When I tell people I work from home I tend to get two standard responses. The first is ‘lucky you!’ and the other is ‘you lazy cow!’
For some reason people who don’t work from home imagine that the daily routine for those who do is to have a big lie-in, get up for Jeremy Kyle, sit in their jim-jams to 2pm, tinker on Facebook for a time then go back to bed.
Nothing, NOTHING could be further from the truth.
Working from home demands super tough self-discipline. And working from home with kids requires saint-like patience and juggling abilities that would make a circus clown sob with envy.
In my naivety I honestly thought working from my house with my kids and my dog would be positively idyllic. Granted this was before I even knew my kids and the dog had yet to arrive from his home planet.
Up until a few years ago I had a good office job and often dreamed the work from home dream. In this dream I wandered peacefully around in my perfectly furnished home office, cup of fresh steaming coffee in hand, and gazed out my window to survey my land (3 ft by 4ft with a fetching pea green coloured 2ft by 3ft oil tank). I would send witty emails to my intellectual acquaintances and negotiate top deals with global companies from a comfy sun lounger in the garden. My children would potter around on the grass, intermittently smiling, waving, being consistently and beautifully quiet.
In my dreams my perfect children would know when Mummy had to concentrate and busy themselves with art activities in another room. They would understand that Mummy had to take a phone call and know not to wrestle the receiver from me so that they could scream their demands for bananas at 332 decibels at the person on the other side or call random people on my mobile to inform them how the potty training is going.
At no time during this vision of sheer loveliness did the image of me fishing a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD smeared with margarine out of the disc slot on my laptop enter my mind. At no stage did I envisage having a 3,000-word story erased in a mili-second by a sugar-crazed plastic hammer-wielding toddler. In this vision of heavenly proportions there was no image of me trying to type with one hand while a fussy baby screams into my ear or trying to conduct a Skype call while being attacked by lightsabers.
With working from home the fun never stops. There is no clock off time. There is no end to the working day. There is always something that has to be finished or someone looking for something. While the rest of you office worker scallywags relax in front of the telly in the evenings I am still fielding phone calls from crazy workaholics who ring at 10pm, sometimes even midnight, for a brainstorming session or because they thought of some revolutionary way to make money.
Yes I choose to work from home because it allows me to spend time with my kids, be flexible for them and still pursue my career. But if you are considering it, be warned it is a hard slog, let no one convince you otherwise.
The degradation of ones social skills is probably the worst aspect. One month in, your former colleagues will still recognise you. You’ll still be the peachy colour humans are supposed to be. You’ll still be capable of stringing words together to form sentences.
Six months in your colleagues will be hard pushed to recognise you under the big bushy beard (yes, even the ladies grow beards eventually) and pasty skin. And your mutterings will be barely English… ‘home work at, no go out much, daylight no see, English is speak becoming hardness..’
A year in and the bushy beard is bushier. There’s crazy hair, crazed eyes and you’re three stone heavier. Your conversations contain these words and these words only. ‘Hooba, Hooba, porkrind, choppy hurr hurr, Tayto Crisp Sandwiches, whee!! Ha, ha, happy Jeremy Kyle!’
But this is the life I chose. It may not be a dream come true, indeed it is probably many people’s worst nightmare. But I suppose it’s my nightmare and I love it...sometimes.
Tuesday 26 April 2011
Monday 18 April 2011
I'm quitting my day job....
The trouble with having an army of kids is when one gets sick it sets in motion a catastrophic chain of events which results in me going temporarily insane through lack of sleep.
Our middle child is a bug magnet. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was deliberately kissing snotty-nosed girls to get off school for a few days to watch the Fireman Sam marathon on Cartoon Network. He’s always the first man to fall. He deals with his sickness by boking, mostly. On the nights he’s sick I can be found standing in the hall sleeping with my head resting atop a mop handle. There really is no point in sleeping while lying down. It just heightens the pain.
Next to succumb is usually Daniel. When he’s sick – regardless of variety of bug – it flares up his asthma so I spend the night ferrying basins of boiling water up and down the stairs, administering inhalers at hourly intervals and reading him books about aliens and dinosaurs.
Next to hit the decks is Finn the Destroyer. From the moment he feels that lurgy hit until the moment he feels better he screams. The ear-piercing wailing can last for four days and four nights. I still wake in the night in a cold sweat recalling the time he had chickenpox. That child screamed for two weeks. He screamed about being sick, screamed about the spots, about the itching, screamed about the application of cream, about the non-application of cream. The husband and I doubted we would ever smile again.
Our baby girl is usually the last of the lot to fall ill. She expresses her displeasure at being sick by refusing to sleep.
Not A wink.
For weeks.
She is the sole reason I look and feel 70-years old today.
When the kids are done with the bug and the puking and the screaming and the not sleeping I get a super-concentrated combined version of the lurgy bug, which is always something I look forward to.
And when the tables are turned it’s a whole different ball game. No matter how much I shout for their assistance in the night they conveniently sleep through my pleas. I could actually die for the want of a hot lemon and honey drink or someone to read me a book about aliens stealing underpants at 3am. I doubt they would care, or notice until their demands for seven different brands of breakfast cereals mixed together in the one bowl went unanswered the next morning.
And no matter happens in the night and no matter if I can count actual sleeping times in minutes instead of hours I still have to get up and go to work in the morning. Sometimes this is a hindrance, sometimes a help.
For example I was at a meeting recently with an incredibly boring and terribly obnoxious man. I caught sight of a large goldfish in a tank just behind his head. As he ranted on the giant goldfish seemed to be mocking him, opening and closing his fishy mouth in time with his conversings. This may well have been a sleep-deprived hallucination. None the less it made me laugh and fret less about losing an hour of my life I’ll never get back.
It may have been sleep deprivation that also pushed me to think about going back to university. It may well have been lack of shuteye that propelled me into a chair at a careers advisor’s office. God knows I would do quite literally anything for a sit down and a cup of tea.
The nice lady asked me questions and tapped the answers into her computer, then got me to do some sort of psychological word quiz which would profile my true character. I could have really saved her the bother and told her I was a ‘neurotic, knackered, super-hypochondriac with an unhealthy obsession with Harry Potter’. But she insisted the quiz would be able to tell me which career would best suit me. I sat like a fool and circled words like ‘team player’, ‘emotional’ and ‘reserved’ thinking the smart computer would tell me that I was perfectly matched to ‘journalism’ and hence the last 15 years of my existence where not a total waste of time.
She tapped my answers into the computer, looked at me, looked at the sheet, printed out the results and handed them to me.
Apparently I’ve got a ‘supporter’ personality.
And my ideal occupation is ‘funeral director’.
Our middle child is a bug magnet. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was deliberately kissing snotty-nosed girls to get off school for a few days to watch the Fireman Sam marathon on Cartoon Network. He’s always the first man to fall. He deals with his sickness by boking, mostly. On the nights he’s sick I can be found standing in the hall sleeping with my head resting atop a mop handle. There really is no point in sleeping while lying down. It just heightens the pain.
Next to succumb is usually Daniel. When he’s sick – regardless of variety of bug – it flares up his asthma so I spend the night ferrying basins of boiling water up and down the stairs, administering inhalers at hourly intervals and reading him books about aliens and dinosaurs.
Next to hit the decks is Finn the Destroyer. From the moment he feels that lurgy hit until the moment he feels better he screams. The ear-piercing wailing can last for four days and four nights. I still wake in the night in a cold sweat recalling the time he had chickenpox. That child screamed for two weeks. He screamed about being sick, screamed about the spots, about the itching, screamed about the application of cream, about the non-application of cream. The husband and I doubted we would ever smile again.
Our baby girl is usually the last of the lot to fall ill. She expresses her displeasure at being sick by refusing to sleep.
Not A wink.
For weeks.
She is the sole reason I look and feel 70-years old today.
When the kids are done with the bug and the puking and the screaming and the not sleeping I get a super-concentrated combined version of the lurgy bug, which is always something I look forward to.
And when the tables are turned it’s a whole different ball game. No matter how much I shout for their assistance in the night they conveniently sleep through my pleas. I could actually die for the want of a hot lemon and honey drink or someone to read me a book about aliens stealing underpants at 3am. I doubt they would care, or notice until their demands for seven different brands of breakfast cereals mixed together in the one bowl went unanswered the next morning.
And no matter happens in the night and no matter if I can count actual sleeping times in minutes instead of hours I still have to get up and go to work in the morning. Sometimes this is a hindrance, sometimes a help.
For example I was at a meeting recently with an incredibly boring and terribly obnoxious man. I caught sight of a large goldfish in a tank just behind his head. As he ranted on the giant goldfish seemed to be mocking him, opening and closing his fishy mouth in time with his conversings. This may well have been a sleep-deprived hallucination. None the less it made me laugh and fret less about losing an hour of my life I’ll never get back.
It may have been sleep deprivation that also pushed me to think about going back to university. It may well have been lack of shuteye that propelled me into a chair at a careers advisor’s office. God knows I would do quite literally anything for a sit down and a cup of tea.
The nice lady asked me questions and tapped the answers into her computer, then got me to do some sort of psychological word quiz which would profile my true character. I could have really saved her the bother and told her I was a ‘neurotic, knackered, super-hypochondriac with an unhealthy obsession with Harry Potter’. But she insisted the quiz would be able to tell me which career would best suit me. I sat like a fool and circled words like ‘team player’, ‘emotional’ and ‘reserved’ thinking the smart computer would tell me that I was perfectly matched to ‘journalism’ and hence the last 15 years of my existence where not a total waste of time.
She tapped my answers into the computer, looked at me, looked at the sheet, printed out the results and handed them to me.
Apparently I’ve got a ‘supporter’ personality.
And my ideal occupation is ‘funeral director’.
Monday 11 April 2011
Pramnesia, Calpoholics and Baby Doomers....
Apparently there is an entirely new language around to describe the highs and lows of modern parenting.
A recent poll has suggested that all us Yummy Mummies are last year’s news. This year it’s all Dummy Mummies and new mothers suffering from Pramnesia, kiddie Calpoholics and Baby Doomers.
As if we don’t have enough to be getting along with – I don’t know about you but the actual act of parenting takes up my every waking moment – we now have to practically do a night class on what the cool mums and dads are saying.
But I’m willing to put in the hours for the sake of my street (and mum’s) cred.
I don’t want to be left on the side of the road while the bus to Cool Parentsville thunders past so I conducted extensive research on the subject.
For those of you not yet savvy with the Parentionary terms of reference, here’s the glossary, with a few of my own inventions peppered in for good measure.
Calpoholics
Children who display early predisposition to mood-altering, pain and fever reducing medications.
TV McFee
The electronic babysitter, otherwise known as the television set, which provides hours of entertainment for little ones and hours of Facebooking peace for mummies.
Baby Doomers
Couples who warn other young couples not to have a baby due to the huge cost/stress/worry/boke involved in bringing up baby.
Nappie Cash
The ever-ready money parents need to spend on disposable nappies.
Flabbergasted
The name given to your sense of shock at how much weight you have gained during pregnancy.
Dummy Mummy
Paralysis of the section of the mind which deals with intellect and interest in current affairs. This unfortunate condition, which affects one in 10 mothers, renders a woman utterly incapable of conversing on any subject apart from her children.
Dadmin Department
Father of children heads up this particular department, carrying out such duties as fixing broken prams and depositing stinking nappies in the wheelie bin.
Baby Gaga
Total diva in waiting. Screaming, stomping, attention-seeking little girl.
Balderdash
A rapidly receding hairline that weary fathers often sport.
Blamestorming
When parents blame each other for their child-related failures – it’s his fault he has a mouth on him like a sailor, it’s her fault he likes Cliff Richard etc etc.
Pramnesia
The sleep-deprived forgetfulness caused by endless nights of little to no shuteye. It is this condition that also enables a female who has gone through labour to ever consider having another child.
Swiped Out
When a banklink card is rendered useless because the magnetic strip is worn away from extensive use buying child-related paraphernalia.
Hindsight
What one might experience from changing too many nappies.
Puddlemagnetism
When small bodies of water draw other small bodies wearing dry shoes and socks into it.
Floordrobe
Place where coats, schoolbags and discarded clothes are kept.
SITCOMs
What people who might have once been described as yuppies turn into when they have children and one of them stops working to stay home with the children. Stands for Single Income, Two Children, Oppressive Mortgage.
Comprom-lie-sing
The art of dividing a cake/bar of chocolate/last biscuit in the house in such a way that everybody believes he got the biggest piece
Nansformer/Nannanator
Granny who turns into a super-efficient domestic helper when baby arrives. Nansformers often possess superhuman dish-washing powers and the incredible ability to make lovely cups of tea.
Emergency numbers
Police station, ambulance, fire brigade and pizza delivery services.
Disneyfying
Making things like household chores sound cooler than they actually are. “Guess where we’re off to today? Yes that’s right! Tescoland!! We’re going on the trolley ride.. Yeah!”
Perhaps the phrase that will ring true with most parents…
Code Brown.
It needs little explanation.
A recent poll has suggested that all us Yummy Mummies are last year’s news. This year it’s all Dummy Mummies and new mothers suffering from Pramnesia, kiddie Calpoholics and Baby Doomers.
As if we don’t have enough to be getting along with – I don’t know about you but the actual act of parenting takes up my every waking moment – we now have to practically do a night class on what the cool mums and dads are saying.
But I’m willing to put in the hours for the sake of my street (and mum’s) cred.
I don’t want to be left on the side of the road while the bus to Cool Parentsville thunders past so I conducted extensive research on the subject.
For those of you not yet savvy with the Parentionary terms of reference, here’s the glossary, with a few of my own inventions peppered in for good measure.
Calpoholics
Children who display early predisposition to mood-altering, pain and fever reducing medications.
TV McFee
The electronic babysitter, otherwise known as the television set, which provides hours of entertainment for little ones and hours of Facebooking peace for mummies.
Baby Doomers
Couples who warn other young couples not to have a baby due to the huge cost/stress/worry/boke involved in bringing up baby.
Nappie Cash
The ever-ready money parents need to spend on disposable nappies.
Flabbergasted
The name given to your sense of shock at how much weight you have gained during pregnancy.
Dummy Mummy
Paralysis of the section of the mind which deals with intellect and interest in current affairs. This unfortunate condition, which affects one in 10 mothers, renders a woman utterly incapable of conversing on any subject apart from her children.
Dadmin Department
Father of children heads up this particular department, carrying out such duties as fixing broken prams and depositing stinking nappies in the wheelie bin.
Baby Gaga
Total diva in waiting. Screaming, stomping, attention-seeking little girl.
Balderdash
A rapidly receding hairline that weary fathers often sport.
Blamestorming
When parents blame each other for their child-related failures – it’s his fault he has a mouth on him like a sailor, it’s her fault he likes Cliff Richard etc etc.
Pramnesia
The sleep-deprived forgetfulness caused by endless nights of little to no shuteye. It is this condition that also enables a female who has gone through labour to ever consider having another child.
Swiped Out
When a banklink card is rendered useless because the magnetic strip is worn away from extensive use buying child-related paraphernalia.
Hindsight
What one might experience from changing too many nappies.
Puddlemagnetism
When small bodies of water draw other small bodies wearing dry shoes and socks into it.
Floordrobe
Place where coats, schoolbags and discarded clothes are kept.
SITCOMs
What people who might have once been described as yuppies turn into when they have children and one of them stops working to stay home with the children. Stands for Single Income, Two Children, Oppressive Mortgage.
Comprom-lie-sing
The art of dividing a cake/bar of chocolate/last biscuit in the house in such a way that everybody believes he got the biggest piece
Nansformer/Nannanator
Granny who turns into a super-efficient domestic helper when baby arrives. Nansformers often possess superhuman dish-washing powers and the incredible ability to make lovely cups of tea.
Emergency numbers
Police station, ambulance, fire brigade and pizza delivery services.
Disneyfying
Making things like household chores sound cooler than they actually are. “Guess where we’re off to today? Yes that’s right! Tescoland!! We’re going on the trolley ride.. Yeah!”
Perhaps the phrase that will ring true with most parents…
Code Brown.
It needs little explanation.
Monday 4 April 2011
Parent Dolls....
Every working mother suffers a certain degree of mummy guilt. Some feel a just a tinge of slightly annoying guilt, others a bone crushing, debilitating guilt that renders them incapable of stringing a sentence together at work that doesn’t revolve around the colour and consistency of their child’s nappy contents or a rundown of the cute things they said and did in the last 24-hours.
I remember back in the olden days when it our family consisted of us and just the oldest boy. I cried every day when I left him with his childminder. I thought about him the entire time I was at work. I showered him with stuff and crammed a head-spinning itinerary of activities into our weekend to try and counteract the fact that I was a certified card carrying she-devil Monday to Friday and went out to work for a living.
Well, rest easy, us mums need worry no more. Our troubles are officially over. The Americans have come up with the answer – Parent Dolls.
‘The Parent Doll is You!’ claims the website. ‘It’s your face and your voice put into a friendly, warm-hearted plush doll for your child to cherish’.
Wow.
So you put a picture of yourself in the faceplate and automatically the doll looks exactly like you. Granted it’s a stuffed, tiny, cloth version of you with an inkjet printed face and a dodgy dress sense but it’s still you.
You can even make the doll sound like you. The idea is that the child carries the Parent Doll around all day, presses a button when he needs reassurance and hears Mum’s voice.
You squash the dolls tummy and speak into her hand to leave an eight-minute message. Something along the lines of ‘Hello there little Jimmy. I’m at work, I miss you terribly, oh how I love you madly. While I’m at work this doll – which, I’m sure you’ll concur, actually looks remarkably like me, spongy biscuit-shaped hair and all – will carry out all my mummy duties. Dolly Mummy won’t be able to cook or clean or change nappies and the like but she does do a cracking rendition of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’. So you’ll be super grand. Byeee!’
Yes that’s what ordinary parents would probably say. If I had to leave an eight-minute message for my two year old, I wouldn’t waste it pointlessly singing Mary Had a Little Lamb. If I’m going to be replaced by an inanimate cloth dolly, I’m going to make her work for her keep.
My message would go a little something like this…
‘Hello Finnbo, my lovely little curly-haired lunatic. I’ve escaped and am at work. Don’t touch that! Don’t eat that! For the love of God man, stop drinking coffee! Pot Pourri is for smelling, not consuming. Don’t draw on those walls you little….Don’t stick your fingers in your sister’s eyes. Toilet business is strictly confined to the toilet, please refrain from needless watering of the plants. Stop with all the rubbing yoghurt on the bloody windows. Refrain from sticking bananas in the DVD player. Cease using my laptop to hammer the plastic nails into Bob the Builder’s workbench. Stop feeding toilet paper into the CD player on my iMac. Stop washing your hair in the toilet. I love you little man. I’ll be home soon! Byeee!!’
Infact I might just put an order in for two of these dolls. One for the little man, one for the husband. I couldn’t, hand on heart, turn my back on the chance to record an entire eight minutes of nagging for the husband.
‘I can smell cigarettes off your coat. Have you been smoking? Have a salad with that panini, NOT chips. When are you going to finish painting that wardrobe in Caolan’s bedroom? You put the first coat on six years ago. It is bound to be dry by now. The garage door needs oiled immediately. That grass needs cut. You keep on walking past that bun shop mister, don’t even thing about stopping. Get your hair cut, you hippy. Stop flirting with that middle-aged woman in the café who gives you double portions of cheesecake. OK. Love you, byeee!’
The trouble is with these things is that you can take the batteries out or bury them under the pile of washing in the hotpress when the nagging gets too intense.
I think the real thing is much better.
www.parentdoll.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
