Limpet-Baby

The four-month sleep regression, teething and a raging cold has hit the little man hard.  From a steadily improving nocturnal situation we are right back to waking every hour and a half at night, constantly wanting to nurse, and not wanting to be put down.  Ever.  Not for a minute.  Nada.  He will thankfully still nap in his basket for 40 minutes at a time, but lordy, it’s the shortest 40 minutes in the world.  The space in between naps is currently spent standing up and jiggling; sitting-down jiggling (i.e. if mum is putting in less than 100% effort) is Absolutely Unacceptable.  When my arms get too tired, or I need to do something that requires both hands, I start switching between my fleet of baby-carriers (baby-wearing has literally saved my sanity.  In fact, right this minute, wee man is fast asleep on my back, lulled into dreamland by the walk back from the pre-school drop off.  I should probably attempt to pop in into his bed, but I’m just enjoying this moment of peace far too much….I mean, my coffee AND my toast are both being consumed HOT, for crying out loud!  Ain’t no-one gonna mess with that heavenly situation).

I’ve been to Limpet-Baby-Land once before with the now-preschooler, and I know it doesn’t last long, although it feels like forever at the time.  So, while I am in the thick of it, here is a list of complaints my top 5 favourite things to do whilst holding, breastfeeding or wearing a 5 month old baby:

1. Dealing with a mega toddler-wobbler.  Preferably in public, and especially if it involves sitting down and refusing to move (at top volume).  Like, last week, when she asked for a kinder egg from the infuriatingly cleverly positioned child-height display right next to the till in the Co-Op.  “No, because we are about to have lunch.  And – do you know what, I shouldn’t have to provide an essay of reasons.  ” Cue a tantrum that made people nervously avert their eyes and glance around the shop to check whether the owner of this heaving mess had stuck around to deal with it.  You know when you have used your Excellent Calm Parenting in Public Voice to ask your toddler to remove themselves from the dirty shop floor 18 times with no results, and resort to whispering TV-based bribes to make them move because the baby has chosen this very moment to turn into a writhing contortionist, and the shopping is spilling all over the floor, and smoke has started coming out your ears… Yeh.  You know.

 

2. Cooking dinner.   Hot pans, gas stove, sharp knives, grabby baby, what could go wrong?  Preparing dinner is not a time when my parenting skills shine; I absolutely always occasionally employ the digital babysitter to distract the Big One, and then switch between a cooing baby on my hip or strapped to my chest trying to reach hazardous shiny kitchen implements, and a grizzly little bear crying in his highchair when I need to do the really dangerous stuff like open the oven door.   There is a good reason why my family is subsisting on the same quick, easy (and very boring) rotation of meals at the moment.

 

3. Using a Public Loo. Best case scenario here is that there is a baby changing unit in a spacious disabled cubicle with its own toilet and sink.  Worst case (and more common) scenario is when Mum has once again under-estimated the weakened state of her pelvic floor and is in a mad dash to find a loo, any loo, and ends up cramming herself, the baby and the toddler into a tiny cubicle where the toddler has to stand on the toilet in order to get the door closed.  There is nowhere to put the baby down, and she left the carrier in the car, so is performing a mad juggling act with babe, buttons and underwear, hissing at the toddler not to touch ANYTHING, all while trying not to pee herself.   She then discovers that she has chosen the only cubicle with no loo roll, and the soap dispenser has obviously run out.  Don’t even get me started on the hand dryer that both kids are terrified of, which is set off by every person that walks within 6 foot of it.

 

4. Online banking. Or any task requiring a computer.  The only time this works fabulously is when sleepy bub is strapped to your back.  Even sleeping in a front carrier results in aching gorilla arms from sitting at an awkward position and stretching around your somnolent bundle to reach the keyboard.  Holding a wide awake baby whilst trying to touch type invokes a level of frustration I wouldn’t wish on anyone.  And then bring the toddler into the mix.  “Ohhhh look Mummy, a big RED button!” “Noooooo that’s the Off Button…..and I hadn’t press ‘Save’ yet.”  Brain = Explosion.  Take my advice and save the computer tasks for after rascals darlings are in bed, folks.

 

5. Emptying a potty. This has obvious sanitary hazards, but even having both hands free does not guarantee a safe outcome.  Take for example, the time that Molly did (in her own words) “the most huge-enormous poo in the WORLD” on the potty, as I was feeding the little-un on the sofa.  Luckily it was a weekend so I delightedly heaved clean-up duty onto my husband (the baby had actually finished feeding but I kept him in place to avoid poop-patrol – it’s a great technique, don’t tell anyone).  Unfortunately, as he dashed out of the room to find the packet of wet-wipes that always goes missing at such crucial moments, his foot caught the back of the brimming potty, and I swear the world slowed down as the huge-enormous product of my daughter’s digestive system flew through the air…..landing on the (cream) carpet.  Guess who got lumped with that clean up?  It was probably karma for fake-feeding.

 

Rewriting The Dictionary

It’s not exactly breaking news that having kids changes your life in ways you never even anticipated.  Sleepless nights, curtailed social life, all the clichés.  I have realised though, that as well as daily life taking on a whole new form, even words have come to have new meanings, with thoroughly different definitions found in the Before Children (B.C.) Dictionary versus After the Deluge (A.D.).  I have taken the liberty of articulating a few extracts from both dictionaries….

 

TEA  noun /ti:/

B.C.  A drink made by pouring hot water onto cut and dried leaves of the tea plant.  A stereotypical staple of the discerning Brit.  Always offered within 30 seconds of arriving to any social situation.  Usually enjoyed steaming hot out of a favourite mug with two digestives to dunk.

A.D.  A drink made by pouring thrice boiled water (because you keep forgetting to actually make the damn cuppa) onto cut and dried leaves of the tea plant.  Either reheated in the microwave several times, or gulped with a grimace when lukewarm.  Usually just out of reach of the breastfeeding mother, alongside the T.V. remote, snacks and her phone.

 

DATE (meeting) noun /deɪt/

B.C.  An occasion when two people who are married, or who are in a relationship, go out together in the evening to enjoy themselves, participating activities such as drinking, eating, going to the cinema, bowling, music gigs, etc.

A.D.  An occasion when two people with children organise a babysitter, spring-clean the house to escape judgement from the babysitter, buy the babysitter a nicer pizza than the one they will eat in the restaurant and bribe the children to be little angels for the babysitter with promises of limitless treats and TV.  They finally escape the house after over-explaining every possible bedtime scenario to the babysitter, and double checking that they have the list of 78 emergency phone numbers.  They spend their entire child-free evening talking about their children.

 

CLOTHING  noun /ˈkləʊ.ðɪŋ/

B.C.  Items such as dresses, trousers or shirts, used to cover, protect or decorate your body.  Usually chosen for the shape, cut or colour to flatter your body shape and/or features, or to suit a task, activity or situation.  Stored neatly folded in drawers or hanging in wardrobe.  Bi-annually cleared out and rearranged according to changing seasons or fashion trends.  Regularly updated with exciting leisurely shopping trips or online splurges.

A.D.  A rotating selection of holey leggings, ugly breastfeeding tank-tops, oversized plaid shirts and various items of mens’ clothing.  Chosen purely for their elasticity and whether or not they pass the ‘sniff-test’.  All items feature an attractive range of stains, including but not limited to: milk, spit-up milk, full-blown vomit, yogurt, pasta sauce, and on really bad days, human excrement.  Mainly stored unfolded in washing baskets or on the clothes horse. Never ever cleared out, resulting in a thin layer of clothes that actually fit and are worn, on top of a foot of items that are now too small, too young, too outdated or too impractical.  Despite being fully aware of these items and feeling mildly irritated by them on a daily basis, they will not get thrown or given away for a number of years as you hold on to a small sliver of optimism that they will one day come back into fashion/fit again/stretch/be needed for that huge glitzy party.  Know deep down that the only thing they will ever be used for again is for your kids’ fancy dress box.

 

SHOPPING  noun /ˈʃɒp.ɪŋ/

B.C.  The activity of buying items from shops, for example food. A food shopping trip will typically follow this pattern: Drive to shop listening to Radio 2.  Arrive at supermarket and take seven sturdy reusable shopping bags out of the boot.  Push trolley around supermarket at leisurely pace, working your way methodically through sensible shopping list, based on healthy and budget-friendly meal planning.  Add a couple of packets of posh biscuits and a case of craft beer – you only live once.  Pay for shopping, remembering to use loyalty card.  Load shopping into reusable bags according to food group and refrigeration needs.   Load into boot.  Drive home.  Unpack quickly, thanks to pre-sorting at the till. Have a cup of tea.  Have a little nap.

A.D.  The activity of buying items from shops, for example food. A food shopping trip will typically follow this pattern: Spend an hour packing the changing bag, persuading the toddler to put her shoes on, and strapping the children into their various 63-point harness car seats.  Completely forget shopping list and bags.  Drive to shop listening to Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom at top volume in an effort to keep the toddler awake. Arrive at supermarket and change the baby’s diabolical nappy and entire outfit on the front passenger seat while the toddler whinges that she wants to get out of the car.  Strap baby into front carrier and coax toddler around the shop while she whinges that she wants to get back in the car.  Eventually wedge her into the trolley seat that she is too big for and open unpaid-for snacks in order to buy yourself 5 minutes peace.  Seriously regret lack of shopping list, and start speed-grabbing random items off the shelves as baby starts making his hungry noises.  Throw food onto checkout to a cacophonic symphony of crying and whinging.  Curse toddler for rearranging your wallet yet again.  No hope of a loyalty card, bloody lucky that the debit card is still there.   Purchase yet more reusable bags that will be used once and then forever reside in the bulging bag cupboard in the kitchen.  Throw food and children into car.  Drive home.  Dump food bags on the floor.  Hope there is nothing frozen in there – that lot’s staying put till the hubbie gets home.  Plug screaming baby onto boob.  Give toddler free rein of the remote control.  Vow to do an online shop next week.  Have a little cry.

Bank Holiday Beach Blunders

When the heat wave came in June, everyone joked that we had seen the British summer in its entirety, and that Autumn would be commencing post-haste. Chortle chortle chortle.  In the depths of Cornwall, that sultry weekend of soaring mercury was followed by two months of low-lying cloud, mizzle, jumper-wearing and a complete loss of any weather-related sense of humour.  BUT, after an August that has barely seen temperatures exceed 18°C, the bank holiday weekend performed a ninth-hour summer holiday miracle.  OK, it’s been 23°C with rapidly chilling evenings, but in the Queen’s English, this means a trip to the beach.  We have had lovely friends staying over the long weekend with their toddler, so our group consisted of a 5 month old baby, two barely potty-trained two-and-a-half-year-olds, two sleep-deprived mums, and two beer-deprived dads.  Basically the group that you DON’T want to be sat next to on the beach.  Our day went something like this:

Night before: Google weather forecast and decide to just ‘get up and go’ in the morning, affording everyone maximum sand and UV exposure.

7am: Toddler A wakes up.

7.02am: Everyone else is woken up wakes up.

7.30am: Sleepy good mornings, polite enquiries into the quality of each other’s sleep and communal tea-guzzling.

8am: Discussion about plan for the day resulting in reiteration of last night’s plan to make a quick picnic, pack a beach bag, and crack on.

11am: Leave for the beach.

11.15am : Arrive at the car park of the beach that we have chosen in our smug local knowledge of secret spots unknown to tourists and rarely frequented by locals on account of the mammoth scramble short walk from the car park.  Load ourselves up for the trek, with rapidly changing standards of what qualifies as essential beach gear. Make the daring decision to leave the potty in the car.

11.30am: Fully loaded, wake up both toddlers who fell asleep five minutes before we arrived.  Avert meltdowns by shoving an ice cream at each of them – it will give them some energy for the walk; the adults have enough to carry as it is.

11.40am: Toddler A is put on Dad A’s shoulders after insufferable dawdling.

11.45am: Toddler B is put on Dad B’s shoulders after all-consuming jealousy for Toddler A’s mode of transport.

12.30pm: Finally arrive at beach.  Baby is cooing contently in his carrier.  Both mums are sweating heavily and swearing quietly.  Both dads are covered in ice-cream from the shoulders up and have possibly suffered permanent neck damage.  Both toddlers are shrieking with delight from the sugar high at the sight of the beach.

12.35pm: Both Dads head immediately for an hour’s swim a quick dip to refresh themselves after the hike.  Mums pin down squirming toddlers to douse them in sun-cream, bemoaning the fact that they didn’t find time to do this in the three hours it took to leave the house.  Get so focused on making sure that the kids are so lathered up that they take on a shiny beige tinge that all adults completely forget to apply any sun cream to themselves.

1.30pm: Massive regret at the decision to forgo the potty as Toddler A announces that she needs a poo (our tourist-free beach features a distinct lack of toilet facilities).  While the adults discuss how best to handle this, she takes matters into her own hands, squatting to do her business right next to the picnic rug.  Parents B collapse into mirth and make increasingly hilarious unhelpful suggestions while Parents A have a heated discussion about who is responsible for the cleanup.

2pm: Parents B pretend not to notice as Toddler B picks cheese out of sandwich, disregards all bread and fruit, and fills up on crisps.  It’s too sunny for fighting.

2.10pm: Toddler A does another poo.  Parents B find this extremely amusing once again.  Toddler B then announces that she needs a poo too.  Their hilarity subsides rapidly.

2.30pm: Mum B discovers the joys of trying to breastfeed an overtired wriggling baby discreetly on a sandy picnic rug while wearing a swimming costume that she bought before gaining the pregnancy weight. After significant rocking, pacing, cuddling and boob-flashing, she resorts to lying next to him on pile of towels under sun parasol until he feeds himself into oblivion.  Edges away achingly slowly when he is finally asleep.  Takes photo to prove what a chilled beach-babe he is.  Remembers to put boob away.

2.45pm: Parents all take it in turns to diffuse toddler-sized battles over precious gemstones rocks from the beach, and fights over sandcastle demolition (the politics of this are evidently complicated – they appear to be having a great time but will erupt without warning if a particularly special castle is scarified).  Decide it is time to crack open our beers.  Feel decadent as we sip our barely cold Coronas.

2.30pm: Another poo.

3.15pm: All regret the beers as our bladders swell.  Mum B saunters nonchalantly into the FREEZING water trying not to make it obvious that she has only gone waist deep for one reason.  After some outright bullying gentle persuasion from Dad B, she submerges herself and has a minor coronary at the temperature.  After two and a half minutes she exits the water, admittedly feeling refreshed, and probably looking like that Bond girl as she flicks her wet hair back.  The selfie feature on her phone reveals that shivering prawn might be closer to the mark.

4pm: Start to brush sand off toddlers in preparation for the walk back to the car.  Quickly realise that this is futile and just plonk their dresses on over the thick layer of sand. Back on Dads shoulders.  How did this walk become twice as long?

4.45pm:  Finally arrive back at the cars sweating profusely.  All marvel at the fact that the walk back from a beach always seems to be uphill.  It must be a geographical fault.  All agree that a swift pint at the pub would be the ideal way top off a marvellous day and cool our strained sweat glands.

4.50pm: Have three phone conversations in 10 minutes about the fact that both toddlers are crashing hard in their car seats.  Agree to forgo the pub.

5pm: Arrive home and extricate two hot, sticky, overtired demons toddlers from the cars. Both have a complete and utter meltdown.  Settle them on sofa in front of Cbeebies, trying not to think about how sandy they are.  Crack open cold beers all round and feel grateful for toilet facilities.  Start to feel the repercussions of forgetting to put any sun cream on any adult.  All reflect on what a marvellous day has been had, aren’t we clever to make the most of the sun – Autumn will probably start tomorrow.

 

 

Sharing Is Caring – A Tale Of Travelling Trauma

It may be an unfortunate egotistical flaw of the human condition, but there are times, particularly when one is having a pig-sty of a day, when one’s mood can be brightened, just a little, by another’s misfortune.  This is never truer than when learning to navigate the sleepless, filthy and terrifying realms of New Parenthood.  It’s why brutally honest parent-blogs and insta-accounts are so popular.  It’s the very reason for having mummy-friends who will text you to share that they have just discovered tiny-human excrement on their face after going to the supermarket, post office and primary school pick up.  It could be outright schadenfreude, or just a sense of relief that there are others enduring bleak times too.  Whatever it is, even if it is a little mean, hearing of others’ blundering or suffering, particularly in similar circumstances to yourself, means that at that moment, relatively speaking, you are doing well.

A friend of mine once didn’t show up for a scheduled walk.  I later discovered that after she had put her one year old down to nap as usual (awake, happy and in her own bed – cue the green eyed monster right now), she heard increasing and unusual noises from upstairs.  She crept up to investigate, thinking that babe had kicked off her covers or dropped her teddy, intending to quietly rectify the small discomfort and once again retreat to a blissfully quiet naptime.  In this aim, she made the colossal mistake of not turning the light on before reaching into the crib to comfort her babe.  Upon doing so, she made the delightful discovery that Houdini-junior had removed her onsie and nappy, and had spent the last 10 minutes happily sat in the dark, spreading the (solid) contents of said nappy over herself, her bedding, the crib rails, the wall……everything in reach.  I don’t even know how you begin to clean that up.  We didn’t see either of them for a few days, and I’m not entirely sure that the hysterical laughter upon hearing the story for the first time was helpful. It’s about a year later now, and I think she is just starting to see the funny side….?

Anyway, enough laughing at others, my early Christmas gift to y’all is a laugh at my expense, so feel free to forward this on to anyone having a crappy day, but particularly to frazzled new mums and dads who can’t see the light at the end of these days that are the best of times, but the toughest of times.

So.  Molly and I recently embarked on a micro-adventure to visit some family ‘oop Norrth’ (ok, Sheffield) for a long weekend.  Rather than commit myself to 7 hours in the car with a toddler (i.e. HELL), we booked a super-cheap, super-quick flight from Newquay airport.  Modern day genius.  Despite having booked my ticket in my married name, forgetting that my passport has not been updated yet (modern day imbecile), everything went smoothly outbound flight, and Miss M was entranced to be on a real life airplane.

But this story really begins on the return flight.  After a wonderful visit, we were once again boarding a plane, and once again, so far so good.  I settled a cheerful and co-operative Molly on my lap to look out the window, bottle of water to chug on in case her ears went pop, all in all feeling very smug at how well I had handled solo travelling with a toddler.  But 10 minutes into the flight, I was rudely interrupted from my daydreams of effortless and extensive world travels with my perfect pint-sized sidekick.  Having been beautifully well behaved suspiciously quiet during takeoff, my impeccable companion proceeded to produce an unspeakable amount of vomit – on herself, on me, on the seat, on the window, and best of all, straight into her boots that were on the floor directly below her.  Now, Molly was never a pukey baby; we were lucky to escape with the odd little spit up.  But about every six months or so, she decides that we have gotten off too lightly in this department, and she conjures up (without any warning, and with an almost instantaneous recovery), more vomit than I ever could have imagined exiting someone who weighs less than two stone.  The last time this happened, Joe was carrying her up to bed, a sleepy angel nestled into his arms.  Mid-staircase, she woke up, sat up, and……….yup.  I don’t know how or why Joe managed to turn in a 360 degree circle as she projectiled, but the carnage was unbelievable.  Even better, we were at the time living with his parents in their new house.  Thankfully my wonderful mother-in-law didn’t have a complete meltdown at the state (and smell) of her stairs; she simply declared that the carpet was past saving, tore it up, and prescribed us all a large glass of Prosecco to recover.

But I digress.  Back to The Best Flight Ever.  It took the time for the smell to waft down the length of the plane for the (amazing) cabin crew to realise what was going on, during which time I don’t think I had even started to react.  Thankfully the most wonderful air hostess came to my rescue, and armed with bin bags and medical issue gloves, helped me strip off the little stinker and attempt to get the worst of it off myself.  At this point I realised quite how saturated I was, featuring Every Single Piece of my clothing apart from my bra.  Oh yes.  So we hobbled down to the front of the plane, muttering apologies to the barely polite faces of my fellow passengers, and the lovely air hostess hero rocked and comforted my stinking, grizzling, naked baby while I completely stripped off behind a curtain measuring about 17cm, INCLUDING MY PANTS.  For you North American readers, that means UNDERWEAR.  Basically the lucky occupants of rows A, B and C were treated to the strip show of nightmares: a sweating, pregnant lady covered in puke, trying and failing to cling onto her dignity behind a handkerchief of a curtain, accompanied by an air hostess having the worst day of her career (but not taking her clothes off), to a harmonious sound track of screeching toddler.  When we finally got back to our seat, Molly made a miraculous recovery, and by the time the seat belt sign went on, was loudly telling the whole plane all about the gin and whiskey bottles pictured on the menu card, while I shrank lower and lower into my (still smelly) seat.

“How was your flight darling?” sang my bright and breezy husband, delighted to have clocked off work an hour early for an airport pick up, as we dragged ourselves through Arrivals.

“Ask your daughter”.

Lessons of a Building Site

Some Short Thoughts On Bringing One’s Very Clumsy Wife To Work

I like to think I can turn my hand to most jobs, and at least give it a good go.  But last week I found myself helping out on a building site (I think ‘labouring’ might be a stretch); and I feel as though some good lessons were learned.

Perhaps some background detail is needed here.  We arrived back in the UK four months ago, after an incredible two years in Canada.  Since we got back, we have been living in a sit-com worthy set-up with an age range of 1 to 90, in a beautiful house in Cornwall with the lovely in-laws.  Joe (the hubbie) is earning our keep by single-handedly building a driveway, garage and extension.  Hence how, on an overcast Wednesday, I found myself cast in the role of Cornwall’s newest and greenest hired hand.

I truly enjoyed ‘working’ with Joe on the garage, and felt like I gained a small insight into what he has been doing for his last two years of work.  So often, we wave our partners goodbye at 8am, complete with packed lunch and embarrassing note.  Then we live through our day separately, reconnecting at 5 or 6pm with no real idea of what the other has been doing, but often convinced that the other has had the easier day (this is particularly applicable to the first year with a baby!).  The who’s-more-tired, who’s-worked-harder fight is easy to fall into but it’s a nasty trap.  Having experienced a little glimpse of a carpenter’s typical day, I hope that I will be able to resist the resentment that sometimes rears it’s head after a day of nappy explosions and nap-strikes.

10 things I learned on the job:

nim

1. Personal Protective Equipment is enforced for good reason. Denim dungarees and wellies are not acceptable PPE.
2. Neither are board shorts and running shoes (second attempt).
3. It is not good for one’s ego to need a lesson in how to use a hammer, but probably good for one’s humility (and personal safety).
4. Nail guns are really fun, and really dangerous. I think the two are connected.
5. Brute strength is an asset on the building site. It is not an asset I possess.
6. People working in manual jobs really do need to just sit down and do nothing when they get home – I needed a massage after lifting a few planks of wood.
7. Buildings are far more complicated than I had ever appreciated. And I’ve watched a lot of Grand Designs in my time (i.e. I’m an expert).
8. It is frowned upon to try and raise site moral with loud 90’s singing.
9. My husband is really, really good at his job. Like, really good.
10. Tea, biscuits and beer are always welcome on a building site. ALWAYS.

Just To Prove It

Ideas on Slowing Down

I am a do-er.  I like to have several projects on the go, around at least two jobs, maybe an exam looming and definitely a cake in the oven.  The archetypal multi-tasker, can’t-bear-a-wasted-day, irritating over-planner.  There’s no denying that I can get a lot done in a day, and competently cope with many simultaneous tasks.  And getting lots done gives me a buzz, it makes me feel great.  But I also can’t deny the fact that I am somewhat of a rusher (my mum knew this all along).  I didn’t refused to realise this fact until I was quite literally forced to slow down by the arrival of Miss M.

The kind of person who could not sit still to watch a film without a bundle of knitting to make it a productive hour, I was suddenly trapped in an armchair with a cluster-feeding baby who would not sleep anywhere but on my lap, all day, every day.  And I’m really not that great at knitting.  Molly is absolutely, unequivocally, categorically the best thing that ever happened to me, but there honestly is not enough on Netflix to get you through the first few months of breastfeeding.

I found the inactivity really hard, and it took me months to stop fighting it.  I read all the articles about the baby years going by in the flash of an eye; I knew there would be years to perfect the art of French cooking or learn glass-blowing.  And while I agreed with this logic in theory, I struggled to apply it on a day to day basis.  I simply did not have the freedom I was accustomed to, to completely indulge myself in pleasurable activities at leisure, and I resented that any free time I now had was completely consumed in catching up on mundane but necessary things like laundry and personal hygiene.

Fast forward 18 months and I feel like out of the blue I have finally hit some sort of balance; less a conscious plan of action, more of a fortuitous crucible of changing habits, lots of mistakes, and a healthy pinch of self-reflection.  Although having a baby was the catalyst that made me slow down, I think that these ideas could be used by anyone wanting to shift things down a gear.

 

You can say no

It’s the age old saying, you can’t please everyone.  Yet a breakneck pace of life is often at least partially caused by constantly pandering to the needs and demands of others.  I’m not advocating a narcissistic dismissal of friends and family; relationships are important and require time and nurturing.  But really, honestly, You Can’t Please Everyone – and it’s OK to say no once in a while.

This applies to projects or hobbies too – I tend to dream big, and I used to still regularly try to bite off more than I can chew in the garden, in the kitchen, in the sewing basket.  I’m slowly learning to say no to myself and to prioritise; not everyone needs a homemade birthday card, even though I love to make them; now is not an appropriate time of my life to learn the saxophone; it is not necessary to open a microbrewery in the garden this year.

Quality not quantity (stop rushing)

I know I have a tendency to rush projects when the pressure of other commitments weighs heavy.  With leisure time at an all-time low, I am embracing the mantra of ‘less is more’ and trying to have just one or two projects on the side to pick up and put down again as nap time allows. This still allows me to get my creative fix, but by limiting the quantity, I feel less pressure and frustration when Molly is having a clam-baby day, and I am more likely to do a proper job and not rush my self-imposed to-do list when finally I do get an hour to indulge myself.

Something that I never considered before is the impact of rushing relationships.  Life today is lived at super-sonic speed, and sometimes a 20 minute catch up over a cuppa is all that you are going to be able to give, because the kids need picking up, the dog’s been sick, grandma’s set fire to the kitchen again.  But in occasionally slowing down and not trying to squeeze too many people into too short a period of time, you find yourself able to give and receive a better quality of concentration, attention and care, which in turn leads to deeper friendships and happier relationships.

The magic of 100% concentration (wear your boots well)

My grandpa (and probably some famous person) used to say, ‘if a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing well’.   This was echoed in the mantra of a wonderful doctor friend who shared with me her method for giving her all to her patients every single day, no matter what was going on in her personal life.  Before she goes to work, she puts on her imaginary ‘doctor boots’; she physically digs her heels in, wiggles her toes, and uses her boots to ensure that she is completely mentally committed to the task ahead.

I have lots of boots, and have found out the hard way that it is very difficult to wear all my boots at the same time.  If I try to wear too many boots at once, I inevitably stumble and trip, scuff my lovely boots and start questioning whether this is actually the right pair of boots for me at all, simply because I have not worn them well.  I change my boots several times a day, but have to try to control my impulses to wear my favourite boots too much or too soon, or to neglect a boring pair of boots that will nonetheless nag the back of my mind.  Wear your boots well, and fairly, and your boots will love you back.

Doing absolutely nothing at least once a day is really, really good for your sanity

Doing nothing is my idea of a tedious, frustrating nightmare, but I gave it a go, for 10 minutes a day, and incredibly, I didn’t implode from sheer ennui.  At the risk of sounding a little bohemian, try just sitting quietly in a comfy chair with a cup of tea and no lists, no electronics, no conversation, and just let yourself be…. its strangely therapeutic.  Honest.