I watched Another Woman last night. A lesser known Woody Allen film from 1988. The central character, played brilliantly by Gena Rowlands, is a cerebral, somewhat aloof writer, who comes to realise she has always been emotionally stultified. This is not like me (I didn’t dare go down and watch the marathon runners this morning, knowing I’d probably blub all over the place), but I empathised with the notion of being caught in one mindset before being painfully shown another. Right at the end, after she has reassessed her previous actions and memories and is pondering the new path she must take, she muses, ‘I wonder if a memory is something you have or something you’ve lost.’
This was particularly pertinent to me, as my boys are inching closer to adulthood. Facebook often pops up a photo from earlier times (because they ‘care about your memories.’ Hollow laugh and insertion of comment about them not caring about protecting our data). Invariably this will be a picture of a sun dappled moment in the park or on the beach, where your cherubs grinned gappily at the camera. No matter that the moments before and after the shot would no doubt have been a grizzly meltdown, banged knee or spat, leading to your losing your rag and wishing you were far away on a sun lounger with a margarita. In THAT moment, all looked well. That was the best of times.
Except of course, it wasn’t.  Or rather, no more, no less than the time right now is. Memory is indeed a fickle thing. Yes, my boys are not cute blonde cherubs any more. But they can pop to the corner shop for me, carry bags and watch telly with more emotional depth and range than CBeebies. They also sleep through the night, manage their own toileting and can be exceptional company, once attention has been winkled away from electronic devices.  I have lost, and have many things. It is truly difficult to remain engaged in the here and now, being mindful in the true sense. Parents know all too well that the days are long, but the years are short. One day the longing for the glass-of-wine-post-kids’-bedtime will be easy because they are about to leave home forever and you wish, more than anything, that they weren’t.
Recently, son Number One (13½ ) had an INSET day. (Or Insect as he used to say when he was small and cute. Stop it!) We decided to pay a visit to Hove Museum, which had been a veritable Mecca when he was about four. He would spend ages looking at the mini train, toy soldiers and ghost mirror in the toy room, pointing them out to other visitors. Meanwhile his baby brother and I would doze nearby. It was an excellent way to while away a cold winter weekend, spent mostly on my own because my partner was nearly always away.
This time we were the only visitors. (It’s a mystery how that place continues. They’ve removed the café and it seems increasingly in the last stages of decrepitude). Son wandered about the rooms, slightly aimlessly. I knew what he was thinking. ‘It’s so small. There’s hardly anything here. Why did I like this so much?’ For old times sake, he squeezed through the tunnel that he had once scuttled up and down with such merriment. We walked round the perimeter of the building and I told him he used to scooter round and round outside while his little brother ran alongside. We left after quite a short time and walked up the road to have a quick lunch. A text from his mate had come in and he wanted to get back so they could do band practice.
Was the memory something he had or something he lost…?

Haste Theatre – Oyster Boy
The Warren Theatre, York Place
 13 & 14 May, 1.00pm

Haste’s Theatre’s production is full of charm and whimsy, conjuring up the atmosphere of the seaside with no more than an ice cream tray and a blue cloth. It tells the tale of a young couple, Alice and Jim, who gorge on oysters on their wedding night. They consequently have a child, Sam, with an oyster shell head, although it takes some time for this to be stated. I would have liked clarification as to whether it is just shaped like an oyster, or IS actually an oyster, as portrayed by the puppet, who is completely adorable. I can see that it is meant as a metaphor for all abnormalities that society finds hard to deal with, but I think if a character had named it, the impact would have been stronger.
The actress playing Jim has a lovely gentle mischievous quality and American Alice is as blonde and wholesome as any prom queen.  However, the real strength of the production lies with the supporting cast of four women. Dressed in fifties style polka-dot dresses, they switch effortlessly into a number of roles, playing bitchy mothers, friends to the boy, doctors, receptionists and, my personal favourite, the restaurant, complete with animated tablecloth and snooty waiters with wandering moustaches. In earlier outings of the production, they wore striped tops and shorts, which I think might have worked better considering the variety of roles they play. Beautiful though the frocks are, they are undeniably feminine.
I thoroughly recommend the production for its inventiveness with staging, the skill of the performers, beautiful harmony singing, whirlwind action and the moving simplicity of the puppet representing Sam. A note of caution though: It is inspired by a Tim Burton poem ‘The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy’ and although the recommended age is 8+, younger audiences used to a Disney style conclusion will be startled by this ending, which comes a little abruptly and may be upsetting.

My husband died six weeks ago. Sorry for this bald opening sentence, but I don’t find delicacy the best option. Speaking to various organisations (tax, banks, DVLA etc) in the last month has made me snort (inwardly) at the hastily assembled ‘passing away’ language they have been told to adopt by their managers.
 
Our relationship was complex, although whose isn’t, when you get down to it. I won’t say any more here, it’s not appropriate, especially as he’s not here to defend himself. However, I can say he was often away, putting me in that unenviable group ‘of single parents who aren’t single, yet they might as well be because their partner is frequently absent and frustratingly they don’t get the support and understanding that actual single parents get’. Now, however, I am a bona fide member.
 
He had a top of the range cancer – pancreatic, which had already spread to the lungs when it was diagnosed (over six months after he went to the doctor – a fact that will forever make me cross). We don’t know what the prognosis was, because he refused point blank to countenance hearing one. He didn’t want to be a self-fulfilling prophecy of ‘a few months at best’, which is what Google will tell you is the most likely option, and in fact lasted eighteen months after diagnosis.
He tried so hard to get better, seeing a whole host of specialists, travelling to Germany for treatment not available in the UK and taking every supplement he could find. The predominant reason for this, as he said in his blog, was because of his role as Dad to our two boys, aged twelve and nine. He was very reluctantly on Twitter and by chance I found a tweet of his from all the way back in 2009. ‘Children run at you after you or they have been away. After a while, they start running into your heart. No one told me this would happen.’
 
 
Beforehand, he was always off somewhere creating projects. The notion of himself as family man didn’t sit that well with the cavalier man of the theatre, bringing social justice via the medium of improvisation. However, if every life contains a Book of Revelation, his was the realisation of how important the boys and I were to him. When he got ill, he was full of regret and remorse that he hadn’t been around more. In those months we went on holidays, picnics, to the cricket, dog-racing, theatre, started an allotment. Oh, and we got married. What might have been little more than a way to stop the taxman gobbling up all the cash became a romantic and elaborate three tiered event of celebrations.
 
So what do you tell your children when your partner is diagnosed with a life limiting illness? He didn’t want them to know it was cancer. Even though it has seriously depleted the stock of celebrities in the last year or so, people can, and do, get better from cancer. However the word puts people into a paroxysm of fear, as if the Grim Reaper is scratching at the door with his scythe. Closer to home, the father of a friend of my elder child died from bowel cancer a couple of years back. It shocked our little community who were used to him refereeing the Sunday morning football in the park and hosting impromptu drinks at their house.
 
For some months, Dad just had ‘stomach problems’. However, as he got more ill, the notion that the medicine was making him better seemed to hold even less weight than he did. I’d wanted to tell them the full facts earlier, but he didn’t. He was so convinced he’d be able to get past it and he didn’t want it to define him or their relationship. I finally decided to tell them it was cancer and that he was seriously ill when he ended up in hospital after a heart attack. On some level it was a relief for them. They knew they had to be worried about Dad, but was there something else they had to be worried about as well?
 
There’s no good time to lose a parent, but their ages are probably slightly better than much younger when they really wouldn’t be able to comprehend that he wouldn’t eventually come back in the door as he had always done before. (Hell, I find it difficult and I’m 46!) Also, better than older when in the grip of teenage maelstrom, distancing yourself from your family. A cuddle from Mum is still a welcome thing. (NOT IN PUBLIC, THOUGH. JEES!)
 
So, we trundle along. I’ve booked holidays to give us new experiences. When they have a strop or look sad, you ponder if it’s just that or something completely unrelated. How much to let slide? We can only all do our best. The elder has thrown himself into guitar playing and has progressed at an astonishing rate. The younger is fond of magic tricks and cunning plans. I talk about Dad quite a lot. Somebody wrote to me – ‘Always talk about him as if he’s just next door’ – which seems sound advice.
 
I’ll end with an amusing bit of advice. Yes, I use humour as a way to distance myself from awkward situations (I AM Chandler Bing....). If you want to get out of a mobile phone contract and aren’t really bothered about keeping your number, call and tell them you’ve died. After their initial consternation EE cancelled Chris’ contract immediately with no further charge.
 
 
 

2016, eh? Chuf! What a year it’s been. I barely dare turn on the radio now, for fear of hearing which beloved (or not so beloved) public figure is no longer with us. Or I shy away in case I explode in rage at the latest political catastrophe. I’m assuming the majority of those reading will be Brighton & Hove ‘Remainers’. We would have given Trump short shrift if we’d had the chance.
Of course the shops are full to bursting of Christmas ‘fayre’ and have been for several weeks. Everywhere you look on TV-land, rosy cheeked nippers and glamorous parents gaze adoringly at their perfect 700 ft tree or romp around the snowy fields (SNOW?! Why don’t we EVER get snow any more? I blame the EU); in a way that doesn’t bear any resemblance to most households, which will contain hungover, cash -strapped parents and over-excited, over-sugared screeching children.
Bah humbug, indeed. But is this the case? Glancing down my Facebook page I see lots of friends, who in true British spirit, are ‘making the best of it’, ‘stiff upper lip’ and all. There are gatherings aplenty, creative activities a-flowing, good deeds being done here, there and everywhere. For people do actually want to congregate with others and share joy, not hate and if that means an off-key warbling of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, then so be it. They want this ALL of the time – I have seen so many wonderful ventures taking off despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that the decision-makers of our nations seem desperate to drive us to hell in a handcart.
So, in my own small way, I am more determined than ever that mothers’ voices should not be silenced. Not all women are mothers, but all mothers are women and whenever they put their head above the collective parapet, they get it slapped back down. Anyone who thinks feminism no longer has a place (yes, I’m looking at YOU on twitter, you foolish young women who proudly trumpet your anti-feminist stance) needs to wake up and smell the testosterone. Never underestimate the rampant misogyny in the world when a violent, hate-filled orange monster seemed less horrifying to the American electorate than a woman in charge.
Mothers have a voice. Not the same one. There are millions of us, after all. Not all of us want the same birth experience, for example. It is however, wholly depressing how many women I meet who end up with emergency Caesareans when they’d desired a home birth. And woe betide them if they feel the need to talk about the trauma they’ve been through for some months afterwards. Then, they are ‘moaning’ and don’t realise how lucky they are to have a lovely baby when others are not able to. And, also could they not breastfeed anywhere in public, travel on any public transport with their mewling infant and stop leeching the public purse with their endless demands.
I set up a petition last year putting some of these points across. It referenced a report that had come out estimating the cost to the UK of inadequate maternal care at around £8bn every year. One way forward I suggest are through these methods.
1. Greater investment into specialist birth centres & training more midwives so women can feel supported rather than scared and alone.
2. Give the same weight to the postnatal as the antenatal period: More appointments with professionals, to include debriefing about the birth and identify potential depression. The term ‘new motherhood syndrome’ to be recognised as this period, when it is normal rather than extreme to experience powerful emotions.
3. Investment into peer support groups such as Mothers Uncovered to build confidence and create a community. Less stigma in asking for help or castigating mothers as 'moaning'.

You can read the rest here and sign it too....
https://www.change.org/p/public-health-england-nhs-mothers-need-more-support-help-them-now
From this Thurs (Dec 8th) until Sunday (Dec 11th ), Mothers Uncovered will be the Featured Guest Campaign on Mumsnet. While I would love to talk all about what we do locally, this will not be of much interest to the good people of Dundee, Sheffield or Swansea. However, they will all know mothers who are struggling. Or perhaps ARE mothers who are struggling. Or even were mothers who struggled and can remember how lost they felt. So, the petition will be at the forefront of this campaign, which is entitled Let Mum Speak. Or in handy twitter parlance, #letmumspeak.
Please support us.

I’m stressed. You’re stressed. Everyone is busy and stressed all the time, so mothers often feel they have no right to lay claim to being more stressed than anyone else. However if you factor in the lack of sleep that most mothers, definitely new mothers, contend with, not to mention the responsibility for their families they feel is theirs to shoulder alone, plus the constant roll call in their heads as to what is needed for the next activity from the moment they wake up, it is understandable that contemplation of the here and now is a far cry from their oft frantic state.
 
At the mindfulness eight week course I attended we discovered the constant thinking ahead and back was not conducive to living in the here and now one iota. We needed time, a minimum of twenty minutes a day, to sit and just be. ‘But when will I have time to sit and just be?’ wails our poor beleaguered mother, even though she knows that to function better she must take time for herself.
 
It’s not at all easy, which is why I developed our five week course for Mothers Uncovered to introduce some of the concepts of Mindfulness and to allow mothers those precious few minutes to focus inwards. The groups have to centre on the written aspects rather than long meditations, as participants usually have babies with them who demand their attention. Yet we always manage to fit in five minutes to meditate, or sit quietly holding babies, which seems to calm the babies just as much.
 
We realise that a lot of time is taken up with comparisons and judgements, of ourselves and others. Have I managed better as a mother today? Have I managed to do lots of other things? Mindfulness isn’t about trying to eliminate all the bad thoughts and feelings, but allowing what’s in your head to be there. The trouble for mothers is there is usually a judgement involved in their ruminations – ‘I don’t like what is happening’ or ‘Why can’t I manage to do that?’ They look around and see only other mothers who are coping much better, or so it seems. They feel they must be the most disorganised and it reflects badly on their parenting. If they were a truly good mother, so their exhausted brain goes, they would be able to do a hundred tasks every day on four hours broken sleep.
 
Mothers find themselves with greater levels of dependence in their lives; their baby’s dependence on them, their dependence on partners to support them, their own sudden lack of independence – too late they realise how joyous it was to just get up and go without a moment’s thought. Participants come to realise the impact their thoughts have on their feelings. This is especially true of motherhood when we are forever trying to keep up with changing circumstances and inevitably feel we’re failing. If you can be aware of the thoughts as they come to you, you can see they are just events in your mind, rather than hard facts.
 
 
Mothers often struggle with feeling hopeless – they will NEVER gain any autonomy back. The great deal of effort spent in trying to push away unwelcome experiences would be better spent accepting experiences as they happen, whether they are good or bad. The word ‘acceptance’ is problematic because it implies resignation to an undesirable state. However, acknowledging an experience or feeling doesn’t mean the same as wanting or liking it, it is just recognising it is there. If we try to resist by thinking, ‘I should be able to cope’ this reinforces negative thoughts about ourselves, rather than compassion. Instead of berating themselves when unwelcome thoughts crowd in, participants try and establish whether they are judging themselves, setting unachievable standards or expecting perfection?
 
 
It is paramount for mothers to take care of themselves in order to take care of others. Sometimes they can get overwhelmed by anxiety, stress and fear. Especially when they are always rushing from place to place and are constantly thinking about their child or children. When we are feeling overwhelmed, it can be helpful to tell ourselves that it will not stay that way. Life is uncertain, everything changes, there will be good times and bad times. We collectively make a list at the end of the session as to a small step they could take today to contribute to their wellbeing, plus a longer list of the things they need each day to be ‘as well as possible.’ When asked, ‘How does that suggestion make you feel? What is your attitude to yourself right now?’, it is gratifying to see them more at peace with themselves.
 
www.maggiegordon-walker.com

I attended an eight week course called Mindfulness-based Therapy in 2014 at the Brighton Therapy Centre. They are no longer based at the venue on St George’s Place – I hope they have found an alternative home.
Before going I had certain, prejudiced I’ll admit, ideas about what Mindfulness might be and the ‘type’ of person who would attend. I’m not even vegetarian I thought, as I made my way to the first session with a fair amount of trepidation. I’m sure these people will be very earnest and we’ll have to chant and sit in the lotus position. Also, I had tried to meditate before and found it extraordinarily difficult, my mind racing all over the place and wishing I could be reclining on the sofa with a glass of wine – surely MUCH more relaxing.

I had sought it out for two reasons. Firstly, on the advice of a couple of people whose opinion I trusted and who knew me. When I said I feared it would be all hippy-dippyish they weren’t offended and assured me it was more robust than that. Secondly, a combination of a recent house move, extensive building work and a difficult period at work had left a residual feeling of anxiety. I would find myself worrying in the evenings about something bad being about to happen but not able to put my finger on what. I owed it to myself to check it out.

I warmed immediately to the tutor John. Physically, he reminded me of the actor Ian Holm – a very grounded, calm presence. He also offered counselling and I can imagine he would be extremely good at it – I felt myself wanting to pour out all my woes. (I didn’t, luckily!) He had a lovely self-deprecating air – he would listen to the plaintive tones of us who were finding it hard to concentrate (on not concentrating), asking how it was to be done and say something like, ‘I wish I knew...’                     
He was, in essence, one of us, but with the skills to turn the individual’s experience into a universal one for us all to understand.
We started as a group of ten. There was a range of ages and ‘types’ in the room (only one man). I did pick up a fair bit of anxiety or restlessness from the others, so that was obviously a determining theme. A few fell along the wayside as the weeks went on. This was no reflection on the course – examining one’s psyche in front of others is not an easy ride. The first casualties were a couple and it was not surprising they didn’t come back. You got the feeling that several people felt able to say things in the space that they wouldn’t to their other half – I know I did. However one member of the couple had a certain obstreperous streak. We did the ‘raisin’ exercise common to a lot of mindfulness courses, whereby you eat a raisin mindfully. One of them refused to eat it saying she was diabetic. John asked mildly if there was an alternative that would have been better.                                                               
‘ANYthing’, she said fervently, as if he’d tried to pour a vat of lard down her.                                        
‘Like a chocolate biscuit’, someone quipped.                                                                                                             ‘Yes’, she said fiercely, daring anyone to question the sense of a diabetic eating a biscuit.

We were each given a workbook with the theme for every week, with some very pithy thoughts on the theme, a sprinkling of poems, a space to record daily observations about our practice and the dreaded homework. No, the homework wasn’t that bad, but you always berate yourself for having not spent more time on it. Or perhaps that’s just me. Topics covered included the recording of Pleasant and Unpleasant Experiences, Thoughts Are Not Facts and Letting Be. We also received a CD to aid practice. The one I found most difficult was the Loving Kindness that we were meant to extend, not just to ourselves and loved ones, but to those people that had wronged you. That was a step too far for me. I was still boiling with rage at the actions of people in my past, but I know that’s my failing.

Each two hour session would begin and end with a meditation. In between we would share experiences from the week, plus discuss certain exercises in pairs. I did do a practice most days in between the weekly sessions – there’s nothing like an empty piece of paper remonstrating with you to get you going. And I did feel I had gained more insight into myself and tools to tackle situations. Not to mention a greater appreciation of things happening round me, RIGHT NOW and being ‘mindful’ of them.

I’ve not kept up my practice regularly since, despite John telling us that the brains of people who practised mindfulness for twenty minutes a day have been found to be larger! I know I should do it and writing this is prompting me to go and do some. You really wouldn’t think it would be that difficult to allot twenty minutes a day to sit in a quiet place and do nothing, yet it’s extraordinary the lengths we go to avoiding it. I do always take a Three Minute Breathing Space when I feel overwhelmed though. And my night-time anxiety has abated which is a great benefit.
 
www.maggiegordon-walker.com

An edited version of this review is in the Journal of Mother Studies
https://jourms.wordpress.com/liberating-motherhood/

The writer, Vanessa Olorenshaw, worked as a lawyer before having children. Her experiences of being marginalised for not returning straight to ‘work’ led her to write this book. She argues passionately and eloquently for the rights of mothers which are continually crushed by a capitalist patriarchal society. Many mothers would like to spend the early years of their children’s lives with them, yet are penalised by a system that insists they gain paid employment. Consequently many are forced into work too soon and their children are then cared for, usually by other women in nurseries, whose own children are possibly also being cared for elsewhere, in a Russian doll style set-up. The patient, caring nurturing that a mother does IS work and should be respected as such.  Care of child often becomes conflated with upkeep of house. This is often perpetuated in the home itself, when other members of the household describe their chores as being ‘for Mum’. Olorenshaw is an advocate of the Basic Income system that some campaign groups are pushing for – a living wage available to all which would give women the freedom to choose.
If anyone thinks mothers don’t get a raw deal, then they have never been one. As she notes, the moment you announce your pregnancy, you become public property, until you have your baby, when you are seen as a nuisance. I well remember having to get off a crowded bus because I wasn’t able to fold my pushchair one handed (the other holding my screaming baby) while the tutting passengers collectively looked away. If you are ‘just a mum’ that’s seen as being lesser, when it is hugely important. But any mother who dares to ask for more support and recognition gets shut down as ‘moaning’. Since the writing of this book we’ve witnessed the mauling of Andrea Leadsom for having the temerity to suggest that being a mother made her a better choice for PM. In fact, she said ‘I feel that being a mum means you have a very real stake in the future of our country,’ but that’s not nearly so sound-bitey.
The book’s sections detail a mother’s Mind, Body, Labour and Heart. It is impressively researched and informative. I learned that ‘oikonomia’, the Greek word for ‘economics’, in fact means ‘household management.’ It looks at how mothers are continually sidelined: Eleanor Rathbone championed the Family Allowance for mothers in 1946 in the UK, which has morphed into the Child Benefit for families in recent years. It gives weight to Olorenshaw’s lament that ‘mothering’ is being erased from our language. That also provided one of the funniest footnotes; the observation that ‘fathering’ is a completely different concept to ‘mothering’. Some of the footnotes are a little irritating however, tending to be of the ‘ooh, I’m being ironic here.’ When a piece is as well researched and written as this, it doesn’t sit entirely well.
There is an excellent section on breastfeeding, the rates of which are pitiably low in the UK, detailing the fixation on the content of milk, rather than the act of feeding itself. However, I was surprised there was no mention that those most likely to breastfeed are professional, middle class women. https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/nov/24/class-baby-breastfed-life-chances-inequality . All the specialist counsellors and time at home in the world will not remove the unpalatable and no doubt politically incorrect fact that many working-class women regard breastfeeding  as disgusting or unnatural. It is an extremely contentious, judgement-laden topic and there is a whole load of work to do in desexualising women’s breasts, starting with removing them from mainstream media.
Olorenshaw believes a mother has the right to choose, but she is so fervent about their right to spend as much time with their children as she did, it feels a little prescriptive. Looking after children is described as hard and frustrating, but not (whisper it) – boring - and maybe some women reading it will feel guilty if they do find it so. In my experience of running groups with new mothers, they often confess to the cardinal sin of being bored when they are with their babies, with feelings of remorse and shame, but they are relieved they are able to say this and not be condemned to the status of ‘bad mother’ for their honesty.
She is harsh on liberal and social feminists, old-school ground-breaking feminists such as De Beauvoir and Friedan. If feminists do not champion the rights of mothers they are ‘patriarchy’s mouthpiece’ [pg 44]. The Women’s Equality Party, which was founded in 2015, comes in for a right pasting. Olorenshaw had sat on the policy working group when the party first came into being and had got frustrated at their inability to be more proactive in the matter of mothers’ rights and their insistence on seeing ‘mothers as a problem to be solved’ [pg 253].  She decided not to continue her involvement which is understandable, but surely she should be making allies with these people? They have potentially a higher profile than some of the organisations listed at the back of the book. Professional women too are dismissed, ‘the unwillingness of a privileged class of women to challenge the system that had given them power’ [pg 201], but seeing as the bulk of her readers will be in this category, it might be seen as a risky move. She advocates for ‘maternal feminism’, with the concept of a Purplestockings movement – combining the Bluestockings (intellectual educated women from the eighteenth century) and Redstockings (Radical Feminists of the 1960s).
Olorenshaw wrote a pamphlet for the UK 2015 election, which maybe has coloured the tone here.  While each chapter works as a stand-alone piece, it reads as quite polemical and repetitive – the words ‘patriarchy’ and ‘feminist/m’ occur a fearsome amount of times. I found the most interesting chapter to be ‘The Politics of Mothering’ – I think the original piece – containing many interesting facts about fiscal policy and stats about mothers and families. However it is near the end and I felt quite worn out by then like I’d been repeatedly kicked in the shins by a ‘purple-stockinged foot’ that read ‘message.’
I felt a variety of things while reading – pride and tenderness for my children (good – it was lovely to be reminded of the importance and sweetness of my work as a mother), rage against the system (understandable – I experienced similar after reading Greer et al as a student), but also some dissatisfaction against my personal setup – three males in the house – one big, two small. Raging at a system created by men, then looking at your own men, is a bit unsettling. As Olorenshaw explains, patriarchy has been around as long as Plato. While there is a brief mention of the Goddess culture, it is not really expounded, so it is hard not to feel a bit hopeless at a situation that has always been so.
However, small gripes aside, this is a fluid, punchy, beautifully written piece with some poetic, memorable quotes, such as ‘becoming a mother is like learning to drive the day after being run over by a bus’, [pg65] or how mothers are ‘society’s paradoxical scapegoat sat on a pedestal.’ [pg125]

Recently I jettisoned a sideboard in our house. This meant emptying it of a large bag of letters dating back to my school days. I didn’t jettison these – heaven forbid! I browsed through them for a while, feeling overwhelmed by nostalgia and lost in memories. Here’s the letters from friends complete with little drawings  that cheered me through struggles to find my way at college, here’s the mysterious Valentine’s card I received and subsequently unmasked the sender (which was a mistake for us both, the illusion having been so much more satisfactory!), here’s postcards from forgotten holiday acquaintances. They are faded in places and some of the ink is smudged, but the memories spring into life when reading them.
Keeping in touch these days is easier than ever. In fact, having found some letters from an American friend I’d lost touch with in this stash, led me to not just wonder what he was up to, but track him down in a very short time and email him to ask (not as stalker-ish as it sounds!). However emails just don’t conjure up the same excitement. Perhaps it’s something to do with the effort that was previously required. Not just dashing off a couple of lines and pressing ‘Send’, but writing a whole letter, putting it in an addressed envelope, finding a stamp, posting it and then WAITING for a reply. It showed you cared about someone that you were prepared to put the time in. And prepared to wait for that reply.
I realise I must be getting ever closer to the ‘grumpy old woman’ who thinks things were better before, but I genuinely  believe the convenience of being able to be in more immediate contact with people brings a downgrade in the importance of that communication, as well as the inevitable downside of never being permitted to be out of contact from ‘the office’. We’ve lost the savouring of that wait and the delight when the post yielded more than bills and an unwanted catalogue. You can print out an email but it doesn’t carry the same weight, metaphorically, if not literally. I feel sorry for those born in the last 20 or so years who will never have the joy of a letter plopping through the door.
We are in a permanent state of peering at others’ lives through social media, but remaining hidden because no-one knows you are peering unless you join the conversation. I have probably a moderate to high level of ‘peering’ – I am capable of doing other things, but quite often flick onto Facebook or Twitter if the programme I’m watching isn’t all that thrilling. And what a Pandora’s Box Facebook is. You start by looking at pictures of a friend’s birthday, then find yourself segued onto their third cousin once removed’s wedding in Barbados, before the invitable clickbait onto ‘Shock-horror-Celebrities That Aren’t Very Famous And Now Look Hideous’ .
We all know that our Facebook ‘friends’ extend way beyond the handful of close intimates we actually have and that certainly isn’t all bad. I have acquaintances from various stages of my life and enjoy the banter and comments we exchange. Without that we would have completely lost touch. But I’m sad about the loss of letters. Not very far in the future, you can imagine these scribbles being pored over in a museum as precious artefacts from a forgotten age. If I can find the time (sigh!), perhaps I will dig out my address book and send a letter to someone. Join me...?

Guest-post Eliza St John
https://medium.com/@greene.eliza/the-return-to-work-remember-youve-got-superpowers-2a80ebafd04e#.k0zxrojke__
Before I had children I’d park my car at work and check my make-up. Now I have children, I park my car at work and scrape my child’s breakfast or snot from my top.

Coming back into the world of paid work can be a challenge. Especially if you’ve returned with an idea of fulfilling the ‘perfect-employee-and-mother’ look.
You stumbled through maternity leave in a fog of tiredness and most mums who return to paid work are still not getting a full night’s sleep. Your child’s nocturnal activity seems to magically correlate with big presentations and important meetings – to the point you start to question whether they’ve hacked your Outlook calendar.
That’s if you actually manage to get into work. Most mother’s return to work is punctuated with false starts and apologies for unscheduled time off to look after a poorly baby with an immune system seemingly made from a wet piece of tissue paper (seriously, this is the only explanation for the cold that lasts 8 months of the year). After the cold comes to an end they go on to contract a childhood illness you’ve never heard of or just thought cattle got – OK cows don’t have hands but you’re pretty sure and about the foot and mouth thing.
Throughout the baby and toddler years you’ll grow to accept shrugging-off the tell-tale signs of motherhood. To anyone who’s returned already these may be familiar scenarios. If you’re still on maternity leave then here’s a few things to tick off your list of parenthood achievement – think of it as a kind of NCT crash course for the office but with realistic expectations. This time you know a few fairy lights scattered around your desk isn’t going to distract from the inevitable teething pain of returning to the world of work…
First-up is the flustered late arrival of the mother into the office apologising and explaining how her baby poop or puked two minutes before leaving the house. And it gets no easier as they grow. Once your child’s a toddler leaving the house is a negotiation. You talk them into leaving the house, then they leave carrying various unsuitable toys like tiny hostages with them into the car. Then comes the micromanagement required of school-aged kids, down to each individual step: ‘walk, walk out of the door – walk straight ahead, no, don’t stop…
Then there’s the slightly dishevelled appearance. The ‘just-got-out-of-bed’ look is simply an ironic statement because you’ve actually been up for four hours even before you start work – 9am is basically your lunchtime.
You’re still trying to shift the last few pounds of baby weight, but you learn never to wear anything in ‘slimming’ black’ as you can clearly see yogurt handprints made by your little darling. Instead you opt for patterns which cover a multitude of sins in a meeting. And just in case you manage to get to work looking like you don’t have kids, there’s the tell-tale toys and baby wipes that spill out from your bag as you reach for your laptop.
But despite it all you’ve returned with superpowers. You’re more able and confident than you were before. Hell, you’ve given birth and regularly keep a suicidal midget from killing themselves – you can cope with anything now. You know what stress is – you’ve survived someone crying in your face all day, made dinner with one hand and scooped poo out of the bath. You can negotiate with the hardest customers now, they don’t daunt you — you’ve looked an angry toddler in the eye. By simply being a mother you’ve found patience and developed conflict negotiation skills you never knew you had. To top it all you can really multitask now – there’s nothing like the speed, productivity and efficiency of a caffeinated mother who has to leave work on time to pick-up her child.
So the truth is you may not return to work as the same person who left heavily pregnant. You may not seem as slick and polished but you’re better. You’re wiser, more accepting and more capable than you ever thought possible – it’s just that mothers take superpowers for granted sometimes.

The Name of the Rose - I have thought long and hard about writing this post. Soon after Romy died I found it immensely helpful to put my thoughts and feelings into words, as a way of communicating with those who so kindly wanted to know how I was, and also to help me to process what I was living through. The positive feedback I gained from my posts helped me so much: thank you.
Writing this blog gave me so much in those early days. It gave me some sense of purpose outside doing my best to keep my remaining two children alive. It gave me something to do when I thought I would go out of my mind. It gave me connection to others who had experienced this mind blowing devastation.
That was around eighteen months ago. So why on earth did I stop?


There is a very simple answer to this question, but there are also others. What made me stop initially is the fact that in February 2015, almost seven months since Romy left us, I discovered that I was pregnant. Since I had been so honest and open about what was happening in my life, I felt unable to write the blog as I simply didn’t feel ready, or able, to share the news of my pregnancy. In fact, right up until the birth and afterwards, D and I realised to our chagrin that there were still people who hadn’t known I was pregnant. To anyone reading this who knows and didn’t realise we’d had another baby: I’m really, really sorry!
As you can imagine, this fourth pregnancy was very different to any of my others, for reasons you would expect and for others that were a complete surprise to me. It all felt so surreal and due to its close proximity to my pregnancy with Romy, at times they blended into one another and added to my confused state of mind.
My mother, never one to offer unsolicited advice or intrusive comment, remarked to me recently that I have been in shock for eighteen months, and this really struck a chord. It is now 21 months since Romy passed and only once I got through the awful marker of sixteen weeks with our newborn did I feel that my mind and my body were emerging from some kind of parallel universe. During this period of deep shock, everything froze. I couldn’t read, I didn’t write one line, life before Romy’s birth didn’t seem to exist and I felt completely alienated from anything creative, perhaps as I knew that I had to pour all my energy into sustaining the new life that we had created, and which I was carrying. I began to understand why so much has been written of pregnancy after loss. When you have lost a child, any subsequent pregnancy takes on a whole new dimension.
Once our new son had safely arrived, I felt myself withdrawing, disconnecting completely from my body, blocking things out of my mind and starting to try to convince myself that none of it had ever happened. This was made difficult by the fact that, having not held a baby since Romy breathed her last in our arms, I was being transported back every day to those four precious months with her. ‘I remember when she first smiled.’, ‘She used to love bathtime too’, ‘I remember this feeling.’ On more than one occasion I’ve referred to him as ‘she’ or ‘her’. I didn’t think he looked like her at all but once I somehow found it in myself to hang her picture back on the wall I realised that actually they do look alike. Our older daughter was adamant that the picture hanging on the wall was of her new brother, not her sister, and wouldn’t be told otherwise.
As January came and went, I descended deeper into an abyss I wasn’t expecting. This wasn’t post natal depression. I was thrilled with our new baby, bonded with him strongly and felt that he had practically saved my life. It’s not exactly a cheerful time of year anyway but I was dismayed at just how low I sank. Every time I had a particularly bad day I berated myself for feeling that way. How could I feel this bad when we had been blessed with a beautiful new baby? How could I be so ungrateful? But grief is of course more complex than this.
Somewhere in mid February 2016 we approached the dreaded marker of fifteen weeks and three days – the age Romy was when she died. A lot of my PTSD symptoms – specifically, the flashbacks, panic attacks and paranoia about the children – resurfaced with a vengeance and I began to feel real anxiety about something bad happening. But we got to fifteen weeks and three days and passed it. We passed sixteen weeks. We arrived at seventeen weeks, at which point the game changed again. Now, I felt my sense of loss deepen as I entered unchartered territory. The ‘I remember this…’ turned into, ‘She never did this…’, ‘I never saw her do that’.
Watching our older children playing with their new brother, it began to dawn on me that there is a big gap where Romy should be. Our elder two are nineteen months apart; the exact same difference in age as that between our younger two children. As I was putting our eldest to bed one night he became really upset, asked me where Romy was and told me he was worried in case she wasn’t okay. We spent some time talking about this before he tearfully told me, ‘But Mummy, there should be four of us.’ These times have been really hard. During my pregnancy, my sensitive boy asked several times, ‘Mummy, is the baby going to be okay?’ ‘What if the baby dies?’, ‘Will the baby still be here at Christmas?’ He showed mild interest in his little brother but remained pretty detached until just before Christmas when he blurted out, ‘Mummy, I don’t want my brother to die.’ Previously to this I had chosen my words carefully, never wanting to issue any guarantees I couldn’t follow up on, always being cautious in reassuring my children that it was very unusual for a baby to die, that usually, people are very old when their bodies stop working and that I was as sure as I could be that their brother was going to be okay.
As I searched my son’s worried, tear stained face that morning I threw all of that out of the window and said, ‘Listen to me. He is not going to die.’ And overnight, his brother began to connect with him, play with him and talk to him. Now he squabbles with his sister over who’s going to help feed him, find his favourite toy or try to make him laugh. I give thanks often for our decision to always talk about things with our children, to not shy away from the unpleasant aspects and the difficulties. A family that communicates is united and we would not be where we are today had we not consulted our children on their opinions and feelings along the way.
I was at the point of revisiting my GP to request the antidepressants we’d discussed previously, when I decided to have one more go at getting a grip. I started Pilates. I got a massage. I consulted a homeopath and a nutritionist. I pared down all the counselling to just one: our trusted Child Bereavement UK telephone counselor, Sue, who has been with us from the early days of our loss. Still, ‘I just don’t know how to get myself out of this hole’, I wailed at my poor husband. He asked me what I thought the answer was, if I answered my own question quickly, without thinking. ‘Write.’, I told him simply. And so here I am, writing myself out of a hole.
I made a promise to Romy that I would write about her, tell her story and make meaning of her short time with us. And so, a bit late to the party I am making a start on that mission, and the beginning is here. It does all feel a bit backward, coming as it does after such a lauded start back in 2014, but this writing has more than one purpose. It honours Romy’s memory and helps me to remember her and to heal. I hope that it helps others who have lost a child and also those who know parents who have lost a child. By writing about my experience I hope that it will make a small difference in enabling people to talk about child loss; a subject which I still find worryingly taboo.
After each of our children’s births we have buried their placenta under a new, specially selected plant in our garden. The rose bush I chose with the children to mark the site of Romy’s placenta is called New Beginnings; a beautiful apricot coloured bloom which reminds me of her as for some reason I chose to dress her in this colour a lot. It suited her peachy skin and stunning cornflower blue eyes.
At the time, I felt that the name of this rose bush was auspicious as we were looking optimistically towards new horizons in our life. I could not possibly have realised just how this name would resonate with me over the months to come. After Romy passed we moved house, the children started a new school, D’s business partnership dissolved and he began a new venture on his own, I turned my back on a decade’s work in fertility, pregnancy and birth. And, of course, we were yet again poised to welcome new life. A flash of inspiration gave me the title for this post and as I wrote it I realised that The Name of The Rose – a story by Umberto Eco and a film we both like-also has as its theme the song Kiss From a Rose by Seal, which is one we chose to play for Romy at her remembrance ceremony. If ever the baby is crying in the car, we put this song on and he stops immediately. We’ve tried several different tracks but he only ever does it with this one.
To my surprise, the mere act of writing is also helping me to rediscover a part of myself that I lost long ago. D and I were recently sitting at a beach café – a regular outing we promised ourselves: after all, what’s the point of moving to a seaside town if you’re not going to take advantage of an underpopulated weekday beach every now and then? Over coffee (me) and green tea (him) we were catching up with each other and talking about how we felt as Romy’s second birthday approached. I told him that I really, really wanted to restart this blog. Then I heard myself say it: “When I was younger, my dream was to be a writer.” I’m not sure who was more surprised by this statement, but as I reflected it all came flooding back. I wrote poetry, stories and plays. I entered writing competitions. I persuaded my school to put on one of my plays, which I directed my whole class in and acted in too. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten this part of myself. What happened?
Since we welcomed our new baby and the shock of Romy’s passing begins to thaw, I have unlocked this part of myself and I now feel excited about writing. At this point I must credit a wonderful organisation, Mothers Uncovered, a Sussex-based creative support network for mothers (http://www.mothersuncovered.com). Each discussion group has at its core an arts related project or activity, and it just so happened that my local one was a writing group. Within this safe space, populated by some of the kindest, funniest, most supportive women I have met in a long time, I felt able to share both my feelings and my writing.
I have had every type of counselling imaginable and many, many different therapies but writing has helped me most of all. It has helped me to remember that aside from raising our children and being a supportive partner I do have a purpose, there is something that fires me up. I’m starting to feel a flicker of something like I used to feel, Before.
So, I have revisited this blog, given it a little overhaul and committed to it. I invite you to share it as I hope that in giving a voice to my thoughts and experiences, I’m sending a little bit of Romy out into the world to connect with others and to help them in their grief and understanding of those who grieve. There is so much to catch up on since I last wrote a post that I hardly know where to start.
People say that the first year is the worst. Actually I’ve heard that said about everything, from grief to marriage to starting a new business. In my experience, it’s not. I read all of Elisabeth Kubler Ross’s work on grief and grieving. I thought I’d skipped the anger part. I naively stumbled through the first year without Romy expecting it to be some kind of rite of passage which, once achieved, would allow me to return to some kind of semblance of my former self. Wrong.
Instead, I am using my daughter’s rose, New Beginnings, as something to inspire me and propel me forwards. I know now that every day of every year has the potential to be crippling, however much time has passed. I have to believe that Romy’s time here was meaningful, not just to me but to others. I have to see all the new beginnings in my life since she left it as her work, a breadcrumb trail towards my purpose and perhaps, in some small ways, of some help to others.

From 'Remembering Romy' https://rememberingromy.com/