Five Essential Tips to get through Christmas

I fantasise that Christmas should be a time for love, laughter, mouldy satsumas and long, wooly socks.

Surely, there can be nothing more satisfying than snuggling up on the sofa, the wood-burner blazing, the chestnuts roasting, the children pink-cheeked and Father Christmas on the telly - (god bless Raymond Briggs).

But, in a flash, this homily could turn bloody and dark as relatives totally piss you off and the pile of unwritten Christmas cards begin to haunt your nightly slumber.

So, in an effort to get you through this time of festive cheer and, cajoling, naked, fear, I have composed my top five festive tips: bon chance, mon amies...

1 - Plant a whacking great sunny smile on your face, slap the mazzy on your lashes and get the hell out there; however, super steamed off you are, however, hard your head is banging, however, heavy the bloody shopping is: the rain might be trickling down your neck and the car-parking ticket might cost over £10 quid: its all going to be ok - because you ARE happy. Ok? Just repeat: "I am a joyous festive person who is full of cheer".

2 - I know one should censure the use of alcohol, but it does appear to be restoring my sang-froid this December.  With this in mind; break out the snowballs, make sure the mazzy is ON, and slap that old beamer back on your boat-race; Christmas is the season to be jolly. Get some decent wine in the fridge and enjoy a Christmas drink with your buddies - they will make you feel NORMAL.

3 - As the, actual, day has not yet even appeared, but is slowly, stealthily, creeping towards your tight bucket of sanity (and gently pushing at said bucket) - remember this is the best bit: the build up. The actual day will see you with your arms inside an enormous, naked, pink-fleshed goose, whilst steam and central heating reduce you to a red-faced, middle-aged, old bat with your mazzy sliding down your overly-pink cheeks.

4 - Yes, of course, crack open the credit-card and buy presents for all those cousins, the grandmas and grandpops, the teachers and the husbands - but don't forget to buy a little something gorgeous for YOU - lets face it, no-one else will.

5 - I know I sound miserable and bitter but take joy in this: I do it for YOU - my lovely readers. Have a cracker and for gods sake get out there and bring joy to the world.

Han xxxx

Carb it...

Carbohydrates are fantastically dependable tools when you are raising children.

Potatoes, rice, pasta, bread – each, on their own, the perfect instant staple – but, when paired with something else, say…butter – they become altogether more effective, something far more magical…something delicious.

My children spent a year at École Maternelle, French pre-school; this dousing of a singular Gallic acedemic year left them bemused and confused by another language and entirely frustrated by the lengthy, daily, four-course meals they were served for lunch.

Much to their astonishment, their French, three and four-year old, peers took their time during lunch, contentedly munching away on their salad entrée, followed perhaps by a rabbit stew, then a cheese course and then a pudding to boot.

One dish they served regularly was a tiny pasta smothered in buerre, this simple side-dish was a great favourite with the children – served alongside meat or vegetables and always eaten with great gusto.

I continue to serve this pleasingly simple dish today, rice or pasta both thrive when introduced to a knob of butter. If you throw peas in as well – hey presto you have a simple feast, or perhaps the perfect accompaniment to just about anything and it is whipped up in a jiffy.  I like to roast some vegetables or sizzle some sausages to proffer alongside. Some juicy greens, a corn on the cob – nothing complicated.  

Children often crave comforting, effortless food after a hard day at school, and as the Autumnal weather draws in so does our desire for satisfying simplicity and nourishment. 

As seen on Crumbs.

How I don't make it work

It appears that the dreaded shrinks, i.e. empty nest syndrome is not just the loss of my baby to school, but the loss of me. The Who Am Me thing is rather getting in the way as I now have...

an overbearing pressure to: Get.A.Job.

This makes me feel incompetent - I haven't had a proper job in over eight years. My last job was freelancing in Barcelona - as long as I made enough dough to cover my rent, which was minimal, buy a few bottles of vino tinto, crackers, garlic, olive oil - life was sweet.

Falling pregnant with twins in Barca sent my life spinning, unhinged, in a very different direction...I have barely looked up since, until this week. But, woooaahh, the view is extremely different.

The pernicious 21st century idea that women, and men, can have it all, is, quite frankly: a load of bollocks. This anxiety inducing mirage pedalled by the media, consumerism and, quite probably, our own insecure ego is a total pain in the arse - isn't it?

Everyone feels the same, surely, yet don't we all push on with this corrupt illusion of trying to outdo each other.

Will jelly-making and washing socks be enough to withstand the outside pressure I wonder...

Yet, yet, YET. YES. There is the answer: it is outside pressure and I am allowing it to invade my psyche. Who actually expects me to achieve all this STUFF? The beautiful house, the handsome husband, the mind-blowing sex-life, the contented, socially-adept children, the fabulous career and socially keeping up.

Who expects it?

Moi.

And therein lies my problem.

Tom Foolery

He always made me laugh.  A naughty, school-boyish, tomfoolery claimed his manner. An effortless charm poured off him and sealed and gilded all his relationships. He was equally as raffish with the boys, as with the girls: this ease and swagger kept his show rolling – and we all longed to be swept up in it.

Six-foot four, easy blonde Viking looks, strong wide thighs swathed in tan courdroy, hands wide, fingers thick – if he clutched your hand his great girth and warmth offered a security no others could at that stinging moment of palm-to-palm touch.

He loved like an adoring, loyal hound – a surfeit of constancy and devotion that drew you down and swallowed you whole – emerging together a powerhouse of victorious love.

His office was his van – this white van man – like no other – history, his cerebral mistress. Yorkie bar wrappers littered the floor, bedmates with empty, brown-stained coffee cups and red rizla cigarette papers.

Paul Weller was his hero and to hear him sing Wild Wood from that office window as it bound down the street was enough to make the girls quiver with appetite.

“High Tide – mid afternoon,

People fly by in the traffics boom,

Knowing – just where your blowing -

Getting to where you should be going…”

I thought I was blowing along with him – blowing into our future together, laughing and singing all the while.

But the shoes, the shoes changed our paths forever. Those shoes, I shall never forget, nor forgive. They live on in my memory, of my loss.

Red satin wedges with bows on the top, only a look pulled off by a woman on the hunt, a woman out to seduce, and, quite possibly, betray, would attempt to wear.

I saw his office parked on Bow Hill – right at the top – an awkward spot few parked in, it was so steep – I knew it was his because of the peculiar way the dust and dirt eclipsed his number plate – and left it TM1.

I was running late and not expected in that part of town, but I threw my responsibilities to the wind, in the joy of having an elicit moment with my wide-thighed love.

As I got to the office I noticed it was open but he wasn’t in – his shoes were on the floor…strange. And so were the red, satin wedges – abandoned, strewn amongst the male debris.

My heart paused, my stomach lurched, looking down through that dirty window at those shoes almost made me vomit. As my stomach churned, my head raced; I mentally begged my eyes to stop deceiving me. I stood back – took a deep breath – then looked in again – they were still there – unfettered from their mistress – strangling my heart with the lurid fate they offered.

I heard muted sounds of excitement and laughter emanate from the metal sides of the van.

I crept around to the back and gingerly held my pained ear to its door. Muffled yet certain I heard them – I held my breath – the anger, the hatred, came coursing through my veins as I stood paralysed, unsure whether to throw open the doors or to run as fast and as far away from that moment as I possibly could.

Instead I went back to the front, I opened the driver’s door as quietly and carefully as I could – I reached over to the handbrake, grabbed it, pulled it up and then let it go…

Barbie Rhu

She stands out red and well-girthed on the far side of town, her long cheeks rouged and ever so slightly green. All the bugs and slugs under her; a profusion of pests whose days are spent in the seclusion and safety of her wide hips and hairy green leaves - wide, elephantine amongst this small English garden.

The rhubarb plant is a sturdy gal and one I can neither kill; nor abate her growing fury, despite my weekly random leaf plucking, stalk slashing and general abuse of this well-established, stubborn English maid. 

In my natural joy of owning a healthy plant I decide I must, obviously, do something with the bounty. A ferret on google reveals this simple recipe, much praised and easily produced: Rhubarb and Vanilla Jam.

Equal your weight of barb to sugar - say 1kg of each. Throw it in the jam pan and let the sugar melt, when it has melted add a whole vanilla pod  - whip it about a bit and then leave the jam to boil and bubble and furiously become jam - a matter of ten minutes of so.   

I like the saucer test best, to check for jam jammage conclusion, stick a saucer in the freezer - after ten minutes of jamming - drop a few splots onto said frozen saucer and push the jam with your finger tip - if it forms wrinkles its ready to go - if not keep boiling for another few minutes and then try the saucer test again.   

Decant - enjoy.

Sweet, tart - this stuff is truly gorgeous on hot buttered toast, as a compote with fresh sliced English strawberries, or on just out the oven warm , steamy scones...

What is it to be a Mother?? And whose bloody idea was it anyway??

What is it to be a mother? This god-like creature, all powerful, all controlling, was this really such a good idea and whose bloody idea was it anyway? To give us females this unbelievably responsible role...And what if your scared of it Can't handle it? Who's going to pick up the slack?

It is too much responsibility and I'm worried I'm doing it all wrong. And what is right anyway? Exactly, who the hell is right? Who is best, who has the answer? Should we really trust ourselves with this shit? Should we really presume to have all the answers in our hearts? And how in hell do you find them in there? I'm looking, and I have been for a while now, but worry I'm missing something I'm looking so bloody hard.

I'm trying to tick all the right boxes and in doing so leaving lots with just a half tick - and who, I wonder, who is checking my boxes? It's just me again, isn't it?

At what point, will I trust myself? Validate myself? Accept myself? And, at what point, will I learn to trust my children, validate them, accept them? Who wrote this complicated bloody rule book? And why isn't love enough - of that I have great oceans full.

HELP!! I'm drowning in my fear of what others think. But no-one else gives a hoot, because they are all too busy drowning in their own self-perceived nonsense!!

And why can't breakfast cereals be a simple choice? Why are there more than 100, when all I want is one that is healthy and filling and good for us all...

Over and out

Home Ed Hell II

Since September home-education has been where I'm at. But honestly I have found it infuriating and hard-work.

Motivating my five-year old twins, Fealte & Rosebud, to sit down and listen to moi - resulted in a myriad of hours lost to sulking, shouting, storming off and stress!

When I first went along to my local Home-Ed group I was shocked by the amount of mothers who informed me, when I asked how they actually home-educated, that they really didn't do that much.

With an air of foolish superiority, I thought them lazy, envisaging myself doing daily classes of English, maths, nature, foreign languages - maybe even a spot of science? Where my twins, enthralled by my knowledgeable voice and gentle nuturing teaching, would quickly understand and lap up letters, numbers, reading and the like.

Hmmmm, yet here I am several months later and I find myself doing less and less, as every forced lesson is fraught with anger and frustration on both sides. Uber-mum/teacher I am not, was I ever? I thought so for one brief donut moment. And yet now I understand why all those home-ed mums did so little, because it's like banging your head against a brick wall and unless you are supremely patient it is a hard task to take on...

Pea.s, for all those uber-mums who are home-educating can I please recommend ABC Reading Eggs - bloody genius ozzies.

Image: Vlado / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Home Ed Hell

Since returning from France our five year old twins have been waiting for the local council to find them a place at primary school.

So far, four weeks into the school year, they have as yet found nothing and I have been forced to home educate them. A position I am not relishing and find time-consuming and terrifying!

A trip to the local Home Ed group led us to a motley crew of yogurt weavers breast-feeding their toddlers. Chaos reigned during the ensuing three hours as children of all ages from babies to teenagers, and their mothers and fathers, raced around eating sandwiches, making lavender bags or plastic rockets, playing football, reading stories, gossiping and generally connecting with each other amidst the mayhem. I found myself graduating towards the obvious home ed virgins, who, like me, appeared bemused and bewildered.

After canvasing several mothers, the general consensus amongst the hard-core home educators revealed that most didn't heap much importance on sitting down and trying to teach their offspring. A revelation that shocked me. They seemed to think their kids would learn through osmosis, and at the same time citing that many European schools don't begin schooling until six or seven years old. Yet having recently returned from France, where the legal age for school education is six, I knew that despite the six-year-old start most every 2.5-3 year old child in the country went to Ecole Maternelle, similar to pre-school and aimed at teaching children children the basic structure of a school day, which included numbers, letters, cooking, reading and all the other myriad of classes a child must learn. I wondered is it the same in Sweden and Northern Europe?

At the end of the home ed meet-up I finally spoke to someone who did teach her kids and who introduced me to ABC Reading Eggs, an Australian company which has created an incredible online learning site which teaches children of all ages to read and recognise letters, words and phonics - it is undisputedly brilliant - and the twins adore it.

My mother-in-law has contacted our local MP in a bid to help us get the children into school - I shall keep you posted on the update.

The long days of summer

At what point during the two-month long summer break are you allowed to stop being uber mum and start shouting?

Taking our children to live in rural France, was to give them the opportunity to spend their idyllic childhood days wandering barefoot and fancy-free; climbing trees, picking flowers, measuring bugs and generally enjoying the sweet elixir of their innocence.

In the humidity, that is currently July, by 4pm my zen master moment is all but out of the window. As the legions of flies crawl over the bread, the peaches, our heads and the thousands upon thousands of seemingly unrelenting ant armies mange to find any accidental crumb no matter how small - my once dignified cool of this morning, is lost to madness, as I harshly insist that the children evacuate the kitchen, and go and play outside NOW...

This humble Tuesday we have made home-made lemonade, we have made fragrant lavender water; we have pasted papers, pictures, cotton wool - just about anything to hand - into scrap books, we have strolled and frolicked, we have danced and sung - but at some point I desperately need - just a moment of - space.

When your children first start primary school you feel desperate that this huge change in your life will leave you forever bereft and lonesome, yet at the close of the first term you realise the freedom it allows and you begin to embrace your newfound peace.

But the thing with motherhood is that you spend most of the time feeling guitly for having enjoyed your quiet moment of freedom, for shouting at your beautiful offspring, or for not doing enough - whatever enough is.

However, tomorrow is another day, a chance to return to the zen master of motherhood, an opportunity to bake some bread together, to read one more story, to cherish another hug...