Things I should know.

There are lots of them, obviously.  I'm a 36 year old university educated, professionally qualified mother of four, but I don't, for example, really know what the difference is between a King Edward and a Maris Piper and which one I want when I need to impress with my roasties.

Nor, for instance, do I actually know what colour eye shadow suits me.  Or how you choose an eyeshadow in the first place.

Or what half my friends actually do for their jobs.  I mean I know what the job title is, and I know who they work for,  but what is a deal architect, or a blue sky thinker anyway?  And yes, I do really know people who have that printed on their business cards.

Or, of more immediate concern, what is the etiquette when someone gives you a present you (or in this case your six-year-old) already has?  She, obviously, wants to come clean, complain loudly, and get them to send her something else.

I want to pretend it never happened, get her to write a lovely thank you card, not mentioning the duplication at all, and put the offending item in the "present drawer".

Which of us is right? 

Is it possible to have a "healthy" relationship with food?

I pondered this as I stood on the scales this morning.

Because I'm really not sure it is.  Or at least I'm really not sure I know anyone, anyone female at least, who has what I'd call a healthy relationship with food.

By which I mean someone who eats what they like, when they like, within healthy parameters, and feels no guilt, worry or obsession about it.

Are you out there? Someone? Anyone?

Because I don't.  And I always thought I did.  From the outside you'd think I did.  I'm 5'4", size 10/12 (although at around 10 stone 4lb, I'm also technially overweight if you believe in BMIs, which I don't).  I exercise regularly.  I cook from scratch, always.  I eat, mostly, my five a day.  I also have a very sweet tooth, and have never knowingly said no to a cake.  I'd rather give up alcohol than pudding.

If you met me, if you looked at me in the street, I think you'd think I was mostly unconcerned about food; that I enjoyed eating it, but otherwise didn't give it much thought.

Well, I'm afraid that's nonsense.

A secret.  I get on the scales every day.  I always used to think that was fine.  It's just a number, right?  But it's not when it puts you in a good (or bad) mood for the rest of the day.   Or when you realise that I look upon the nights when B is away as opportunities to go on a speedy crash diet in advance of cooking excessively when he's back.  Or when you factor in that the sole purpose of the exercise, for me, is to remain in control of the numbers on the scales.

That's not healthy, really, is it?

It's about body image, of course.    As I said, I'm ok, body wise.  I'm not stopping traffic, but for a mother of four, I don't think I do too badly.   When I think about it objectively, I think I'm ok.  The only person who looks at me naked (of the over six variety, anyway) thinks I'm (his words) "delicious".

Another secret.  I don't believe him.

When I look in the mirror, I see, objectively, a thirty-five year old woman of average build, who's had four children.    For B, that's perfect.   For me, that's not good enough.  And if I don't think I'm good enough, slim enough, toned enough, I don't see how he can.

I don't want to get into why that is.  I don't want to start talking about women's magazines, and the porn industry and the objectification of women and the patriarchy.  Or how I worry about what any or all of the above might do to my daughters, because I don't have the answers and I don't, honestly, think there are any.

But I do think, if I am feeling like this, is there anyone out there who isn't?  And if so, what's your secret?

What I most dislike about pregnancy and birth*

Not labour, or sore hips, or achy backs, or stretch marks, or heartburn, or morning sickness, or insomnia, or getting fat, or sore breasts, or saggy skin, or that strange taste in your mouth, or leaky breasts, or strange spots, or c-section scars, or sweeps, or mastitis, or stirrups, or unsympathetic midwives, or false labour, or elbows in the ribs, or needing the loo every ten minutes, or pelvic floor exercises (or the lack thereof), or not being able to eat brie...

Nope.  None of those.

The thing I most dislike?

Moulting. Still.


*with a caveat that clearly I was incredibly lucky to have easy, uncomplicated pregnancies and deliveries, and much worse things than any of these do, sadly, happen to much nicer people than me.

How long after you have a baby does it take to get your figure back?

My sister asked me this about three weeks ago, with that tone in her voice that only a sister can muster.  The tone that actually says:

"And why haven't you got yours back yet?"

To which the answer, variously, is:

Nine months on, nine months off.  And probably longer if it's your fourth and your stomach muscles are in several bits.


Oh for goodness' sake, he's four weeks old, give me a break

Do I look like bl00dy Giselle Bundchen? 

Are you saying I'm fat?  Weeps... (for the guilt inducing effect only, honest).

But she's got a point.  One of the wonderfully odd things about my experience with this baby is how easy he's been.  He sleeps, he feeds, he smiles.  And it means that I keep forgetting how little he is and how recently I couldn't get through the door with a laundry basket (seriously, it was a great excuse not to do any laundry) and getting cross with myself because none of my clothes do up, and those that do give me a muffin top of which Starbucks would be proud. 

And that's totally unreasonable.  Because I'm not Giselle Bundchen, or Posh (although I get the impression she's in fashion-induced purdah at the moment, and we'll not see her again until she has been starved and winched into a size 0 dress of her own design) and I don't have a nutritionist, or a personal trainer, or indeed the will-power or desire to acquire either in pursuit of some (for me, frankly unobtainable) aesthetic goal. 

Plus what's the point of needing an extra 500 calories a day if you can't eat them entirely in chocolate cake?

The thing is, I don't even know if I could be doing something about it, even if I wanted to.  Is this actually a time to give my body a break and let it do what it wants? There is a little part of me suspecting (clinging to the hope) that it probably wouldn't be very sensible dieting or exercising at this stage, especially given that my body is a stranger to both. Is that right? Or would the boost to my ego of getting back in my jeans actually make me feel better than that extra slice of chocolate cake does?

Whatever the answer, the problem is, my sister's got it wrong. I don't actually want my figure back.  I want someone else's.  Angelina Jolie's would do.

The Gallery - Time to hit the bottle?

There are many reasons I might hit the bottle. But this week's one is the subject of Tara's Gallery:

Hair.

Now I know Tara's really hoping for dreadful pictures of bubble perms and culture-club-esque rat-tails, but fortunately, by good luck and no management at all, I managed not to hit my teens until the end of 1990, by which time grunge was where it was at.  So my worst crime against hair fashion was probably lank and unwashed, but otherwise remarkably like this:

Fortunately for the sensitive, there are no photos of my late teens, which were most definitely not my most attractive stage, but in this one, I was, guessing by the candles, eleven, and my hair stayed remarkably like that (minus the fringe) until I was about eighteen.

Now, however, it looks more like this:

 

Or this:

B, loyally and lovingly, says both photos are over-exposed and that isn't my hair colour at all. In my defence it's remarkably difficult to take a photo of your own head, especially when your hair is in your eyes, but you see what he's getting at.  I'm not the same colour any more, am I?

Age eleven: pale skin, pink lips, luscious chocolatey dark locks - Snow White in a fetching check shirt.  Now, well, you'll have to take my word for it that I'm just as pale, but the locks are definitely heading for the pepper and salt end of the metaphorical culinary spectrum.

And I'm wondering - is it time to do something about that? Shall I hit the bottle...?

Beauty is a Beast.

In my case, apparently, this particular beast.  According to my ex anyway, who used to call me Captain Caveman on a regular basis.  By "regular" I mean about every six weeks, or two weeks after the date on which I should have got my legs waxed....  And if I'm honest, B agrees...

The thing is, I'm not very good at beauty.  I never have been.  I don't get my legs waxed often enough, I don't own any make up that wasn't a freebie (I keep trying to rectify that but I go into spasms of panic at make up counters and walk away empty-handed), I've given up wearing my lenses because I can't be bothered any more and I've still got polish on my toes that was put on in September.  (I worked that one out the other day, was disgusted at myself and then realised that I don't have any nail polish remover either).

I used to have a beauty routine. It went like this:

Every evening, I would:
Clean my teeth and get into bed.

I've enhanced this recently, since I looked at some pictures of myself and was horrified at how old I looked. So now I:
Clean my teeth, wash my face, put anti-wrinkle cream on and get into bed.

It's not great though is it?  Admittedly a lot of this is laziness (have caught my man and no longer need to make an effort, or something) and exhaustion (can't spare an additional five minutes of couldbeinbed time), because I definitely was better when I was single:  I used to stay in on Sunday evenings and pamper myself properly, but that went by the wayside a long time ago.

Either way, when the people at Aveeno wrote and asked if I wanted to try some of their products, my thoughts went something like this:

1. Why do I get moisturiser when other people get Green and Blacks?  I definitely have opinions on chocolate.
2. Oh, help! A sponsored post! Do I do sponsored posts? How do I do a sponsored post?  Will people hate me if I do sponsored posts? 
3. Moisturiser?  What's that....?

So it was in a tryanythingonce sort of a way that I said I would be delighted, and I have been diligently trying their products for the last month (they've probably given up waiting for me to write anything it's taken so long, but I don't really feel you can try a moisturiser once and say whether you like it or not (unlike chocolate - Green and Blacks take note)).

Now for the sponsored bit - please tell me if I've got the etiqutte of this all wrong. It's my first time. Be gentle with me.

They sent me three products.  First off I got Creamy Moisturising Oil and Hand Cream, and then later on they sent me the Daily Moisturiser.  Now the thing is that I started off using the Moisturising Oil and then they said "oh, you must have the Daily Moisturiser too, it's an essential part of the routine" or something like that, so I said I'd be delighted, got it, and then realised that I couldn't work out why I had two different products that essentially do the same thing.  They do, don't they?  And in trying them, I've discovered that to the untrained leg (I've been using them on my legs) yes, they do exactly the same thing.

And that is, well, you guessed it, what it says on the tin (aka somewhat underwhelming plastic packaging).  But they do it well.  My (overdue for a waxing) legs are smooth and moisturised, and still not presentable in public, but that's not their fault.

As for the hand cream, well, I was impressed.  It claims to last for 24 hours even through handwashing.  And probably it does if you're only washing your hands every time you go to the loo. I however, am washing my hands every time four people go to the loo. Not to mention doing about five lots of washing up a day (we don't have enough plastic plates to put them in the dishwasher), and, sorry Aveeno, it doesn't last through that much handwashing.  But it is good.  My hands always used to look unloved. Mostly because they are.  They are red and dry and cracked and sometimes quite sore. Or they were. Now they're still not very pretty, but if you close your eyes and stroke them, they feel lovely.

Now all I have to do is remember to use it.

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Picture Credits:
Captain Caveman picture from Crossfiteastbay.com, but presumably copyright Hanna Barbera.
And Aveeno picture from Aveeno. Funnily enough.