Diary of A Norfolk Broad (An Oxymoron - The Joys of Parenthood)

Ah, the joys of Parenthood – the worry, the sleepless nights.
From the day they arrive into the world, it is the sleepless nights which are the horribly recurring feature of those early weeks and sometimes months. Exhausting and unexpected, no matter how prepared you think you may be. Tell your friends you are with ‘Bun in the Oven’, and predictably at least half will alert you to the fact that you’ll never have a good night’s sleep again. Ignore them at your peril, it’s absolutely true.
I don’t just mean the nights of feeds and nappies and wind, of pacing the house and even the streets – no, I am talking about the nights of fitful sleep or none at all when you lay in bed simply worrying about the things you can no longer control.
Snip, snip go the apron strings, and so the gut-wrenching anxiety begins; when they take their first steps into the school playground, when you are no longer there to hold their hands to keep them safe, or mop away the tears when knees get grazed – Ah, the joys of Parenthood.
Having gone through it twice with my twelve year-old, from the first day of Primary school to the first day of Senior school, you’d think I’d be getting the hang of it all by now, wouldn’t you?
Funny thing is, today was my youngest son’s last day of nursery, and come September, I don’t imagine that sending him off in the world will be any easier than on previous occasions but at least this time I know for sure I will be better prepared with a family sized box of Kleenex to wipe that snotty, tear-stained face – after all, at my age it’s starting to become embarrassing.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Anyone For Tennis?)

The Men's Final, Wimbledon.
Decisions, decisions.
Who should I support?
Federer? - Nice cardie, embroidered initials on the pocket.
Or Nadal? - Bit of a chav, sleeveless vest, white sellotape around his legs (?!), and Nike logos over absolutely everything; from sweat band to socks and probably pants but I have no proof - Mmm, Nice.
Two sets in I was firmly behind Federer. He was losing badly but looked no more perturbed than if he'd just discovered the battery had run out in his Cuckoo Clock - what a gent.
Nadal on the other hand, grunting like a pig in labour, muscles bulging out of his vest, with baggy nylon-looking shorts waggling about in the wind (is it me or are the girls' skirts getting shorter while the boys' shorts are getting longer?). No wonder he was sweating so much.
And not a flicker of a smile, not once. Just a permanent sneer - it wasn't nice and it certainly wasn't pleasant. Just very stressful. So stressful I couldn't bear to watch. So I went to do some ironing, and pondered, like you do, when engaged in some mindless, pointless, domestic activity.
And then it struck me. With horror I realised my allegiance was totally and utterly misplaced. If I had to choose between Switzerland or Spain, which would it be?
Or to put it another way,
Paella or Chocolate?
Definitely Paella (unless I was premenstrual, in which case I'd probably have both) - the juicy, succulent prawns, the squid, the tangy pimientos, some chicken, perhaps a little spicy chorizo, the glowing, yellow, saffron-infused rice. I just can't drool over chocolate in the same way, sorry Roger. It was at this point that I took a sneaky peek at the match, which by now had Roger fighting back heroically to win the third and then the fourth set, making me feel slightly less guilty for abandoning him. I also discovered that watching on widescreen upstairs made Nadal's muscles far more bulbous and his sneer far more evil than on the old box I was now watching downstairs - I think he was probably just really concentrating. Which was just as well.
And so jubilant was I when he did finally win, that I immediately went out and bought a Toblerone to celebrate - well they'd hardly be selling paella at the petrol station, would they?

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Is it a government conspiracy or is Life really so depressing?)

Someone tell me please, because I would really like to know, who invents the phrases that wiggle their way into our daily life as if they'd always been there? Credit Crunch, Weapons of Mass Destruction, Carbon Footprint?
Is it the Press? Maybe the Government? Whoever it is, I'd like them to stop.
One minute we've never heard of it, the next we're all saying it with such confidence and alarming regularity that we can barely remember a time when we didn't say it.
Is Credit Crunch a nicer way of saying RECESSION? If we call Nuclear Bombs weapons of Mass Destruction will it hurt less when they go bang?
And Carbon Footprint?
For goodness sake, let's just spit it out and be honest. We're not just leaving dirty marks on the new carpet, we're killing the planet!
I've had enough, really I have.
And anyway its all so depressing. If 'they' are going to carry on making up these silly phrases, how about some nice ones for a change? Life's hard, we could all do with a bit of cheering up. Who wouldn't rather hear some good news than some bad? So never mind the dying housing market, unemployment, war and famine and ask yourself this;
As my four year old son enquired this morning, "Daddy, do you prefer Credit Crunch for breakfast or Cheerios?" I know which I will be choosing.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Who Killed the Tooth Fairy?)

First I should explain one thing. In my family we have a tendency to be a bit behind with our dental development. My Mum tells me it's a trait which comes from her side of the family. The fact is, we get our teeth late. My wisdom teeth didn't appear until my thirties, and I think my Mum is still waiting for hers. At primary school my son still had a full shiny set of baby teeth long after his friends had grinned proudly with gaps and then ridiculously large teeth that sprouted from their gums at peculiar angles. It is for this reason that we continued the tradition of the tooth fairy; squealing with delight and 'surprise' when shiny coins were discovered with awe the morning after a visit from said magical being (long after it was perhaps sensible). But it is always easy to be wise after the event, as I found to my cost.
This morning I did a terrible thing.
My eleven year old son who is in his third week of secondary school told me he didn't think he believed in the Tooth Fairy anymore. (He had come out of school yesterday, carrying his toothy 'trophy' with delight, after it had wiggled it's way out in geography). Last night we had carried out the normal childhood deception of leaving the coin under the pillow, expecting to hear the usual delighted cries this morning of, "She's been!" (it's a pound these days, even for little teeth - god knows how much we'll be forking out for our three year old when his time comes - I expect we'll be leaving a crisp tenner on the bedside table by then - I'd better start saving now).
However, this morning was a little bit more low-key and I sensed a change. This is to be expected after all. He's an eleven year old boy who's suddenly feeling extremely grown-up, having learnt how to tie his school tie last week, being reminded constantly that he's a 'High School Bloke' now, and no longer a little boy (except in my eyes anyway, but I am his Mother, and moreover a Jewish Mother which (trust me) is even worse.
So when he casually declared his sudden revelation I was partly relieved and partly saddened by the end of this little bit of his childhood. After all, I was getting slightly anxious that if he now went to school and announced proudly that the tooth fairy had visited him last night, at best he would be teased relentlessly for the next five years until he went to college, or at worst would be beaten up, resulting not only in more visits from the tooth fairy, but also the dentist and the plastic surgeon. I was therefore totally unprepared for the reaction I received when I admitted that perhaps he had good reason for his doubts, and then, after eleven years of creating this wonderfully convincing myth, with one sleepy but cautious confession I crushed his world - I killed that poor, innocent, kindly giver of joy and money - I killed the tooth fairy!
But worse was to come. He now doesn't believe in Father Christmas either, and that, I think , is harder for me to come to terms with than him, for come Christmas Eve this year when I am merrily creating trails of Santa foot-prints in icing sugar, and leaving tea-stained thank you notes for the mince pies and carrot offering, he might just go along with it for the sake of his mad, sentimental mother - but then again, he might not.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Wanted: Yummy Mummy, Fit-At-Forty)

You can't escape it these days - the desire to match up to at least one of the above. Once upon a time, by the age of forty you'd done your bit; had a job, got married, had babies and were ready to step into middle-age with grace. By Forty, instead of worrying about your muffin-top you were more concerned with perfecting your Yorkshire pudding and ensuring your doorstep was the shiniest in the street. But Aunt Bessie now takes care of the Yorkshire pudding, and as for the doorstep - who cares?
It's a little bit different now though isn't it? Nowadays we girls do what we want when we want. We can have a career in our twenties, find a man (any one will do), and then pack in two babies in our thirties, rear children in our forties whilst holding down a full-time/ part-time job, and have our fifties to look forward to for an occasional lie-in (football practice/ ballet / drama/ karate classes permitting). Isn't equality great?
Women fought hard for it - for having it all, and we carry on fighting the fight, but with a 'slight' difference. Look at the cover of any women's magazine and what do you see? The answers to the questions that constantly vex us; How to beat the battle of the cellulite, bannish those crow's feet, which jeans to wear to look ten stone lighter, the secret of looking a hundred years younger ..... I would go on, but how much more depressing would that be?
Isn't it amazing that here we are, with more money (Apparently. Try telling that to my bank manager who gives me the beady eye whenever I have the nerve to enter the bank, and who always finishes our transaction with a little smile and the words, "Shall I make you an appointment to see how we can help improve your finances?"
"In a bit of a hurry today, but I'll definitely pop in next week to sort it out", I say, whilst casually sliding towards the door.
We have more appliances to make life easier; washing machines, tumble-driers, dishwashers, microwaves, but we don't have more time. We have cars for the convenience of not having to wait in the rain for buses, which then means we have to go to the gym to lose the weight that we put on by sitting on our expanding back-sides in the car that was meant to help us but is now responsible for our lack of fitness and cellulite.
But we're tough, we can cope. What we can't ignore is the issue of aging and actually looking like real women. And here's where we really have to win the battle, because to lose it would mean actually looking your age (or worse, older) and showing a less than washboard stomach means admitting that your jelly belly is proof that you were old enough to give birth in the first place.
So here I am, in my quest for the above title, despite my 39 years of experience that tells me its shallow to care so much how I look, and even more so to care what others think about how I look. But honestly, what would mean more than anything on my ever looming fortieth birthday would be for someone to say, "Oh my God, you've lost so much weight, and by the way, you really don't look your age".
P.S (Some months later .....) I actually had an amazing birthday despite the fact that not one person mentioned how young or slim I looked. Clearly, with age has come wisdom, or else I had such a good time at my surprise party at the Savoy, Joe Allens and during my weekend in Paris that I was too drunk and too busy having a good time to care! Ah, Forty - its fabulous.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Chapter Four)

To fill in a 'slight' gap in my story so far, in between moving to Norfolk and having a baby we settled into our new life, started a business and eventually made some friends, including a gallery owner whose aquaintance the Artist made one wet, Saturday afternoon. He was (and probably still is) tall, dark and handsome, and until you get to know him better, quite charming. Not long after we also met his girlfriend who seemed very nice too - at first. It soon became apparent that all was not well.
Within an alarmingly short amount of time our friendship had blossomed, which was a little disconcerting for an ex-Londoner like myself. In London you allow a decent period of 'acquaintanceship' to pass before you progress to the next level of 'friendship' - after all, you can't be too careful. You don't want to end up being stalked by a psychopath, and let's be honest, there's plenty of 'em. But that's London, we're in the country now, let's throw caution to the wind! Big mistake. One minute we're discussing the weather, the next, Gallery-Man's telling us the first of many sorry tales of his relationship dramas; every row, every item she'd ever thrown at him (and clearly missed), every reconciliation, and every final ending, including the last.
And so our friendship continued as we received our weekly (and sometimes daily) instalments of his life's dramas which were both gripping and irritating - a bit like tuning into a soap opera. Sometimes the characters and storylines are ridiculous and infuriating, but you know you have to tune in the following week for the next episode. Unfortunately it all became rather one-sided.
Gallery-Man, "Hi guys, how are you?"
Us,"Hi, well ok, but ...."
Gallery-Man, "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah ...guess what I did/said/ate/bought?"
And so would follow a full and detailed description of his latest conquest, fabulous meal he'd cooked, how much money he'd made and what he'd spent it on (usually a boat or a watch).
I have to say, in all honesty that there probably were moments of envy (depending on whether or not we believed him or else suspected he was having a Walter Mitty moment), but generally it became quite dull, as does any one-sided conversation. For as we all know, friendship is about give and take, about listening, about kindness and about sharing. The sharing certainly was not a problem. He was generous to a fault, and once even appeared with a new set of saucepans for me because he thought mine were looking a bit old and past it. I was partly offended but obviously grateful for such a sweet gesture. I never did get rid of the old pans though - I think pans are like jeans, the more worn in (or out) the better. And since we've had a new kitchen I have a lot more space for my pan collection so I didn't need to get rid of the old ones on the basis of lack of room in the cupboards, and when I do Christmas dinner I never ever run out of pans, because let's face it, by the time you do the brussel sprouts, the potatoes, the parsnips, the carrots, the peas, the mange tout, the broccoli (ok, perhaps I do go a bit overboard with the vegetables but its so nice to have a choice, and I make a fabulous bubble and squeak with the left-overs on Boxing day), the gravy, the Christmas pudding (I don't think it's the same done in the microwave), that's an awful lot of saucepans needed isn't it? Saves a lot of extra washing up as we go along, and gives the dishwasher something to do while we're opening the presents and drinking the Bristol Cream. Anyway, as usual I'm getting distracted. Back to the story. You may have realised by now that it is now, alas an ex-friendship but you'll never guess why. To be honest I can hardly believe it myself.
When I was very visibly pregnant (at least 6 months), we had a get-together in a restaurant for his birthday with several of his friends, his children, the Artist, our son, me AND the new girlfriend, who will be known as Dora (not her real name, of course). She was a bit gorgeous and bore more than a passing resemblance to the actress, Amanda Donahoe, apart from her gothy, black frizzy hair which I mention just to be bitchy. You will see later that she deserves it (and more), and that I am an angel for not saying worse. We all tried to be friendly, which she most definitely was not. She spent most of the evening sitting far away from us in the 'smoking area' (if you are reading this several years in the future, this may sound very dated and hard to imagine, when smoking will no doubt be banned from everywhere except a special sealed room in your own house and squashed fag butts on the pavement nothing but a distant memory). As it happens, since I have been writing this tale (obviously a tad slowly), there is a no-smoking ban in all public places, so not only am I a lazy writer, I am also a psychic.
Anyway, the evening ended on a slightly friendlier note, or so I thought, until Gallery-Man called me the next day. "Hi, its me!" Obviously we didn't get many calls at this time so I immediately knew who it was. He went on to tell me that the antisocial, deranged Dora thought that we were having an affair, and worse still, that she 'knew' the baby was his. Yes, that's right. My baby. And the Artist's baby. He admitted that she was a bit mad, but was fairly sure he'd pursuaded her that her ludicrous, delusional rantings were just, simple delusional rantings and nothing more. A few days later I had a chance to see for myself, just how convinced she was. Bonfire night is a bit of an event in these parts, and in one particular place the villagers all dress up in strange, spooky costumes, parading the streets (both of them) with burning torches, until setting alight a pile of timber large enough to be seen in Australia. Clearly Health and Safety laws do not apply here. We were invited to join Gallery-Man, his kids and, more importantly, Dora. We had our reservations, but thought we'd give it a try. We all met, smiled and said hello - so far, so good. The kids ran off nearer the fire to 'get a better view', and the Artist chatted to Gallery-Man, while Dora with her black, gothy frizzy hair who was looking decidedly witchy, and her girfriend sized me up - not hard considering my girth at this point. The girlfriend didn't actually speak but just glared, while Dora smiled and laughed through gritted teeth. And all the while I smiled and laughed and knew, like any woman who's watched Fatal Attraction knows, he'd found himself a bunny-boiler.
The Artist and Gallery-Man watched us smiling and laughing and thought that all was well - Men have no idea. Not surprisingly the witch and her assistant soon moved far away from our merry little group, to no doubt concoct a spell to make me disappear at the very least, or at best to die a grisly death on top of the pyre. I do believe that was the very last time we socialised together. Yes, who says life in the country is dull.

Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Chapter Three)

Fast forward to January 2004. I am now pregnant and waiting for the birth of our daughter. I say this not because of any confirmation of this fact at my previous scan, but because a woman I have never met before who is claiming to have special powers in this area has assured me that it will be a girl. She knows this from spinning me round quickly (well as quickly as a nearly nine months pregnant woman can be spun around), and on studying my rear for a moment or two tells me quite definitely that its girls' names I need to be thinking about, and forget the boys'. She is clearly a bit mad, but then again she might be right? I settle on Daisy or Molly.

On 10th January my son is born.

It is a bit of a shock really - the sex of the baby, not the birth.

I ask the midwife, "Are you sure?""

"Absolutely", she replies.

I ask the Artist to check.

"Definitely", he agrees with a very proud look.

So that's that. The witch got it wrong. Perhaps if she'd looked at my front rather than my back she might have got it right.

Son number two is gorgeous and sweet, and son number one adores him. Apart from at night when we all hate him. That may sound extreme but it is a fact. The Angel baby by day becomes a Devil baby by night. There is just no reasoning with him and the frustration of

a) not enough sleep for me to be a rational, loving mother

b) a baby who is not hungry, not wet, not ill and definitely not sleepy

c) haunting tales of babies who sleep through the night and have to be woken for breakfast

make me unable to deal with devil night-baby in a patient earth-motherly manner. The worst thing I find is that kindly well-wishers offer such gems as, "I'm sure he'll grow out of it", or "Have you tried ......?"

Yes, trust me, we've tried everything; from controlled crying to stories, songs, tapes of stories and songs, shouting (not guaranteed to improve the situation but sometimes necessary for our sanity) and still nothing works. The funny thing is, he did grow out of it, so to all you sleep-deprived, guilt-ridden, frustrated parents, hang on in there, because generally these things do have a way of sorting themselves out. By all means try everything, because not is worse. But remember that babies, like most adults, do not like to be told what to do. Encouragement reaps the best results. You will see that I am right. Perhaps not now, but read these words in twenty years time and you'll see the funny side. Sleep deprivation is bad for most things but good for blurring the memory.

The Angel-Baby is now four - time really does fly!