Just lately I've been feeling a tad glum when I pick LittleBear up from school. All the other parents seem to be pairing up and leaving the playground together, heads tipped towards one another, engrossed in their own conversations. No, not that kind of pairing up, they've simply been organised and competent and arranged play dates for their children. And I've been gazing wistfully at all these other people and wondering why we're never involved in play dates. And then I remember that I never organise any. So I've been trying to make more of an effort, and today I decided to simply seize a moment.
We were walking back to our car, and passed SmallFriend and MummyFriend getting into their car.
"Are you busy?" I enquired.
"What, now?"
"Yes, now. I was wondering if you wanted to come round and play?"
Since SmallFriend was in the process of sulking because he didn't have anyone to play with, this was a fortuitous moment to ask.
It was only as I drove home that I remembered the state of the house. And given it's only a mile from school to home, I wasn't going to gain a time advantage by putting the pedal to the metal. I was just going to have to brazen it out.
I wasn't quite prepared for the cat sick on the carpet.
And I'd forgotten the (clean) laundry heaped up in the play room.
And the kitchen was rather less clean that it had seemed when I sprinted out of the door fifteen minutes late this morning.
Fortunately baby-wipes are basically a gift from angels, able to remove cat sick with remarkable speed, and a quick wipe of a hot, soapy cloth around the kitchen made it at least hygienic, if not tidy. And my friend very kindly either didn't notice, or didn't comment upon the lace knickers draped across the vintage Atari ST in the play room. They were clean. Honest. And everyone ends up with piles of clean laundry around the house don't they? Come on guys, work with me here. Knickers on vintage computers is not weird. It's just laundry. And vintage computers. You know what? I'm definitely hoping friend didn't notice, rather than politely avoided commenting...
Anyway, this is me being positive, and not publicly shaming my own, frankly sub-standard, housekeeping habits. And I'm not focussing on MummyFriend commenting on how good it was that I felt able to invite people round when my house was a mess rather than being retentive like she is*.
There's no point feeling left out when all it takes is a moment to reach out. Everyone wants a friend. We had a lovely afternoon.
* In all fairness, she was genuinely rueing the fact that she doesn't spontaneously invite people round, and wishes she did so. When written down it sounds much more critical than it did at the time!
Friday, 30 June 2017
Thursday, 29 June 2017
Work-life imbalance
I'm actually so tired and fed-up I almost don't have the energy to rant. So this isn't going to be a carefully crafted post, in which I labour over the perfect phrasing of every paragraph (which obviously I do on every other post, can't you tell?) No, this time, the words are simply going to spill out, as my hands rattle across the keyboard, trying to allow my thoughts to form coherence of their own accord as they materialise. It's perhaps not the best strategy, but it's the only one I've got.
I admit, I have a pretty good arrangement with my employers. They are understanding and flexible; they have accommodated maternity leave and a part-time return to work without caviling. I know I'm lucky. But that doesn't actually mean that every aspect of my working life is golden.
Take the current situation, for example.
For the last eighteen months, we've been short-handed. There appears to be no drive to change this situation. We've only just managed to replace the Problem Employee (who was himself a replacement for the Departed Employee). So for 18 months I've had an assistant/employee who was either new and/or useless. The current New Person is turning out to be awesome, but he's still new, and still needs a lot of training, and that takes time, and effort. And it means there are a lot of jobs that I'm still doing, 18 months after Departed Employee departed, on top of all my own jobs. And some of those jobs are going considerably slower than normal as I'm training New Person to do them. In the long run this will be a Good Thing. Just now, it's an extra loading on my time, and mental energy.
Meanwhile, over the previous umpty-tump years, we've generally built half a dozen large, bespoke scientific instruments per year. This gives us time to design, build, test, commission, document and ship each one. It also gives us time to find mistakes in the designs and modify them so that next time we build one, it's better than last time. But all that has changed in the last 18 months as well. Our entire business model has changed, and we are currently, simultaneously building thirteen instruments of three different designs (6 of one, 5 of another and 2 of another). And we have simply not adjusted, individually or as an organisation to doing this.
We don't have the man-power to build this much stuff in one go.
We don't have the space to assemble this much stuff in one go.
We don't have the brain capacity to remember every detail of every instrument as we go.
We don't have the systems in place to avoid screwing everything up horribly when we build multiple large instruments in one go.
The set of five identical instruments is my baby. I've nurtured this project, and its predecessors, for the past decade. I've sweated blood and wept bitter tears over this design. The first of these five instruments was due to be sent to the customer in December, with the subsequent four following on at monthly intervals. Not only have I missed the first deadline, I've missed the following four deadlines as well. I have five eviscerated, non-functioning scientific instruments scattered around my lab, and I cannot manage to engage the interest of anybody else in the company in helping complete them. Their attention is elsewhere - on the next thing, the next problem, the next customer, the next crisis. In fact, the only person who seems to care is the Finance Director, who comes and hovers beside me once a week to ask why I haven't finished yet. Which helps.
When I attempt to gain the attention of my Managing Director, he tells me that the next two projects are now more important. Unfortunately, despite the fact that we're already most of the way through building both six giant instruments, and their two smaller brothers (sisters?) I haven't actually finished my part of the design. So, when I'm not beating my head against the brick wall of five non-functioning machines, I'm fighting a desperate rear-guard action, and trying to design electronic control systems more than three days ahead of when our electronics team will build them. Today I ran downstairs to tell them to stop building the set of ten circuit boards they were working on, as I'd realised I'd missed a vital component off.
On top of all this, I'm also (still) trying to deal with a man with a turnip who won't place an order with us, but wants me to promise that his turnip will do what he wants.
Have I mentioned I technically only work 22.5 hours per week?
Have I mentioned that my current workload is enough to fill that time more than twice over?
Have I mentioned that I've worked here for nearly 19 years, and I have an over-developed sense of responsibility?
Which is how I've found myself working until 10pm four evenings this week.
Which is how I found myself driving home from Homebase and Dunelm Mill and other Exciting Places this afternoon on the verge of tears, for no reason other than utter exhaustion. And frustration. And loss of morale. And a growing sense of being hung out to dry professionally. And feeling undervalued and unappreciated. And having no end in sight. So not exactly "no reason".
So, while I might be completely aware of the positives of where I work, there are days when I'm not entirely sure they compensate for the negatives.
I admit, I have a pretty good arrangement with my employers. They are understanding and flexible; they have accommodated maternity leave and a part-time return to work without caviling. I know I'm lucky. But that doesn't actually mean that every aspect of my working life is golden.
Take the current situation, for example.
For the last eighteen months, we've been short-handed. There appears to be no drive to change this situation. We've only just managed to replace the Problem Employee (who was himself a replacement for the Departed Employee). So for 18 months I've had an assistant/employee who was either new and/or useless. The current New Person is turning out to be awesome, but he's still new, and still needs a lot of training, and that takes time, and effort. And it means there are a lot of jobs that I'm still doing, 18 months after Departed Employee departed, on top of all my own jobs. And some of those jobs are going considerably slower than normal as I'm training New Person to do them. In the long run this will be a Good Thing. Just now, it's an extra loading on my time, and mental energy.
Meanwhile, over the previous umpty-tump years, we've generally built half a dozen large, bespoke scientific instruments per year. This gives us time to design, build, test, commission, document and ship each one. It also gives us time to find mistakes in the designs and modify them so that next time we build one, it's better than last time. But all that has changed in the last 18 months as well. Our entire business model has changed, and we are currently, simultaneously building thirteen instruments of three different designs (6 of one, 5 of another and 2 of another). And we have simply not adjusted, individually or as an organisation to doing this.
We don't have the man-power to build this much stuff in one go.
We don't have the space to assemble this much stuff in one go.
We don't have the brain capacity to remember every detail of every instrument as we go.
We don't have the systems in place to avoid screwing everything up horribly when we build multiple large instruments in one go.
The set of five identical instruments is my baby. I've nurtured this project, and its predecessors, for the past decade. I've sweated blood and wept bitter tears over this design. The first of these five instruments was due to be sent to the customer in December, with the subsequent four following on at monthly intervals. Not only have I missed the first deadline, I've missed the following four deadlines as well. I have five eviscerated, non-functioning scientific instruments scattered around my lab, and I cannot manage to engage the interest of anybody else in the company in helping complete them. Their attention is elsewhere - on the next thing, the next problem, the next customer, the next crisis. In fact, the only person who seems to care is the Finance Director, who comes and hovers beside me once a week to ask why I haven't finished yet. Which helps.
When I attempt to gain the attention of my Managing Director, he tells me that the next two projects are now more important. Unfortunately, despite the fact that we're already most of the way through building both six giant instruments, and their two smaller brothers (sisters?) I haven't actually finished my part of the design. So, when I'm not beating my head against the brick wall of five non-functioning machines, I'm fighting a desperate rear-guard action, and trying to design electronic control systems more than three days ahead of when our electronics team will build them. Today I ran downstairs to tell them to stop building the set of ten circuit boards they were working on, as I'd realised I'd missed a vital component off.
On top of all this, I'm also (still) trying to deal with a man with a turnip who won't place an order with us, but wants me to promise that his turnip will do what he wants.
Have I mentioned I technically only work 22.5 hours per week?
Have I mentioned that my current workload is enough to fill that time more than twice over?
Have I mentioned that I've worked here for nearly 19 years, and I have an over-developed sense of responsibility?
Which is how I've found myself working until 10pm four evenings this week.
Which is how I found myself driving home from Homebase and Dunelm Mill and other Exciting Places this afternoon on the verge of tears, for no reason other than utter exhaustion. And frustration. And loss of morale. And a growing sense of being hung out to dry professionally. And feeling undervalued and unappreciated. And having no end in sight. So not exactly "no reason".
So, while I might be completely aware of the positives of where I work, there are days when I'm not entirely sure they compensate for the negatives.
MPP: work-life balance
Today is a day for feeling fortunate in working where I do.
Obviously, there are a lot of things I can (and do!) complain about. And you can consider this post a means of making sure I acknowledge the positive in a futile attempt to stave off the frothing rant that is approaching. Because, no matter what I say, I know that I am extremely fortunate to work in an incredibly flexible company.
I leave for work only ten minutes before LittleBear leaves for school with BigBear. If I need to, I can take LittleBear to school from time to time, even though I arrive at work late.
I can take afternoons off to do such things as join in LittleBear's "history walk" around the village, as long as I catch up on a couple of hours work by taking my laptop home and working in the evening.
I collect LittleBear from school every day, which is a joy in itself. I see his beaming smile at the gate. I have his warm, soft arms thrown round my neck for a cuddle. I play with him and read with him and share his day, every day.
In the holidays I shuffle my days around so I can spend as much time as possible with my LittleBear, and still get some work done. Normally I work 2/3 of a full day every day, and yet this school summer holiday I will spend one week working mornings only, then take two weeks holiday, then spend a week working three mornings and one full day, then a week with three full days, then a week with two full days.
And I get paid to do this.
There are few people I know who have colleagues and management who are quite so relaxed and family-friendly as to ebb and flow with what my son and my family need from week to week.
I must try and remember this.
Obviously, there are a lot of things I can (and do!) complain about. And you can consider this post a means of making sure I acknowledge the positive in a futile attempt to stave off the frothing rant that is approaching. Because, no matter what I say, I know that I am extremely fortunate to work in an incredibly flexible company.
I leave for work only ten minutes before LittleBear leaves for school with BigBear. If I need to, I can take LittleBear to school from time to time, even though I arrive at work late.
I can take afternoons off to do such things as join in LittleBear's "history walk" around the village, as long as I catch up on a couple of hours work by taking my laptop home and working in the evening.
I collect LittleBear from school every day, which is a joy in itself. I see his beaming smile at the gate. I have his warm, soft arms thrown round my neck for a cuddle. I play with him and read with him and share his day, every day.
In the holidays I shuffle my days around so I can spend as much time as possible with my LittleBear, and still get some work done. Normally I work 2/3 of a full day every day, and yet this school summer holiday I will spend one week working mornings only, then take two weeks holiday, then spend a week working three mornings and one full day, then a week with three full days, then a week with two full days.
And I get paid to do this.
There are few people I know who have colleagues and management who are quite so relaxed and family-friendly as to ebb and flow with what my son and my family need from week to week.
I must try and remember this.
Tuesday, 27 June 2017
MPP: days like these
It is days like these when I need the discipline of making myself think of something positive. Days when I'm tired, when work has gone badly, and has come home with me. Days when I've got soaked through to my underwear collecting LittleBear from school. Days when I've spent too many hours fretting about this, that and the other.
So, as an antidote to all the fretting, weariness and feeling sorry for myself, here instead is something that has made me happy...
Having had my heart break very slightly that LittleBear now wants to read at least some of his own bedtime stories, I spent an hour, both yesterday afternoon and this afternoon, curled up on the sofa with my precious boy, reading stories to him. And today had the added variation that this story-reading was also for the benefit of a small array of dinosaurs, whose voices I had to provide at suitable intervals. The Ankylosaurs needed to be interested in what gingko fruit tasted like; the Triceratops had to be worried about whether the T.rex would catch the Wannanosaurus; the Corythosaur had to be confused by what "people" were etcetera etcetera. It was a return to the days when I had to play the part of a moronic mammal in almost every game with LittleBear, which was deeply tedious when undertaken every single day, but rather lovely to return to in a small dose, as an opportunity to remember times past with my little boy.
I will still get plenty of chances to read to my baby, even though he's no longer a baby, and even the games that I think are long past will occasionally return for a reprise. There is joy to be had in the simple, happy pleasures with my boy. (Just as long as I don't have to pretend to be a complete idiot every day again...)
So, as an antidote to all the fretting, weariness and feeling sorry for myself, here instead is something that has made me happy...
Having had my heart break very slightly that LittleBear now wants to read at least some of his own bedtime stories, I spent an hour, both yesterday afternoon and this afternoon, curled up on the sofa with my precious boy, reading stories to him. And today had the added variation that this story-reading was also for the benefit of a small array of dinosaurs, whose voices I had to provide at suitable intervals. The Ankylosaurs needed to be interested in what gingko fruit tasted like; the Triceratops had to be worried about whether the T.rex would catch the Wannanosaurus; the Corythosaur had to be confused by what "people" were etcetera etcetera. It was a return to the days when I had to play the part of a moronic mammal in almost every game with LittleBear, which was deeply tedious when undertaken every single day, but rather lovely to return to in a small dose, as an opportunity to remember times past with my little boy.
I will still get plenty of chances to read to my baby, even though he's no longer a baby, and even the games that I think are long past will occasionally return for a reprise. There is joy to be had in the simple, happy pleasures with my boy. (Just as long as I don't have to pretend to be a complete idiot every day again...)
Monday, 26 June 2017
Had enough of experts
There have been very few occasions in my life that I can even come close to agreeing with anything Michael Gove has said. But sometimes people who purport to be experts, and yet directly contradict each other, really do vex me quite considerably.
I'd been having a lovely day today. I was thinking that writing a positive post tonight would be a walk in the park, because I was feeling genuinely upbeat and happy.
And then I took LittleBear to the dentist.
We've been to the dentist before. The first time was mostly a "hello". The second time involved looking in his mouth. The third time was the rather traumatic occasion when I carried a small boy in, sobbing and dripping with blood from a mashed up face to be inspected, after coming off his bicycle face-first. On that occasion, the quick thinking of one of my friends had resulted in a knocked-out tooth being replaced. The lovely dentist was quite content with this, and told me the tooth might take root again, or might not, but it wouldn't be a problem either way, and (this is the important bit) that we'd done the right thing.
The tooth re-rooted, and has caused no problems.
The lovely dentist has left.
We have a new dentist.
This was the first time we'd met the new dentist.
He informed me that we shouldn't have put the tooth back in. He suggested that the correct course of action would be to extract the tooth now, in case of infection, as the gum looks a little bit red. The tooth has been back in, and perfectly happy, for SEVEN MONTHS. Seriously? He wants to pull it out, just in case a slight redness of the gum is because it got infected when it was put back in seven months ago.
As the tooth in question is already wobbly, and likely to come out perfectly naturally in the next few months, I decided to go with his alternative (reluctant) offering of "wait and see". It's not that I don't take my son's dental hygiene seriously, or the protection of his teeth and gums, but I'd much rather keep an eye on a gum and see if it becomes any more red, and let LittleBear's tooth fall out of its own accord if possible, than inflict a tooth extraction on a small boy and potentially put him off dentists for life. I'm pretty certain that hating dentists and all their work would do his long-term dental health a lot more harm than "having a slightly red gum".
And I'm left with a Govian distaste for experts, having had two different dentists tell me diametrically opposite things about LittleBear's tooth. One of them must be wrong. And since I clearly don't want the one who agreed with my friend's actions, and who reassured me that I'd done the right thing to be the Wrong Dentist, I'm left being forced to disagree with the expert opinion of my current dentist. Who'll be looking at my teeth on Wednesday.
My lovely happy day has turned into a stressful, annoying day with a looming sense of dread at having to see New Dentist again, and find out all the things that are wrong with my teeth as well. I'm already worried about what he'll say about the wire that cements six of my teeth together...
Not to mention that horrible lurking sense of doubt about whether I've taken the right path, whether I've actually risked the development of LittleBear's big teeth, whether new dentist is right and that tooth is best off out, and always was best off out. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm being a bad mother. Maybe, maybe, maybe...
So now my Happy Day has been turned into a Fretful Week. Bother.
I'd been having a lovely day today. I was thinking that writing a positive post tonight would be a walk in the park, because I was feeling genuinely upbeat and happy.
And then I took LittleBear to the dentist.
We've been to the dentist before. The first time was mostly a "hello". The second time involved looking in his mouth. The third time was the rather traumatic occasion when I carried a small boy in, sobbing and dripping with blood from a mashed up face to be inspected, after coming off his bicycle face-first. On that occasion, the quick thinking of one of my friends had resulted in a knocked-out tooth being replaced. The lovely dentist was quite content with this, and told me the tooth might take root again, or might not, but it wouldn't be a problem either way, and (this is the important bit) that we'd done the right thing.
The tooth re-rooted, and has caused no problems.
The lovely dentist has left.
We have a new dentist.
This was the first time we'd met the new dentist.
He informed me that we shouldn't have put the tooth back in. He suggested that the correct course of action would be to extract the tooth now, in case of infection, as the gum looks a little bit red. The tooth has been back in, and perfectly happy, for SEVEN MONTHS. Seriously? He wants to pull it out, just in case a slight redness of the gum is because it got infected when it was put back in seven months ago.
As the tooth in question is already wobbly, and likely to come out perfectly naturally in the next few months, I decided to go with his alternative (reluctant) offering of "wait and see". It's not that I don't take my son's dental hygiene seriously, or the protection of his teeth and gums, but I'd much rather keep an eye on a gum and see if it becomes any more red, and let LittleBear's tooth fall out of its own accord if possible, than inflict a tooth extraction on a small boy and potentially put him off dentists for life. I'm pretty certain that hating dentists and all their work would do his long-term dental health a lot more harm than "having a slightly red gum".
And I'm left with a Govian distaste for experts, having had two different dentists tell me diametrically opposite things about LittleBear's tooth. One of them must be wrong. And since I clearly don't want the one who agreed with my friend's actions, and who reassured me that I'd done the right thing to be the Wrong Dentist, I'm left being forced to disagree with the expert opinion of my current dentist. Who'll be looking at my teeth on Wednesday.
My lovely happy day has turned into a stressful, annoying day with a looming sense of dread at having to see New Dentist again, and find out all the things that are wrong with my teeth as well. I'm already worried about what he'll say about the wire that cements six of my teeth together...
Not to mention that horrible lurking sense of doubt about whether I've taken the right path, whether I've actually risked the development of LittleBear's big teeth, whether new dentist is right and that tooth is best off out, and always was best off out. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm being a bad mother. Maybe, maybe, maybe...
So now my Happy Day has been turned into a Fretful Week. Bother.
Sunday, 25 June 2017
MPP: Out of the mouths
Truly a mini-post today...
It is impossible to be sad on a day when your son says to you,
"Marks and Spencers always makes me think of Massospondylus."
I will never look at M&S in the same way again. Or Massospondylus. So here, for your pleasure, is a badly photoshopped Massospondylus in big pants:
It is impossible to be sad on a day when your son says to you,
"Marks and Spencers always makes me think of Massospondylus."
I will never look at M&S in the same way again. Or Massospondylus. So here, for your pleasure, is a badly photoshopped Massospondylus in big pants:
Definitely too fast
A short while ago, I wrote about my lovely boy growing up too fast. And now he's busy doing it again, and I'm not ready for this.
On Friday night, we had friend Piglet's little boy, who is 7, to stay for the night. He and LittleBear have known each other since before they knew what being friends was, and after the initial insane giddiness of having BoyPiglet staying, they had a lovely time, and both went calmly and happily to bed. Which was something of a surprise, if I'm honest. I was expecting mayhem.
However, BoyPiglet, being an older boy, and being quite capable of reading his own stories at bedtime, has a slightly different bedtime routine to LittleBear. BoyPiglet might have a parent read books to him at bedtime, but he also gets to read his own books until a parent comes back for Lights Out time. LittleBear thought this was a wonderful innovation. So wonderful that he wants to do the same thing.
So, last night BigBear read a story to LittleBear, snuggled up in bed together, and then... left him with his light on and a book to read... Ten minutes later I went up to turn the light off and kiss him goodnight. And I found that my beautiful boy had read two and half chapters of his book, on his own. And he declared, "this was the best bit of bedtime ever". And my heart broke a little bit.
I am so happy that he loves reading. I'm so happy that he wants to read. I'm so happy that he's discovering the joy of reading in bed before going to sleep. But I want to read to him. I want to have the warm, snuggly cuddles. I want to share his joy, and giggles and excitement as he explores new stories. And I know we'll carry on having bedtime stories, and we'll carry on having cuddles, and we'll carry on snuggling at bedtime. But this felt like a big and sudden step away from me. A step into indepence. A step into having his own world that I'm not a part of. A step that he's ready for. A step that he's delighted about, and that I cannot and should not spoil for him. But it's not a step I was quite ready for yet.
Don't go too far my baby. Don't go too fast.
On Friday night, we had friend Piglet's little boy, who is 7, to stay for the night. He and LittleBear have known each other since before they knew what being friends was, and after the initial insane giddiness of having BoyPiglet staying, they had a lovely time, and both went calmly and happily to bed. Which was something of a surprise, if I'm honest. I was expecting mayhem.
However, BoyPiglet, being an older boy, and being quite capable of reading his own stories at bedtime, has a slightly different bedtime routine to LittleBear. BoyPiglet might have a parent read books to him at bedtime, but he also gets to read his own books until a parent comes back for Lights Out time. LittleBear thought this was a wonderful innovation. So wonderful that he wants to do the same thing.
So, last night BigBear read a story to LittleBear, snuggled up in bed together, and then... left him with his light on and a book to read... Ten minutes later I went up to turn the light off and kiss him goodnight. And I found that my beautiful boy had read two and half chapters of his book, on his own. And he declared, "this was the best bit of bedtime ever". And my heart broke a little bit.
I am so happy that he loves reading. I'm so happy that he wants to read. I'm so happy that he's discovering the joy of reading in bed before going to sleep. But I want to read to him. I want to have the warm, snuggly cuddles. I want to share his joy, and giggles and excitement as he explores new stories. And I know we'll carry on having bedtime stories, and we'll carry on having cuddles, and we'll carry on snuggling at bedtime. But this felt like a big and sudden step away from me. A step into indepence. A step into having his own world that I'm not a part of. A step that he's ready for. A step that he's delighted about, and that I cannot and should not spoil for him. But it's not a step I was quite ready for yet.
Don't go too far my baby. Don't go too fast.
Friday, 23 June 2017
MPP: Double the fun!
Two reasons to be happy today!
Last night, Piglet and I went out to dinner at a sushi restaurant. Neither of our husbands eats sushi, so this was a delightful treat. Any dinner out with Piglet would have been fun, as we talk non-stop when allowed to by the absence of our children, but a dinner out with Forbidden Foods was even better.
Today I have booked a long weekend trip to go fossil hunting with LittleBear in August along the Jurassic coast. Just the two of us. LittleBear is more excited about this than any other part of his approaching summer holiday. And, because I have lovely palaeontological friends, one of them has promised to drop a word in the ear of his friend, the Chief Fossil Hunter, when we go on a fossil-hunting walk (also booked).
Footnote
Because I can't help myself, there are also downsides to the fossil hunting trip. The disappointment is that BigBear will not be with us. We have a dearth of annual leave, so aside from one week taken together in the middle of the holiday, we're having to tag-team the rest of the summer. I will therefore have two extremely long drives with just LittleBear. And I'll be sharing a double bed with LittleBear for three nights. But despite these things, I'm feeling almost as giddy as him at the prospect of going.
Last night, Piglet and I went out to dinner at a sushi restaurant. Neither of our husbands eats sushi, so this was a delightful treat. Any dinner out with Piglet would have been fun, as we talk non-stop when allowed to by the absence of our children, but a dinner out with Forbidden Foods was even better.
Today I have booked a long weekend trip to go fossil hunting with LittleBear in August along the Jurassic coast. Just the two of us. LittleBear is more excited about this than any other part of his approaching summer holiday. And, because I have lovely palaeontological friends, one of them has promised to drop a word in the ear of his friend, the Chief Fossil Hunter, when we go on a fossil-hunting walk (also booked).
Footnote
Because I can't help myself, there are also downsides to the fossil hunting trip. The disappointment is that BigBear will not be with us. We have a dearth of annual leave, so aside from one week taken together in the middle of the holiday, we're having to tag-team the rest of the summer. I will therefore have two extremely long drives with just LittleBear. And I'll be sharing a double bed with LittleBear for three nights. But despite these things, I'm feeling almost as giddy as him at the prospect of going.
Thursday, 22 June 2017
MPP: Anatomy 101
This is perhaps a bit of a cheat for today's Mini Positive Post, as the event actually occurred last week, but I was tidying the dining table today and found this picture, undertaken by LittleBear:
LittleBear undertook this masterwork with minimal intervention (BigBear was allowed to tell him how to spell certain words, but only from a distance, so that BigBear didn't inadvertently ruin the surprise by actually seeing the work prior to completion).
There are two particular things I love about this picture: firstly, the "poo pipe", because basically I'm a 5-year old at heart, and pooing and farting is funny; secondly the decision to write "intestine" in mirror writing, which reveals something wonderfully flexible about what writing is and should bein the mind of a small child. Or perhaps only in the mind of my small child. A data set of one is pretty limited. However, LittleBear wanted to label the intestines on the left of the picture, and he wanted to start the word beside the object, so the obvious solution was to write from right to left.
I love my LittleBear, and he makes me happy.
LittleBear undertook this masterwork with minimal intervention (BigBear was allowed to tell him how to spell certain words, but only from a distance, so that BigBear didn't inadvertently ruin the surprise by actually seeing the work prior to completion).
There are two particular things I love about this picture: firstly, the "poo pipe", because basically I'm a 5-year old at heart, and pooing and farting is funny; secondly the decision to write "intestine" in mirror writing, which reveals something wonderfully flexible about what writing is and should bein the mind of a small child. Or perhaps only in the mind of my small child. A data set of one is pretty limited. However, LittleBear wanted to label the intestines on the left of the picture, and he wanted to start the word beside the object, so the obvious solution was to write from right to left.
I love my LittleBear, and he makes me happy.
Wednesday, 21 June 2017
MPP: so far, so good
Foreword
I will preface all new posts that are part of my "trying to be a bit more positive" with MPP - Mini Positive Post.
A few months ago, we made the difficult, but utterly necessary, decision to terminate the employment of Problem Employee. Which was all well and good, but left us short-handed and struggling, again, to recruit the right person.
Three weeks ago NewBoy started. Already, he is undertaking quite tricky tasks independently (and getting them right). He listens to what I tell him. He does what I tell him. He asks me what I'd like him to do next. He asks intelligent questions, and makes helpful suggestions. He seems to not only be intelligent, but also competent and capable.
Previously, I attempted to train two muppets in a technical procedure, and it was a deeply depressing experience. I've trained NewBoy in the same procedure, and after only one attempt, he's now quite competently continuing independently. He made notes in his lab book without being told he needed to do so. He read the documentation I gave him about the purpose of the tests. and actually seemed to understand it.
It's all splendid so far, and I feel somewhat reassured that the issues with Problem Employee were not my failings.
I actually think we might have the Right Man for the Job.
This is awesome, and it makes me happy.
Fingers crossed...
I will preface all new posts that are part of my "trying to be a bit more positive" with MPP - Mini Positive Post.
A few months ago, we made the difficult, but utterly necessary, decision to terminate the employment of Problem Employee. Which was all well and good, but left us short-handed and struggling, again, to recruit the right person.
Three weeks ago NewBoy started. Already, he is undertaking quite tricky tasks independently (and getting them right). He listens to what I tell him. He does what I tell him. He asks me what I'd like him to do next. He asks intelligent questions, and makes helpful suggestions. He seems to not only be intelligent, but also competent and capable.
Previously, I attempted to train two muppets in a technical procedure, and it was a deeply depressing experience. I've trained NewBoy in the same procedure, and after only one attempt, he's now quite competently continuing independently. He made notes in his lab book without being told he needed to do so. He read the documentation I gave him about the purpose of the tests. and actually seemed to understand it.
It's all splendid so far, and I feel somewhat reassured that the issues with Problem Employee were not my failings.
I actually think we might have the Right Man for the Job.
This is awesome, and it makes me happy.
Fingers crossed...
Tuesday, 20 June 2017
Reporting bias
After my most recent miserable blog post, BigBear was prompted to comment that he didn't recognise the person writing as the person sat next to him - I only ever seem to be miserable in writing, which doesn't reflect the "me" that he knows. Since I was feeling miserable at the time, I came close to a knee-jerk reaction along the lines of, "but I do feel like this, so it must just be that you're failing to observe or care about my feelings." A calmer head prevailed, however, and I realised that BigBear was (rather irritatingly) right. I do tend to write more about negative feelings than positive. And I stopped to think about why.
I think there's more than one factor at work. For one thing, despite my very un-British willingness to talk about my feelings, I still possess a certain self-effacing tendency that makes me reluctant to paint a picture of bliss and harmony. Nobody wants to read about someone else's lovely life after all do they? The warts are far more interesting. And this sense that misery-blogging is more interesting to readers has been reinforced in my mind by looking at the statistics of my most-read posts - political ranting and emotional over-exposure have consistently attracted more visits than any other posts.
Besides which, we all know people who only ever portray the positive in their lives, who tell you about their perfect children, their extraordinary holidays, the wonderful meals out they've had, the impressive project they've just completed at work, the stylishly renovated listed building they live in. And I don't want to be either the person who seems to live in a perfect world, untouched by everyday stresses and strains, or the person who erects a facade of perfection that everyone knows is a facade and nobody feels able to broach, leaving me alone and isolated as I strive desperately to maintain an illusion of calm and beatitude because I dare not admit my failings publicly.
And then, there's everyday life. And, quite frankly, there are a lot of days that possess nothing in them of any great noteworthiness. Days that have their ups and downs, but barely contain enough interest to manage to sustain a conversation with my nearest and dearest, who might be presumed to care about the minutiae of my life, let alone being worthy of writing about.
So I thought I'd draw an utterly unscientific graph to illustrate my point. There are no absolutes here, no scales, no quantification, just a vague hand-waving towards the general shape of my life:
 |
| Totally made-up graph |
Mostly, I don't write about the boring, relatively happy, but uneventful stuff. Nor do I tend to write about the super, lovely, makes me sound smug stuff. Instead, I find it easiest to write about that which is notable, but not smug, i.e. the dips in my mood. And that means I am tending to depict myself as considerably more anxious and unhappy than the bigger picture would suggest. And there have been times in my life when I've been told, in rather unsympathetic terms, that all I ever do is complain...
So... I'm going to try an experiment. I'm going to try writing regular, short, posts in which I recount something upbeat from my life. In the past I've used this technique on paper as a deliberate strategy to force myself to focus on the positive. While recovering from post-natal depression I wrote in my "Happy Book" every evening at bedtime, and the rule I set myself was that I had to write something positive about my day with LittleBear. This not only gave me a book of happy memories to look back on, but also made sure I went to bed thinking about the good things that had happened during the day. This may mean I post rather more "isn't my adorable boy adorable" posts, because those are most of my happy moments, but it may also mean those of you who think I'm a miserable cow might discover I quite like life most of the time.
Naturally, as well as the new pseudo-micro-blogging happy posts, I shall maintain a background level of political ranting and anxious meandering. You've got to keep the punters happy after all.
Sunday, 18 June 2017
Tears of nothing
I'm sitting on the sofa, on a warm summer's evening, and feel like crying. And it's not entirely because I'm watching England playing rugby, though that experience has been known to induce tears in my fiercely competitive soul.
No, this time, the tears are just... nothing...
I've spent the weekend "glamping" (of which more another time) and seeing my family for BabyCousin's 40th birthday party. I guess he's not really BabyCousin any more. But he'll always be the littlest, and I have to differentiate him from the others somehow.
Really, I should be happy. Except...
... I saw my mother, my aunt, my brother, my niece and nephew, my cousins, their children, and assorted other relatives that are more or less related but defy description. And it feels as though I only managed to exchange a few sentences each with anyone, and at least 50% of those sentences were, "I'm tooooo hot and I don't like it!"And I was reminded how much time I used to spend with various parts of my family, and how much I used to enjoy doing so, and I feel a welling sadness at the passing of time, and the losing of connections, and the inevitable changes that growing older brings.
... I tried to spend time talking to my family, and so I neglected my LittleBear, who was rather forlorn, and for whom I hadn't provided enough toys or games. And he was very good, but I felt like a heel telling him to go and play on his own when there wasn't much for him to do. And I felt like even more of a heel because I didn't really gain much benefit from not playing with him in terms of talking to my family.
... I've woken up at 5am for the past two mornings as the sun streamed into my shepherd's hut (see reference to "glamping", above). I don't function when tired.
... my LittleBear has been poorly, in a vague sort of a way, since Thursday. He was sick (from an empty stomach, so not very sick) in the morning, and then fine. Since then, what with the heat, and the vague illness, and not sleeping well, he's now not really eating properly. And so now he's more-or-less-constantly tired, hot and low on energy. Therefore he whinges. And my reserves of sympathy and motherliness decrease in direction proportion to both my own tiredness and the ambient temperature. And once I start being crabby and short-tempered with a tired and pathetic little boy, I start to castigate myself for my own unkindness.
... I am, if I dare say so, a tad hormonal today. (BigBear did dare, and is alive to tell the tale).
... I drank a reasonable number of glasses of Pimms today. And, as everyone knows, Pimms contains gin. And, as everyone also knows, gin is Mother's Ruin.
In truth, I could probably chalk up all incipient tears to being due to insufficient sleep, and a surfeit of gin. But the rest of it feels like it matters more. Just now anyway.
No, this time, the tears are just... nothing...
I've spent the weekend "glamping" (of which more another time) and seeing my family for BabyCousin's 40th birthday party. I guess he's not really BabyCousin any more. But he'll always be the littlest, and I have to differentiate him from the others somehow.
Really, I should be happy. Except...
... I saw my mother, my aunt, my brother, my niece and nephew, my cousins, their children, and assorted other relatives that are more or less related but defy description. And it feels as though I only managed to exchange a few sentences each with anyone, and at least 50% of those sentences were, "I'm tooooo hot and I don't like it!"And I was reminded how much time I used to spend with various parts of my family, and how much I used to enjoy doing so, and I feel a welling sadness at the passing of time, and the losing of connections, and the inevitable changes that growing older brings.
... I tried to spend time talking to my family, and so I neglected my LittleBear, who was rather forlorn, and for whom I hadn't provided enough toys or games. And he was very good, but I felt like a heel telling him to go and play on his own when there wasn't much for him to do. And I felt like even more of a heel because I didn't really gain much benefit from not playing with him in terms of talking to my family.
... I've woken up at 5am for the past two mornings as the sun streamed into my shepherd's hut (see reference to "glamping", above). I don't function when tired.
... my LittleBear has been poorly, in a vague sort of a way, since Thursday. He was sick (from an empty stomach, so not very sick) in the morning, and then fine. Since then, what with the heat, and the vague illness, and not sleeping well, he's now not really eating properly. And so now he's more-or-less-constantly tired, hot and low on energy. Therefore he whinges. And my reserves of sympathy and motherliness decrease in direction proportion to both my own tiredness and the ambient temperature. And once I start being crabby and short-tempered with a tired and pathetic little boy, I start to castigate myself for my own unkindness.
... I am, if I dare say so, a tad hormonal today. (BigBear did dare, and is alive to tell the tale).
... I drank a reasonable number of glasses of Pimms today. And, as everyone knows, Pimms contains gin. And, as everyone also knows, gin is Mother's Ruin.
In truth, I could probably chalk up all incipient tears to being due to insufficient sleep, and a surfeit of gin. But the rest of it feels like it matters more. Just now anyway.
Monday, 12 June 2017
Never too early...
Over the past five and a half years, I have done my best to simply lead by example. Because, obviously, I make an awesome example to my son at pretty much everything. All joking aside, I have made sure that LittleBear knows that I am a scientist and BigBear is a programmer (or "expert at telling computers what to do" as we term it round these parts). I have made sure that LittleBear knows and sees that I can top up the oil in the car, drill holes in the walls, saw up pieces of wood, mend broken dinosaurs, make fancy-dress outfits, sew curtains, bake cakes and get tetchy when over-tired from doing all of the above. I've left it to BigBear to model non-stereotypical male behaviour such as watching and playing football, bicycle maintenance and beer-appreciation*.
And today, finally, came the day when LittleBear came out with a classic, retrograde, old-style girl-boy stereotype. "You should like pink more than white Mummy, pink is a girl's colour"
Before launching into my treatise on why this was a wholly incorrect and unacceptable statement, I demanded of my poor unsuspecting son who had told him this. It turns out, unsurprisingly, to have been one of his little friends.** And not just any friend, but the Friend who was literally designed for the phrase, "If Friend told you to jump off a cliff, would you?" Because LittleBear currently does whatever Friend tells him to do, to my great concern. LittleBear sings Friend's favourite songs. LittleBear mimics Friend's speech mannerisms. LittleBear adores Friend.
But I still, just about, have some sway with my son, so it was time to quash the views expressed by Friend.
So I launched into my treatise. At one point, I'm fairly certain LittleBear said, "yes Mummy, can I go and play now?" but I soldiered on regardless.
And, to give him his due, LittleBear did want to know why toy manufacturers make toys that are labelled as being for girls, and why they make them pink, rather than just making toys for all children, and making them in all sorts of colours. And at that point, I got stumped, because I thought adding the evil empire of profit-driven marketing and advertising onto the issues of structural sexism was too much for a Monday evening.
So in the end, we finished with, "colours are just colours, people are just people, and anyone can like anything. If anyone ever tells you that some colours are for girls and others are for boys, you can tell them your Mummy says they're wrong." Which will probably see him through at least the next 12.5 hours. Or approximately the length of time before he goes through the school gates again.
But no-one is going to tell me I haven't tried to raise a decent feminist child.
* This is a vicious calumny inserted for comedic purposes. LittleBear witnesses BigBear cooking, washing up, fixing things, playing lego, reading, writing, drawing, and assorted other activities. Not so much sewing or cake-baking, but you can't have everything!
** I was fully prepared to have a show-down with any adult who'd dared say such a thing to my child. Really, I am rabid on this issue.
And today, finally, came the day when LittleBear came out with a classic, retrograde, old-style girl-boy stereotype. "You should like pink more than white Mummy, pink is a girl's colour"
Before launching into my treatise on why this was a wholly incorrect and unacceptable statement, I demanded of my poor unsuspecting son who had told him this. It turns out, unsurprisingly, to have been one of his little friends.** And not just any friend, but the Friend who was literally designed for the phrase, "If Friend told you to jump off a cliff, would you?" Because LittleBear currently does whatever Friend tells him to do, to my great concern. LittleBear sings Friend's favourite songs. LittleBear mimics Friend's speech mannerisms. LittleBear adores Friend.
But I still, just about, have some sway with my son, so it was time to quash the views expressed by Friend.
So I launched into my treatise. At one point, I'm fairly certain LittleBear said, "yes Mummy, can I go and play now?" but I soldiered on regardless.
And, to give him his due, LittleBear did want to know why toy manufacturers make toys that are labelled as being for girls, and why they make them pink, rather than just making toys for all children, and making them in all sorts of colours. And at that point, I got stumped, because I thought adding the evil empire of profit-driven marketing and advertising onto the issues of structural sexism was too much for a Monday evening.
So in the end, we finished with, "colours are just colours, people are just people, and anyone can like anything. If anyone ever tells you that some colours are for girls and others are for boys, you can tell them your Mummy says they're wrong." Which will probably see him through at least the next 12.5 hours. Or approximately the length of time before he goes through the school gates again.
But no-one is going to tell me I haven't tried to raise a decent feminist child.
* This is a vicious calumny inserted for comedic purposes. LittleBear witnesses BigBear cooking, washing up, fixing things, playing lego, reading, writing, drawing, and assorted other activities. Not so much sewing or cake-baking, but you can't have everything!
** I was fully prepared to have a show-down with any adult who'd dared say such a thing to my child. Really, I am rabid on this issue.
Thursday, 8 June 2017
Glumness takes hold
Today's post will be brought to you in a series of vaguely disconnected half-thoughts, tangled up in a headache with a side-order of sciatica....
Today is election day. And I awoke feeling very depressed about it. Not glad that I live in a time and a place where I can vote. Or looking forward to making my voice heard. Or optimistic about the next five years.
Last time there was a general election, I went to quite some length to express my views as calmly and dispassionately as possible. I can't really be bothered this time. You're either with me or not. And there's only a couple of dozen of you reading this anyway. What does it really matter what I say?
There are two major factors that make me shrug my shoulders when I see anyone try and predict the outcome of the election. Firstly, there is the recent, and widely mocked, inability of the pollsters to accurately forecast how people are going to vote. Secondly there's our ridiculous electoral system. Just as a reminder, last election the percentage change in the vote was as follows:
Conservative +0.8%
Labour +1.4%
SNP +3%
LibDem -15.1%
UKIP +9.5%
Green +2.8%
And yet the change in numbers of seats was:
Conservative +28
Labour -24
SNP +50
LibDem -48
UKIP +1
And every time I look at those figures, I shake my head in disbelief. Not because they don't reflect the election bringing about the result I wanted, but because they're ridiculous. So, no matter the outcome today, I'm just nailing my rather tired colours to my rickety mast - I believe we would have a healthier democracy that would be more representative of the people if we implemented the recommendations of the Jenkins report and moved away from FPTP to an AV+ electoral system.
The upshot of which is basically I wouldn't be very surprised by almost any result, ranging from a massive Conservative landslide, through a narrow victory, a hung Parliament to a Labout squeak. Honestly, some days it feels like anything could happen, and I have no real gauge on how most people will vote, or how that will be reflected in actual seats. Because I live in a bubble. Not the oft-criticised filter bubble of social media, but a real-world bubble. My friends, for the most part, are liberal (with a small "l"). They're generally left-of-centre anyway. Some of them are more right-wing than I am, but they're in the minority. I go to the pub and find myself socio-politically aligned with most people I talk to. I sit at home and feel despondent with BigBear when we watch the news. My colleagues are generally left-leaning. Over lunch we discuss the burning issues of the day, and mostly have the same slant on them. I can't choose my family, so I don't talk politics with them, and besides which, I don't see any of them very often, and the only one I talk to frequently is a paid-up LibDem. So they never have a chance to prick the bubble of my leftism. Social media hasn't much to do with my bubble, which is physical and rarely impinged upon.
So I trundle along in that little bubble. People who care about the same things as me, who share common values and priorities, and who see the same solutions as me. And then I walk to the shops and see the front page of the vomit-inducing Daily Mail, and Sun, and Daily Express, and I realise that there are millions of people who think in a different way, who believe things that I find genuinely abhorrent, and I want to weep. And I know my small world is small, and my voice is quiet and ineffectual, and I am crying out in a storm.
Despite all that, I will be voting.
I will be voting against the funding cuts to LittleBear's school that will see them receive over £100,000 less every year.
I will be voting against scrapping human rights legislation, because it's not possible to take away the human rights of only "bad" people without taking away mine as well.
I will be voting against the continuing erosion of state support for those in need.
I will be voting against tax cuts for the wealthy and benefit cuts for the poor.
I will be voting against a rise in child poverty.
I will be voting against the creeping privatisation of the NHS.
If you are voting, or planning to vote, Conservative, it doesn't mean I don't like you, but it might well mean I hold you responsible when my son's school can't afford books; I might hold you responsible when my 26-year old friend with a brain stem injury doesn't receive sick pay because zero-hours contracts are such a great idea; I might hold you responsible for the next five years of austerity. I might not. I might just emigrate instead. Because at the moment, I don't really like this country any more.
Today is election day. And I awoke feeling very depressed about it. Not glad that I live in a time and a place where I can vote. Or looking forward to making my voice heard. Or optimistic about the next five years.
Last time there was a general election, I went to quite some length to express my views as calmly and dispassionately as possible. I can't really be bothered this time. You're either with me or not. And there's only a couple of dozen of you reading this anyway. What does it really matter what I say?
There are two major factors that make me shrug my shoulders when I see anyone try and predict the outcome of the election. Firstly, there is the recent, and widely mocked, inability of the pollsters to accurately forecast how people are going to vote. Secondly there's our ridiculous electoral system. Just as a reminder, last election the percentage change in the vote was as follows:
Conservative +0.8%
Labour +1.4%
SNP +3%
LibDem -15.1%
UKIP +9.5%
Green +2.8%
And yet the change in numbers of seats was:
Conservative +28
Labour -24
SNP +50
LibDem -48
UKIP +1
And every time I look at those figures, I shake my head in disbelief. Not because they don't reflect the election bringing about the result I wanted, but because they're ridiculous. So, no matter the outcome today, I'm just nailing my rather tired colours to my rickety mast - I believe we would have a healthier democracy that would be more representative of the people if we implemented the recommendations of the Jenkins report and moved away from FPTP to an AV+ electoral system.
The upshot of which is basically I wouldn't be very surprised by almost any result, ranging from a massive Conservative landslide, through a narrow victory, a hung Parliament to a Labout squeak. Honestly, some days it feels like anything could happen, and I have no real gauge on how most people will vote, or how that will be reflected in actual seats. Because I live in a bubble. Not the oft-criticised filter bubble of social media, but a real-world bubble. My friends, for the most part, are liberal (with a small "l"). They're generally left-of-centre anyway. Some of them are more right-wing than I am, but they're in the minority. I go to the pub and find myself socio-politically aligned with most people I talk to. I sit at home and feel despondent with BigBear when we watch the news. My colleagues are generally left-leaning. Over lunch we discuss the burning issues of the day, and mostly have the same slant on them. I can't choose my family, so I don't talk politics with them, and besides which, I don't see any of them very often, and the only one I talk to frequently is a paid-up LibDem. So they never have a chance to prick the bubble of my leftism. Social media hasn't much to do with my bubble, which is physical and rarely impinged upon.
So I trundle along in that little bubble. People who care about the same things as me, who share common values and priorities, and who see the same solutions as me. And then I walk to the shops and see the front page of the vomit-inducing Daily Mail, and Sun, and Daily Express, and I realise that there are millions of people who think in a different way, who believe things that I find genuinely abhorrent, and I want to weep. And I know my small world is small, and my voice is quiet and ineffectual, and I am crying out in a storm.
Despite all that, I will be voting.
I will be voting against the funding cuts to LittleBear's school that will see them receive over £100,000 less every year.
I will be voting against scrapping human rights legislation, because it's not possible to take away the human rights of only "bad" people without taking away mine as well.
I will be voting against the continuing erosion of state support for those in need.
I will be voting against tax cuts for the wealthy and benefit cuts for the poor.
I will be voting against a rise in child poverty.
I will be voting against the creeping privatisation of the NHS.
If you are voting, or planning to vote, Conservative, it doesn't mean I don't like you, but it might well mean I hold you responsible when my son's school can't afford books; I might hold you responsible when my 26-year old friend with a brain stem injury doesn't receive sick pay because zero-hours contracts are such a great idea; I might hold you responsible for the next five years of austerity. I might not. I might just emigrate instead. Because at the moment, I don't really like this country any more.
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