C is for...my children

How can you have two children, (whose names both just also happen to start with the letter 'C') bring them up the same, yet their characters are completely different?

Where do I start with Cameron, Trainee Chef and eldest son
Well, there’s only one Cameron, that's for sure! His character is his strength, and he really is a character; one of those once seen, never forgotten types. Despite his lazy tendencies, he’s razor sharp and has charm in abundance. He’d make a wonderful salesperson and is a natural leader. It wouldn't surprise me if he ended up famous; maybe a captain of industry or on the TV as a celebrity chef.

He appears strong, invincible, and occasionally madcap to the outside world. However, as his mother I know he’s often wearing an invisible shield, the one with feigned self-confidence and bravado. He’s at that age, nearly eighteen, (it must be hormones) when I wish I knew what was going on in his head. I try to talk. Sometimes he doesn’t want to. Sometimes he can’t. Sometimes I can’t shut him up. Sometimes he hates the world. I try not to nag or push too much but I can’t win. I’m a mother, which means on occasions I’m his emotional punch bag. My love is unconditional. He knows that, and that I’ll always be here for him. He tells me he loves me several times every day so I’m luckier than many who have teenage sons.

Cameron’s character will be the making of him. Everyone who meets him says he’s special. I hope in time he will see it for himself and make the most of it.

Chef Cameron; my crazy, characterful, Cancerian clown of a son

Then there's litle Callum, light of our lives. Callum, constantly cheerful and co-operative is still at ten years old considered cute. And thankfully, he’s also very cuddly although he can be cool with strangers. He's altogether quieter, more reserved than his elder brother, never crazy. He’s far too busy being cautious, sometimes fretting unnecessarily. He’s sharp too; intelligent and how he surprises us as the comedian.

Underneath the quieter façade, he’s the one with the confidence. He has a smile that will light up a room. He’s kind, loves animals, and is considerate. It’s a rare quality in one so young. Perhaps it’s my illness that has made him that way. And he has his own health issues to contend with. They think he may be showing signs of developing my Behcets disease. The tests have started. Only time will tell. When he has flare ups we lose our little ray of sunshine for a few days/weeks. His effervescence flattens like a bottle of pop left with the lid off. But most days he is chirpy and bright.

Cheerful, chirpy, Callum the cuddler, confident and calm.

So there you have my C words - Cameron and Callum. My Children.

'B' is for...BLUESTOCKING

I considered writing a bodacious blog about books. Books are my life. But then I had a thought. After all these months of blogging, Hubby asked me last week, why is your blog called ‘Bluestocking mum.’ So today, on the second day of the A-Z challenge, ‘B’ is for Bluestocking.

According to the Oxford definition, a Bluestocking is a woman with strong scholarly or literary interests.
The Bluestocking Society was founded in the early 1750s by Elizabeth Montagu (2 October 1718 – 25 August 1800.)

Being from a wealthy family, she had strong ties to the British peerage and intellectual life and when she married Edward Montagu, a wealthy man with extensive holdings she became one of the wealthiest women of her era. However she devoted this wealth to fostering English and Scottish literature and relief of the poor. And along with her friend, Elizabeth Vesey and several others they organised a women's literary discussion group - The Bluestocking Society - a revolutionary step away from traditional, non-intellectual, women's activities at that time.

The story goes that they invited various eminent men to attend, including the botanist, translator and publisher Benjamin Stillingfleet. Stillingfleet was not rich enough to have the proper formal dress, which included black silk stockings, so he attended in everyday blue worsted stockings.

They may have been fashionable glamorous people, but their work focused on the life of the mind. Through their correspondence, parties and meetings they rebranded the idea of sociability to embrace women's right to education and enlarged the boundaries of what women could think, write, and do. And thus the term ‘Bluestocking’ came to refer to the informal quality of the gatherings and the emphasis on conversation over fashion.

Until the late 18th century, the term referred to learned people of both sexes. However it subsequently became applied primarily to intellectual women. In time the name Bluestocking was applied solely to women of pedantic literary tastes. For a period, Bluestocking was a denigratory term, an insult, so much so, that it helped create a climate for generations of women who lived in fear of being labelled a 'bluestocking.' In the 19th century, the Brontë sisters and Mary Ann Evans (George Eliot) felt it necessary to hide their genius under male pseudonyms; in the 20th century the word conjured up images of desiccated female dons. The original 'blues' were much more various than this stereotype suggests, but their dilemmas about intellect, fashion and femininity are still with us today.

When I was researching, I discovered a couple of points from the archives that might to make you smile:
"Women don't become bluestockings until men have tired of looking at their legs.”

And, former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was described by the BBC in 1957 as "very pretty, and dresses most attractively. Very feminine ... her main charm was that she does not look like a career woman."

This is where my own experiences are relevant. Smart women have always had a problem. If you're clever and plain you can be dismissed as a bluestocking; high-minded but unable to get a man. If you're clever and sexy you're ten times worse, a bitch, you sleep your way to the top – perish the thought - a career woman. Fifteen years ago when I was appointed Branch Manager of Lloyds Bank Newport, Shropshire, there were very few women Bank Managers around. There was a fair amount of bitching about why I was given the role; I’d never worked in a bank before and goodness, I was only twenty seven. I was a woman. And oh yes, I was blonde.

I knew my appointment was controversial and had a huge desire to ‘prove myself.’ Intensely conscious of my image, I toned down my appearance, reverted to my natural brown hair colour instead of blond and had it cut in a bob and dressed in dark, business-like suits, wore tights/stockings on my legs(never bare-legged,) and natural peachy shades of makeup (no bright coloured lipsticks.) These were all attempts for me to be taken seriously.

I took over the role from a fifty seven year old dinosaur of a Manager who used to intimidate his customers and throw things at his staff. His lending was exemplary (no-one would dare default!) but he was not the future of Lloyds Bank. And in the fullness of time I was able to show why I got the job; on merit, because I was good with people. My role was about customer service, developing the staff, and sales, sales, sales. The bank was changing. The organism that adapts will survive.

Intellectual women have increased greatly in number since the Bluestocking days. Some 55% of new entrants to university are women and outnumber men at every level up to PhD. But from my own experiences I see how the struggle for the right to be clever, sexy and feminine goes on. The original 'Bluestockings' were our foremothers, the missing link in an unbroken chain of female creativity. Their work should never be forgotten.

So there’s my ‘B’ word. ‘B’ for Bluestocking.

Until another day

Bye for now

xx

A is for ...

Having just visited the lovely Talli Roland I noticed something strange is going on out there in Blogland starting today - An A - Z challenge for bloggers.

Well, I’ve joined the merry bandwagon.

Thinking about where to start isn't difficult. I want a positive start. You may see from recent blogs, I haven’t been feeling too positive lately, I've rather lost my mo-jo. Sometimes living with chronic health problems can get you down. And the last eighteen months have been more of a challenge for me than the last twenty five years. However, as someone who’s maxim is, ‘There’s no such word as Can’t,’ it’s time for me to try and get it back.

Nan used to tell me I could achieve anything if I wanted it and worked hard enough. So my word to start the A – Z Challenge is ACHIEVE.

I am going to achieve my short term goals;

- To finish my novel in time for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme.
- To get 100 followers on the blog.
- To blog every day during April.


What do you aim to achieve today/this April?


Until another day

Bye for now

xx

Another holiday bites the dust

I should be on my way to New York today. But I’m here, sitting at the island in our kitchen, looking out at the emerald green fields to the front of the barn.

A nearby farm house is cradled in a dip as if to keep snug from the elements. Outside the wind buffets the double glazing and shakes at the bird feeders on the trees until they slide off and scatter peanuts over the ground. The cat, his fur ruffled, darts across the garden like a thing possessed and pleads with urgent mews to come in. He cosies up alongside the dog that is at my feet. We all hide away.

I haven’t been well for weeks. I thought it was the after effects of my recent surgery. Then I supposed it was my age. Eventually I went to the doctors. An enlarged uterus was diagnosed. What now. More blood tests, an ultrasound showed nothing serious although I have to see a gynaecologist and have more investigations. Sometimes I get so sick of always having something wrong with me.

It got worse. After spending most of the weekend in bed, I woke on Monday morning with crippling stomach pains. Hubby had to rush me to A & E where we spent most of the day. Inflamed ovaries. As well as my Behcets disease, I’m now a menopausal old bag. No, that’s a little melodramatic - I’m not quite past it yet - I’m still producing hormones, they are imbalanced. It’s the peri-menopause. Great. It might go on for years.

We’re delighted to hear I will be allowed home with pain killers, as long as I rest. But we’re supposed to be going to New York on Thursday. It’s been planned for months. We had to cancel twice last year with my jaw problems.

'I’m afraid I can’t support a trip to New York.’ The doctor frowns and in a few short words shatters our day.

All I wanted was to go up the Empire State Building and re-live the moment in 'Sleepless in Seattle.' To see the Phantom of the Opera on Broadway and the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island ferry. And meet my cyber-friend Frances who I’ve been acquainted with for several years.

The hubby is brave and philosophical. We can't take the risk if something goes wrong while we're out there. And the insurance would be invalidated if the doctor won't support us going. The boys are stoic and cheerful. In the scheme of life it’s not important. It's just a trip. There will be other trips. But we all know I’m not really robust enough for city breaks. Better in the future stick to sunshine, pool, and writer’s holidays. When I come through the disappointment, I will bounce back as I always do, and tell myself there are people far worse off than me. And there are.

Something crashes outside. A garden chair has flipped back in the wind. Callum’s goalposts are strewn upside down in the neighbour’s garden. All I can think about is in the bedroom the clothes are all still draped over the clothes horse, ready to pack in the suitcases. Sometime today I shall have to put them all back in our wardrobes.

I’ll get over it. I always do. In the meantime, I’ll write - push on with the novel for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme. I won’t be having a few days break from it after all.


So until another day

Bye for now
xx

'Sick' writer. Help needed

When I opened the curtains this morning and looked out at the grey oppressive day, I could sooo easily have got back into bed and snuggled beneath the duvet.

I’m probably not the only one to think it today. Listening to Rabbi Lionel Blue give his ‘Thought for the Day’ on Radio 4 this morning, apparently the first Monday in February is known as ‘National Sickie day’ - the day of the working year when the highest numbers of employees are likely to call in sick. But he also suggested that getting down to work is often the best therapy for morning depression. Calling in sick might not be the answer for everyone.

His words struck a chord. When I was in the bank and had my health problems it would have been easy to go off sick. However, I often went into work when I shouldn't. One particularly bad day, I hobbled in to open the branch and keep some customer appointments. Mid-morning, I went to the doctor's for both feet injecting. I’d never had them injected before. He warned me it would be painful, the feet being made up of such small bones. He wasn't kidding. It must have been mild shock but afterwards, they had to make me a cup of tea and allow me to stay seated for a while so I didn’t pass out.

'Right, now off you go home, put your feet up and rest for a few hours until the injections take effect,’ my doctor said.

'Oh, no, I can’t do that,’ I replied, after I'd composed myself. ‘There’s too much to do. I have more appointments and a meeting later.’

'I can’t keep on patching you up and sending you back out there,' he said, half joking, half-serious. Then he added kindly, 'Why don't you give it up - go and write poetry - your body can't keep taking this. Sometimes you have to know when to give in.’

He couldn’t have known me very well. ‘Giving in' is something I'd never, ever done. And even a few months later, when I had to retire from the bank, I wasn’t about to start.

Since I left, it’s good to be able to sit down in the day if necessary, or go to the gym for a swim or a Jacuzzi. It often helps the pain and stiffness. But over the years, I've had to re-invent myself several times, adapting to survive and stay happy. Leaving the bank made me feel a bit of a failure. I started a little craft business but when my health got the better of that too, I found writing was my salvation; it distracted me, kept me 'busy,' stopped me dwelling, and becoming depressed. Writing keeps my brain alive. It makes me feel worthwhile – yes, I know being a good mother and housewife is worthwhile - but writing is something for me. It makes me feel I'm good at something.

The trouble is, I'm floundering. Two years on and there has been no success. The only thing that keeps me going is my dreams and determination. It’s my own fault. I haven't pushed anything I've written with any real conviction. If I'm honest, that's because I haven't finished much. Writers write. And I do write a lot, except once I've written it I delete it, put it in my slush bin, or play around with it for hours, hoping some new bud will miraculously spring upwards and make it a masterpiece. I procrastinate. I've blogged today, hoping I'll feel better for freeing up my mind. But the bottom line is I could have added a thousand words to my novel.

These days, my inability to work (not only writing) is sometimes a mental hurdle rather than a physical one. Something inside, some little worry worm, burrows into my brain and makes me doubt myself. Re-reading my last blog, I was full of good intentions, excited by the possibilities of what lay ahead. Here I am; no further forward. Despite this wonderful opportunity on the RNA New Writer’s Scheme, every day when I sit down to the second novel, I panic.

Lack of self-confidence and belief cripple me as much as a flare up in my wrists or fingers stop me from writing. I’ll never do it in time. I’m only up to 12,000+ words. How will I get it up to 90,000 and completed in time for August? Anyway, it’s not good enough. I’m not writing what I want to write - I’m not fun enough for chicklit/rom com – These are just a few examples of what's going on in my head.

Every few months my first novel pulls me back to it. I have an idea to take it somewhere completely different. I think it could work. Yes! Yes! Yes!

No.

I can’t do it. I’m not talented enough - I don’t have a degree in creative writing. Neither of my novels is any good. I’ll never be a published writer. Does this loop that's been going around in my head since the New Year make any sense to you, reader? I know the writers among you will be smiling. Having read some of your blogs, I’m aware that crises’ of confidence go with the territory of being a writer.

Rabbi Blue’s final points resonated most. ‘Don’t be defeated by perfectionism – even if you fall short of the task in hand, at least you can say you gave it a go.'
This is the crux for me. Being a perfectionist means finding happiness with myself is a continuous challenge. So for now, all I can do is keep 'having a go,' although I still don't know whether I should put all my energies into the first novel or the second.

How do you cope when you’re crippled by that lack of belief? How do you keep going? And for the writers among you, any tips for how I’m going to muster 80,000 words in the next six months would be appreciated too.

Until another day

Bye for now

x

New Year New Me (with new jaws)

A belated Happy New Year to all.

Christmas came and went in a blink, and with the dark nights (and days) still here for a few weeks, I’m fighting the doldrums. I don't know why. A year ago I was just about to go for my first lot of surgery. Here I am with it all behind me, everything to look forward to.

I’m always the same at this time of year. Perhaps it’s the anti-climax, the realisation that (yet) another year has passed; knowing you’ve put too much weight and drunk too much and it’s going to be an uphill struggle, and you still haven’t achieved all the things you planned to do last year.

However the one thing I like about January 1st is it’s a time to wipe the slate clean. I can put the past behind me, dream the dreams of everything I’d like to do; re-evaluate and make changes.

Usually in January, I’m full of renewed vigour and set myself a mountain of resolutions and projects ‘to do’ that very quickly get broken or fall by the wayside. I did it last year, then with my health problems and the operations spent much of the year beating myself up about what I was unable to do and didn’t achieve.

Why do we do that – set ourselves up to fail? Why are we so hard on ourselves?

The trouble is, my brain is still alive (even though my body might not always do what I’d like it to,) and I need something to keep me going or some days with the Behcets disease, I might prefer to curl up under a stone.

What’s the answer?

Well, a slightly more pragmatic me has raised myself after the Christmas/winter slumber this year. I’ve decided to cut myself a little slack. Let’s face it, who knows what’s round the corner, (especially with my health.) So I’m not going to make any resolutions. I need aspirations rather than resolutions – and aspirations that are realistic and achievable. Let’s face it, I’m never going to win the Booker,I’ll never be able to run a marathon and I don’t suppose I’ll get a nomination for ‘mum of the year’ any time soon. I’m going to focus more – and pick one or two key aspirations rather than make a shopping list.

To do this I start by asking myself, ‘If you could choose one thing that you'd really like to do, just one thing, that would enrich your life and make you happy, what would it be?’

It’s easy to answer. I've been desperate to get back to writing. It’s a cliché but writing is my passion and I’m pleased to announce I have been accepted again on the Romantic Novelist’s Association’s New Writer’s Scheme.

The first aspiration therefore follows - to finish my second novel, Country Strife and get it off to them for critiquing. The second is something I’ve been talking about for long enough. With the surgery behind me there are no more excuses - oh yes, except my illness, and life which sometimes has a habit of getting in the way - but you will be pleased to learn I’ve actually STARTED that non-fiction book I’ve kept talking about. Living (and smiling through) long term illness and/or pain.

That’s it. Nothing else. If all I achieve by the end of 2011 are those two things I shall be very pleased with myself.

Now it’s over to you - same question - ‘What is the one thing that you would really like to do – just one thing, (however small) that you keep telling yourself you would do, if only you had more time, more money, more motivation…’

You don’t need to write a book. It might be something simple like write your memoirs, start piano lessons, call an old friend, volunteer. As long as it’s something you would really, really like to do. Another true cliché – life is too short. It’s time to grasp it, get on with it. Carpe Diem – seize the day!

After all the hurdles and hindrances I encountered in 2010 I shall spend this year living a creative, joyous and fulfilling life.

Just like my second novel, a new chapter in life is waiting to be written…

So until another day


xx

Christmas Blessings

In a weeks time it will all be over. That’s what Nan would say if she was still here.

Well, I don’t want it all to be over. In fact, I don’t mind if Christmas Day doesn’t come at all. Suspend this day, and the other days that lead up to December 25th because for me, it’s the build up, the anticipation which fills me with the joy of Christmas; decorating the house, bringing the food in, meeting up with friends, hearing from people who we only hear from at this time of year.

On this run up to Christmas, I always find it’s the one time of the year when people give a little more, act a little nicer and for some, be the people they want to be all year round. A while back I read somewhere, "I wish we could put up some of the Christmas spirit in jars and open a jar of it every month." It made me smile although this year despite (or maybe because of) the extreme weather, I find there's a great spirit everywhere. It's as I’d imagine the Dunkirk spirit; people being stoical and cheery despite the circumstances, helping each other, being extra thoughtful and looking out for those vulnerable people like the sick and elderly.

Listen to me and my ‘God Bless us, everyone.’ Perhaps I’m getting older but I often find myself melancholy and reflective around this time. When I hear of people killed in car accidents, think of our men and women in the Armed Forces, learn of someone who’s having a tough time, I always feel a little more for them if it's close to Christmas, aware that from now on, instead of Christmas being a time of joy and happiness, it will always be a little bit worse.

My Granddad died just before Christmas the year before I was born and it was also his birthday in December. When I was a child, I remember asking Nan why she had sad eyes one Christmas. Now I understand why. Christmas is a sad time for many people. Spare a thought for some of my friends;
Kate Hardy has just lost her dear Dad. B, my lovely neighbour, started chemotherapy on Friday knowing she has secondary cancer. Despite numerous scans and tests they can’t find the primary source. J, one of my dearest, longest standing friends will once again spend Christmas without her husband. He’s only sixty-five but has Alzheimer’s and has been in a care home for the last few Christmas's. J will have her family around this Christmas and her friends will all be there for her, yet I understand how there may be times when she'll be in a roomful of people, yet still feel like the loneliest person in the world. Then there’s Mr Woozle. They say time’s a great healer but I bet as he faces the first anniversary of his beautiful wife’s passing, it doesn’t feel much like that.

Bless those of you who have troubles and worries in your life and know that I am thinking of you. If I could grant you one wish it is that I could take your troubles away. Of course I can’t do that so I hope instead of being sad for the whole Christmas you might spend some of the time re-living happy memories and smiling.

As I recover from my surgery there is a lot to be thankful for. Who would have thought I’d be able to eat my Christmas dinner, chomp on nuts and sing carols. Despite all the grief and worry he’s caused us, Idle Jack has a job when many don’t. And I'm thankful too that hubby is still in work. A year ago we didn’t know what might happen when his company were taken over. Spending the week in London is a small price to pay. Quiet Mousie has health worries (he’s showing signs of developing my Behcets disease) but with a wonderful Professor of Rheumatology at Birmingham Children’s hospital looking after him and a Mum who understands the disease, we can help him manage it. And let’s be especially thankful, he’s not going to die from it. Some children won’t be so fortunate this Christmas...

As mine rip open their presents on Christmas morning, I shall be reminding them that it’s not about what you get. It’s about what you give too; friendship, love and support to those who need it most.

I have everything I want for Christmas; a full fridge, the log burner exuding warmth, my lovely family and the best friends in the world, and for now, I’m grateful that my health is holding up - health is everything. So yes, I’ll be counting my Christmas blessings this year more than ever, surgery behind me and with much to look forward to.

On that subject, can I take this opportunity to thank you all for your support and kind messages throughout the year.

I wish you all the joys of Christmas and happiness throughout 2011.

Until another day

God bless us, everyone.
xx