It’s funny how it’s so easy to fall into a default setting of “glum”. When the weather’s a bit rubbish and you’re tired and the dishes are piling up and you can’t afford that new dress, it can sometimes feel like the world is against you. Or is that just me?

We’re going through a bit of a stressful time in our household at the moment. Lots of change is afoot, which means a huge amount of juggling, not much sleep and more than the odd tense moment.

Although I relish change and get excited about new things, it’s difficult to let yourself get too carried away when you don’t know exactly how things will pan out. That lack of security has had me and The (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine doing that thing of, “Once this month is over, it’ll all be OK”. Basically, we’re wishing our lives away past this challenge, counting down the seconds of each day until things are more settled.

That is A Bad Thing.

This is what I realised this weekend, while I was at Blog Summit, listening to the fantastically inspiring Andy Cope. He talked about living life “well”, rather than rushing through it, looking forward to the next event. His theory is that happy people are the ones who “stop looking for gold at the end of the rainbow”, realising that perhaps “that pot of gold is already sitting at their feet”.

According to Andy, happiness is a choice we make. It’s often hard work to jolt yourself into feeling positive and to remind yourself of the good over the bad, but it’s an effort worth making if you want to feel the glow of being happy. And, as Andy says, happiness often leads to success. Happy people have more energy and motivation; they have a certain “zing” that is difficult to define, but it’s magnetic.

I like to think I’m a fairly positive person, making the most of life. But, sometimes, my idea of making the most of life is more about cramming as much as possible into 24 hours. It means I sometimes forget to just enjoy a moment, relax and not worry about the next thing. Whether it’s immersing myself in a game with my toddler or enjoying working on a great creative piece of work, my mind is often on the next thing, planning ahead.

My mum (who is the wisest woman in the world and knows everything) has taken to sending me postcards with little nuggets of advice on. Her latest one is particularly apt, I think.

She knows me well, my mum. She knows that I’m constantly reaching for the next thing, sometimes picturing myself in an uphill struggle alone. But, as she reminds me, I’m never alone, because I have a family who love me. Every now and again, I need a little jolt to help me remember that.

That’s why I’m going to take Andy Cope’s advice. I’m going to listen to my mum. And I’m going to follow my own instincts that tell me to stop looking at what I don’t have and to start focusing on what I do: a beautiful family, a clean bill of health, a full belly, a roof over our head, a sturdy bank balance, a bright future.

Life is good. I’m choosing happy. After all, that approach seems to be working for my toddler.

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Doesn’t the sunshine just make everything better?

I found myself feeling properly relaxed for the first time in what seems like ages today. I’m pretty sure it’s mainly down to the weather and the fact I spent a couple of hours pottering in the garden. Then again, it could also be attributed to the small matter of my toddler’s mammoth two hour nap this afternoon.

The last couple of days have been productive, tinged with moments of indulgence. Mornings in the gardens, fields and woods at nursery have tired my almost-three year old out, leaving her snoring on the sofa within five minutes of arriving home.

With a bonus couple of hours that weren’t planned for, I’ve been able to clear the laundry (I’m one of those weird people that actually gets a sense of satisfaction at hanging out the washing and seeing it dry in the breeze), potter around the garden, clear some work deadlines and – yesterday – have a tiny nap.

Having a couple of extra hours to myself the last two days has made me realise just how time-poor I really am. It’s a bit sad that I consider having twenty minutes to put a wash on and mop the floor a blissful luxury. Usually I’m racing about trying to hit a work deadline, entertain my toddler, answer a phone call and cook tea, all before getting to bed at a reasonable hour due to my current early starts for the breakfast radio show I’m working on.

Seeing the flowers bloom in the garden, eating a sandwich in the sun and, well, just being still, have left me smiling. And in a period of intense change, stressful juggling, scary decisions and tired-to-the-bones exhaustion, these smiles are a welcome relief.

How have you been enjoying the sunshine? Have you found it’s made you feel better?

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I’m not talking about a snotty kiss from my two year old, or a loving message from my husband (although they’re nice too), I’m talking about the other things. The tiny things that I won’t remember when I’m old. The inconsequential things that make my days a bit brighter if I’m struggling.

Spring shoots, bringing the promise of summer…

Finding the last Madeleine Cake at the bottom of the tin…

A cup of Earl Grey out of my snazzy new mug…

The last slice of Christmas cake…

Dreaming of upcycling ideas for a cute new furniture project…

Finding a note (complete with kisses from a friendly postman!) saying there’s a parcel waiting at the Post Office for me…

A spare half hour losing myself in a spot of knitting…

And, when all else fails, a delicious glass of red on a Saturday night…

These are the things brightening up my life at the moment. What are yours?

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I’ve lost two members of my family, worked hours I didn’t think possible and seen my daughter battle hypermobile joints leading to a delay in walking.

But.

But. I have also seen my toddler take those hypermobile joints and give them the middle finger. I have seen her run across sandy beaches and welcome the waves with joy. I have spent evenings lying, exhausted on the sofa and been treated to homemade meals and known there is a reason I married the man I call the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine. We have battled this year together.

I have made new friends and visited new places. I have reached new goals in my work and strived to take them to even bigger things. I have written and written and written and talked a bit and written some more.

Yes, it’s been a thoroughly tough year. But those moments of joy make it all worthwhile.

January: not walking

February: Beach love

March: Outside

April: Chasing freedom

May: Mastering naughtiness

June: Walking

July: Finding happiness

August: New memories

September: Some luxury

October: Exploring woods

November: London adventure

December: Stolen kisses

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He’s wonky and he has one leg that’s more of a spodge than a limb, but he’s full of joy and happiness. And he tasted delicious.

Oh, and he’s not actually made of ginger, because I realised too late that we’d run out. I suppose he’d better be called a Mixed Spice and Cinnamon Man, but that doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.

It’s been a strange old day.

I woke up feeling exhausted (not unusual, considering my alarm for work goes off at 3.30am) and drained. I drove into work at the pace of a snail, as I’ve lost a bit of confidence on the roads since a family tragedy last week.

But on that drive I made a decision. I was going to let myself be sad but not wallow in the worry. I was going to think of others but not forget myself and my own little family. And I was going to embrace every second of joy and life like it was my last.

You know what? I actually enjoyed the trip round the supermarket this afternoon, even when my two year old started to kick off. We looked at “choc choc” and talked about the food we’d eat on Christmas Day. We got excited about the impending holidays and soaked up the atmosphere and glitter. I usually hate the supermarket.

It’s funny how much brighter life is when you decide to try and enjoy it. I have raw, first-hand experience of how quickly our time can be taken. I don’t want mine to end with any regrets. It’s about the little, mundane moments of joy that punctuate bigger scenes in time.

Like making happy, wonky Gingerbread Men.

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Photo credit: Caroline Gue at CP Photography

This is my mum and dad.

The photo was taken on my wedding day, last year. My mum was busy bustling around, making sure everyone else looked nice. She helped me into my dress (that she made) before pinning my dad’s buttonhole. She got dressed after everyone else had left the house. She looked lovely.

My parents are my example. When it comes to being a mum myself, I look to them for inspiration and guidance on how to do it. They were funny. That’s the main thing I remember growing up. We had lots of laughter, often at my dad’s expense. Being the only man in the house, he milked the “poor dad” role with his two daughters, much to our amusement.

Our house was loud at times, but never through my parents arguing. If they needed to discuss things they would do just that. I never remember heated exchanges – apart from when my mum gave my dad the wrong directions on a holiday to France. He repaid the favour by refusing to stop for a toilet break and leaving her bursting for a wee for about a mile. My sister and I thought that was quite funny. She did too, afterwards.

We were by no means poor, growing up in a typically middle class area of Bristol. It was all organic veg shops and Guardian readers, eco boutiques and reclamation yards. But neither were we well off. Our house was bought from an old lady who hadn’t redecorated since the 1960s. Everything had to be ripped out to make way for things that actually worked. At the age of five, my parents hosted a birthday party for me. I can still remember my pride at the birthday cake my aunt had made in the shape of an elephant, as everyone sat around me on an old sheet on the bare, dusty floorboards, singing Happy Birthday To You.

Our garden was a Mecca for the neighbourhood kids. A patch of mud, it was the perfect place to go hunting for treasure. My dad dug that garden and later planted a lawn, laid a patio, created flower beds. He worked hard to make it a place we could play and keep pet rabbits.

Family holidays were a joy. Both my parents were teachers so we would go away for five weeks at a time, camping in France. We would eat good food and swim in the sea. At night my sister and I would snuggle together in our side of the tent while we listened to my parents snoring on the other. I can still vividly recall one night we all shared a family hotel room and my sister was purple with rage by morning. We found her curled up in the bathroom, with a hairband around her ears and makeshift cotton wool pads turned into earmuffs. Apparently we were all snoring.

These are the family memories I hope to recreate with my own daughter. We are three at the moment, but one day we may be more. I hope for laughter, a lack of political correctness and shared joy at the small things. Both my parents swear too much, laugh very loudly and have a love of a good glass of wine. They were never pale people living in the shadows. Now retired by the sea in Devon, they’ve quickly adapted to country life with a new group of friends and hobbies. I miss them.

This week I have missed them more than ever. Things are on my mind, decisions to be made, life to live. Usually so upbeat and cheerful (apart from when my alarm goes off at 3.30am), I’ve been feeling confused and low. I’ve questioned myself and rung my mum and dad for advice. I’ve sobbed down the phone at the sound of their kind voices and then reverted back to my teenage self, reliant on my mum and dad for their wise owl counsel.

It will always be this way. I’m an adult now, but I’m still their child. They’re still my parents.

Which is why I’m so pleased they’re coming for an ad hoc visit next week. Hopefully they’ll bring some of that wine I love so much.

Photo credit: Caroline Gue at CP Photography

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What’s important….

Funny how that first paragraph was mainly about earning and money and striving for a financial balance. Because, to us, what’s important is NOT money.

The reason I work my backside off is NOT to give my child the latest in designer clothes. It’s NOT because I want a six bedroom house with a huge garden. It’s NOT because I covet a new handbag or shoes (although, if you’re offering, I wouldn’t say no).

I do it so that our future financial stability isn’t entirely resting on my husband’s teacher shoulders. I do it so that one day I can take my foot off the peddle a little and step back.

Step back and continue to show my daughter that the very best things in life aren’t worth thousands of pounds. The very best things are worth working hard for and enjoying. When we finally get that house it won’t be a grand one. It’ll be one that needs some work. It’ll be a hard work house. Borne from hard work. And put together with love.

Just like all the things I treasured in my home as a child, the things I want my daughter to appreciate won’t be the most expensive.

I want her to remember her mother’s Picasso print at the top of the stairs, given as a 21st birthday present before her mum got old.

I want her to remember the freaky painting in the bathroom, that once hung in an art exhibition in the 1960s and was painted by a great grandmother named Suntan who she never met.

I want her to look back at the art on the walls of her home that was created by people related to her. That was created with hard work, creativity and imagination. These are all things worth a million plasma TVs and posh cushions.

And you know what? I think she’s already halfway there to learning this truth.

When she drew her first ever face earlier she whooped with delight. I might have to put it on the wall, next to the other art, just to prove to her how much it means to me. It didn’t cost a thing (apart from the price of the crayon) but that’s not the point.

What do you mean it’s not a face?! It is so.

Creativity, hard work and imagination. Worth more than anything.

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It’s a Tuesday feeling, although it comes on at certain other points in my week, depending on where I am and who I’m with.

Mumvy – the name introduced to me by Alison at Not Another Mummy Blog.

It’s a mixture of inadequacy and envy. It’s deeply unattractive and always leaves me cold. But I just can’t shake it.

This afternoon I was at my toddler’s swimming lesson. As I hurried to get her changed before she deposited a puddle on the floor, while manoeuvring my own wobbly behind into a polka dot number from Sainsburys, I was desperately aware of the other mums in the upmarket hotel changing room.

Their conversations were of face cream that cost “£250 – but it’s AMAZING!!!” and breast implants, holidays and designer toddler gear, the new Landrover and the horses. I couldn’t help but hear the chatter as I shrank into the corner, wearing my supermarket bargain, attempting to pinch some colour into my pallid cheeks.

The mumvy grew yet more as I noticed the washboard stomachs and Dior bikinis. I tried to tread into the swimming area on my tiptoes, just to avoid the impact on the ground and inevitable wobble up my thighs, as the Cheryl Cole lookalikes breezed past me in all their beautiful glory.

My chipped toenails and pasty shins stood out in stark contrast to their perfectly manicured feet and bronze skin, still golden after a summer in Italy.

As my child screamed at the sight of the dreaded woggle – that instrument of swimming lesson torture – the offspring of my objects of mumvy positively beamed. They kissed the woggle before performing a skilled half a width to the wall, while my two year old glared on.

After the lesson I rushed to get dressed and dry while simultaneously hiding my Primark pants and holey socks. I totted up calculations for how long it’d take to get home, cook the fishfingers, get Frog to bed, before sitting down and getting some work done. And my mumvy grew into a huge monster as the other mums discussed what the nanny was preparing for supper that night, while they scheduled their evening in front of the TV and next spa appointment.

I left the swimming pool with a wave to everyone, my smile hiding my inner feelings of inadequacy and bitterness.

But as I was walking towards the car park, one of the other mums caught up with me. I confessed that I was tired after my early morning and commute.

She asked me what I did for a job. “Oh, you get to go on the radio?” She enthused. “And you get paid to write things?”As I nodded, completely caught up in envy over the woman’s handbag which clearly cost more than my car, I was taken aback by what came next.

“I wish I did a job I enjoyed,” confessed the mum. “I always loved to write when I was at school. And the RADIO! Wow, that must be so much fun.”

She waved a goodbye and turned to leave. But not before I glimpsed a shadow of mumvy cross her face.

It would seem it strikes us all, sooner or later.

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I will never be perfect mother material. And when I say perfect, I mean perfect.

I’m not on about the obvious stuff, like regularly forgetting to make Frog brush her teeth, or occasionally letting her smear ketchup over her vegetables.

No, I’m on about something altogether different.

It’s a quality that starts for many women during pregnancy. These women are natural mothers. They are good at motherhood before their offspring are even born. The calm descends and they sit, zen-like, in a beautiful state of blooming fertility.

And as their child grows within them, they metamorphose into a Butlins Red Coat.

By the time the baby is born, these natural mothers are worthy of winning the X Factor. They ooze charm, charisma, fun. They can sing and smile and dance at the same time.

They are just so… happy.

Everywhere I go I am surrounded by just such mothers. Their voices are at a perfect pitch for toddlers. They don’t speak their words, they sing. Even a simple, “It’s time to put your shoes on” could elicit a little wiggle of the hips and a clap.

And I try to be like them. I do. But I fall short of the mark every time.

In the playground, I will use my best Butlins Red Coat Mother Voice to encourage Frog away from the swing and back into her buggy. I’ll even laugh a little as the warning signs of a tantrum start to flash.

But five minutes of demanding shouts from my 20 month old and all earlier pledges to retain my rosy jazz-hands exterior fly out of the window. Initial attempts at soothing with, “Now, stop being a silly billy” are quickly offset with, “Now STOP IT! Come ON! NO. I will NOT have that!”

I’m rubbish at being a Butlins Red Coat Mother. I wouldn’t even get through the first half of the audition.

So please tell me they don’t exist in real life. Surely no mother can be that happy, all the time? Really?

"I'm sorry, but it's going to have to be a No from me."

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It’s been about balancing on the edge of a cliff face, determined not to fall off. It’s been about struggling to maintain a sense of calm while a million things on my “to do” list whizz through my head.

It’s been about trying to be the best mum I can possibly be, while being the best radio presenter I can possibly be, while being the best copywriter I can possibly be, while being the best blogger I can possibly be, while being the best feature writer I can possibly be. And still remain some sort of wife to my husband.

In short, it’s been about survival against the ravages of tiredness and stress, for happiness to reign supreme.

But it’s not been about staying alive.

That’s what I tell myself every time I want to moan. Every morning when the alarm screeches into my dreams at 3.45am and I unglue my eyelids, I remind myself I am alive. I am happy. I am loved. I love.

My health, my child’s health and my husband’s health is, thankfully, intact. My sister is healthy, as is my father, mother and every other member of my extended family.

Every afternoon, when the toddler’s mood darkens and the storm clouds of rage threaten to break into an almighty tantrum, I remind myself I am lucky. I am alive. Happy. Loved. Love.

To be alive, healthy, happy. To love and be loved. Surely it’s all anyone can wish of their life?

***

This post is written as part of the #dosomethingyummy campaign from CLIC Sargent, to raise awareness of Yummy Mummy Week on 10th to 18th March 2012.

You can show your support by taking part in the writing prompt over at I Am Typecast and sharing these posts on Facebook and Twitter.  

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