large and perfect letting my toddler snooze in the shade.
What I don’t love about the BOB Revolution® PRO
*Size: Whilst it’s not the largest pram I’ve owned it is quite long and I have regularly found myself accidentally knocking people heels. (which NEVER goes down well) The back two wheels are quite wide and when I have used the pram when shopping I have found it too wide for some stores, knocking several things off the shelves in the process! Perfect in a supermarket though for your post-workout snack shopping!
*Weight: Even though it is a lightweight stroller, for me it still feels quite heavy and cumbersome to lift. It wouldn’t put me off buying the pushchair as the positives outweigh this issue for me. And besides, it’s a pram for fitness fanatics and so lifting it has just become part of my exercise routine! 😉
If you are a busy parent who loves the outdoors I would definitely recommend the BOB Revolution® PRO. It is a brilliant pushchair to use when out and about walking, power walking or running – with the reassurance of knowing your little one is comfortable along the ride!
I was sent the BOB Revolution® PRO to review by BRITAX as part of the Mumbassador Program.
Time Out: Noun: a pause from doing something (as work); “we took a 10-minute break”; “he took time out to recuperate,” respite, break, recess; pause – temporary inactivity.
If you follow me on Twitter you may or may not have noticed my unusual silence of late. I needed some time out, and from life not just Twitter.
I had recently read an article in Psychologies magazine about pleasure that got me thinking – and in it there was the following quote:
‘Our culture teaches a woman to over-give and she ends up depleted, lonely, cranky and victimised. Pleasure is something every woman requires.’
Now this article very much focused on sexual pleasure (don’t worry, we won’t be going there in this post) but it also mentions how pleasure also comes from discovering what brings you fun and joy in your spare time, and that if you do nothing and always wait for others to make you happy, chances are you’ll lead a miserable life.
Now I know that sounds a bit dramatic – and maybe it is – but recently, even though I think myself happier than I’ve ever been before, I am almost certainly not finding many things pleasurable, and have become increasingly downtrodden with the groundhogdayness of life that comes with looking after three small people. Clearing food repeatedly off the floor was becoming beyond boring; doing the laundry, endless loads of laundry, was almost unbearable to the point that there were piles and piles of clothes in my house and I had no idea if they were clean or not; my husband walking in after a hard day at work and casually asking me what was for dinner was increasingly making me want to rip of his man bits, fry them in a little oil and then ram them down his throat. Life had become so repetitive and familiar that I was locked in my own sweet hell, where everything was beginning to irritate me and I was morphing into a spiky ball of built up resentment and frustration.
We all know how hard parenting can be, we all support and listen to each other, yet when really faced with the really of its relentlessness are we truly honest? I know I’m terrible for plastering on my make-up (never seen without it, God forbid!) and casually throwing the phrase ‘I’m fine’ into everyday conversations, when inside I’m screaming ‘no, I’m bloody well not fine, I’ve just had to change the biggest, smelliest nappy with one hand whilst simultaneously emptying the dishwasher with the other and watching my umpteenth cup of coffee go cold. I’ve already had three people burst in on me whilst I’m trying to have a poo and have yet again been faced with the constant ‘why have you got a beard down there mummy?’ question whilst dipping under the shower for five minutes whilst hoping my youngest doesn’t flush himself, or my mobile phone down the toilet.’
Most days, most days I can laugh about all of the above, even when I’ve stupidly given the toddler a packet of Cheerios that he takes great pleasure on firing across the lounge. Or when I run to catch vomit in my hands for the gazillionth time, knowing damn well that it still manages to go absolutely everywhere and then makes my hands stink of sick for days. But last week it had all completely and utterly got on top of me and I was properly fed up. Fed up with feeling like dogsbody that was solely there to make everyone’s life easier, when no-one was making mine simple in any way shape or form – and so I quickly arranged for some time out. Four days in fact of total time out where I went away with my mum somewhere special…somewhere that we disappear to once a year…somewhere that is child and husband free.
I remember as a child how important time out had been for my parents – my dad would regularly go on fishing holidays (he was a keen fly fisherman, often having meetings with a Mr B. R. Owntrout on Friday afternoons!) and my mum would often go away with ‘the girls’ on Butlins fitness weekends. I clearly remember a time that my dad was left with us on one such weekend. He served up dinner, and it was stew…and it was grey…and yes, my brother and I refused to touch it. For years we teased and taunted him unbeknown to us that mum had actually cooked it (mushroom stew, hence the greyness!) and had left it for him to reheat! So I’ve grown up knowing time out is important and maybe that is why I am a firm believer in doing it myself, without any guilt whatsoever…honestly! And when I was away I fully indulged in activities I categorically can’t do with children. It was uplifting, refreshing and so very indulgent. Someone else cooked for me, another did the dishes for me and conversations with my mum were uninterrupted and always complete. I only got up when I needed something and chose to, my sleep was uninterrupted, my coffee was hot, and oh joy of joys I got to pee and shower on my own.
The time away gave me time to think. Having recently turned 37 I’ve been feeling a little uneasy…not a young ‘un anymore my life is very much set on its path, and yet I’ve not been ready for middle age-ness at all. I have very much been feeling feel torn in between two lives, unsure of which step to take next. When young your life is always segmented by different events – you work towards GCSEs, then A-Levels before further education if you so choose. Marriage and babies give you life-changing things to look forward to and your life is broken into different stages; however now I’m settled. My life doesn’t have a next stage as I am having no more children, which in turn means no more maternity leave, just unbroken work for the next few decades. It’s a strange time and one that honestly, hadn’t been sitting well with me. I’ve always been someone who gets bored relatively easily. I feel I need to achieve more than I have. I feel like I need to make every day count, every experience a memorable one and I’ve recently not been very good at living in the moment and being grateful for all I’ve got.
I know I’m so very lucky, several years ago as a young single mother I’d never have dreamt of having a career, a husband and a wonderful family. I’m so blessed to have everything I do, I’ve just been totally determined for it to be perfect. Maybe my need for perfection stems from losing my father when he was just 48, and then a dear friend at the age of just 40 – I don’t take a single minute for granted, but in turn that means my aspirations are often unrealistically high and I strive to meet them, failing often.
However over the last few days I’ve been able to take a step back from my life…and am so much more appreciative for it. I’ve been able to look at things in more perspective and have relished the opportunity to regain my momentum and zest for life. I’ve recognised that bringing up three children is a huge achievement, as is maintaining a successful marriage – which is so very hard at times. I’m proud of the fact that I’ve written a book to support families living with post natal depression and am involved in some wonderfully exciting charity work in this area at the moment. I have an amazing group of friends who are so brilliantly supportive. I may not be going out as much as I used to and I may (definitely) have several more wrinkles than I did ten years ago, but these things now seem so unimportant.
These four days away have been magical, powerful and I feel revitalised. I came home to smiles and cuddles and a husband so exhausted from looking after the children that he fell asleep at half past seven last night. And today? Today I’m back in the swing of being a mum and a housewife. I’m no longer irritable and have an infectious grin across my face. Never has the phrase happy mum = happy family been more true – without doubt everyone is more settled and grounded because of it.
Now where did I leave that cup of coffee….
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