Dotty

When I’m not ‘being’ a Mummy, I do try and get involved in a few grown-up things. These can vary wildly from day to month to year, but a few I try and keep constant. These are:

Meditation: I am very new to meditation, and find it a huge mental challenge. Apart from the sheer joy of being made to sit still for an hour and a half without ignoring the ironing pile, the smears on the windows, the toy clutter and the pitter patter of bed-hopping feet, it has opened up a world of selfless contemplation, of an open spirit and inner calm. It works for me….

HUSH: This an amazing organisation, which I support in a very small and inadequate way. It exists to support families whose children have contracted Haemolytic Uraemic Syndrome as a result of infection with the eColi 0157 bacteria. Both Wee1 and Wee2 were unlucky enough to be infected, but Wee1 went on to develop HUS and acute kidney failure. It was a traumatic time – ambulance transfer to Glasgow Sick Kids Renal Unit, 24 hour kidney dialysis, blood transfusions, drip feed, tubes everwhere and a very small wan 3-year-old lost in the middle of it all. The family also suffered, of course: we were 31/2 hours from home, my husband was working long hours to support us and Wee2 had to go to stay with my parents on Orkney. Anyway – we all came through it and my tiny contribution is to be available by phone or email to any family going through the same thing who just want to talk. I wish I could do more.

Amnesty International: This is a new one for me – but I know it is one that I will love. One of my jobs when playing Miss Corporate was to lobby the government, and when I quit the rat race to try and make babies (not as daft as it sounds: I was abroad at least 5 nights a week!) I worked as a volunteer advocate for adults with learning disabilities: basically making sure they got whatever they were entitled to, rather than what they could be fobbed off with. So – the battle for the little folk against the big bad monster of the system is right up my street.

Open University: I started this a couple of months before Wee1 became ill, and had to write the last essays to complete my module by his bedside – not ideal. I passed, but I couldn’t see how I could ever fit anything other than tending to my babies every need ever again. Still, I’m back in the land of some kind of reality now and feel able to start studying again. The degree will eventually be a BA (Hons) in Criminology and Psychology, and I hope to be able to put it to use before I shuffle off this mortal coil!

The less constant crushes have been on sewing (clothes – fine until I get to the hem, then I lose all interest; patchwork; baby clothes; penants; curtains and many many cushions); knitting (I can do the knitting bit but my casting on is truly dire); vegetable gardening (reasonably succesful: I was found by the midwife hoeing weeds the morning after Wee2 was born); crochet (unmitigated disaster, and all I want to be able to do is crochet a little flower) and jam and chutney making of every conceivable variety.

I have also become enamoured of the thought of making ribbony-beaded bookmarks. However, my bipolar pocketguide (a bit like the wallet insert AA gives you), tells me that I have to wait for two weeks before embarking on any new project: and I know that ‘making things’ is one of my manic triggers – so I am being a good girl:)

On rereading this, I realise that my introduction of ‘a few I try and keep constant‘ is a total and utter delusion: they are all either relatively new or not even started. Ha! I can do this because I am me and being me is what I can do… fab isn’t it?!

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I am bipolar. When I was first diagnosed 4 years ago I would say that I suffered from bipolar disorder – no wonder I spent most of the time depressed. I actually prefer the old non-PC term of manic depressive: it conjures up a much more accurate image of the torrent of energy surging in and around me at the upper end of the scale, and as for depressive: well, there is little to say … too depressing. I’ve been MD for years – since I can remember: from deciding one day (6 weeks before my A-level exams) to leave school, to walking into an Audi dealership 16 years later, standing by the new TT convertible and saying to the assistant ‘I’ll have this one, please’. In between were years of overspending (40 shift dresses, anyone?), overconsumption of alcohol, hiding in bed for whole weekends before being forced out to function ‘normally’ at work and a general rollercoaster of a life. It was the most fun – nothing was impossible, but it was heart-wrenchingly miserable: sometimes all within the course of one day. The diagnosis came initially as a relief, then as a millstone. I was clever, bright, had never taken drugs but was now tarred with the mental illness brush. It didn’t seem fair… and of course it isn’t fair – but what is? Today I accept the label as something required to treat the chemical imbalance in my brain – it does not remould me. In fact, I have met some truly remarkable people through this imbalance: friends and professionals (my GP and Community Psychiatric Nurse are heaven-sent). I have found out who my true friends are (isn’t that always the way?!), but I also think that I have become a better, less judgemental person.

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I am including this as an attempt, firstly to shame myself into not being such a slut and secondly to make the rest of you who do feel sluttish to feel much better about yourselves. Those who are virtuous already know you are virtuous and I shall try to be genuinely happy for you.

Today (1st May 2009), from left to right, we have:
Telephone: I HATE having a telephone in the bedroom and have attempted to hide it behind my jewellery box: but I’m not sure that is very effective.
Jewellery box: it is an object of beauty and within lie fine gems, costume jewellery and handmade painted pasta chains from my boys: every single piece has a story, a memory and is nearly as evocative as scent.
A duster.
An empty can of furniture polish.
A necklace which should be in the jewellery box.
A rather revolting off-cream pillar candle with purple thistles painted on it. I think one of the boys chose it for my birthday – but it could have been Mr Dotty. It will have to go.
Another smaller beautiful box that currently has no real purpose – but I know it will one day. Sometimes I put my specs in it – more often I don’t.
My darling little pink notepad: I LOVE it.
A make-up mirror bought and left behind by my sister-in-law when she stayed to look after the family while I was in hospital. It gathers dust, and shouldn’t. (Ooh – could use duster!)
An essential oil vapouriser and a huge bottle of lavender oil.
Perfume – should be in a high-up basket.
No 7 Essential Moisture foundation: should be in make-up bag.
Instructions for some drug or other.
Empty blister pack of some drug or other.
Glass which needs washing.
Penknife.
Box of matches.
Specs (on top of box of matches).
I can make you sleep CD by Paul McKenna.
Ball point pen on top of CD.
Make-up bag!!
Jo Malone pillow spray (pressy from lovely s-i-l).
Another set of instructions for some drug or other.
CD Player/alarm clock.
A bear called Paddngton CD.
2 used facial wipes.
Another empty blister pack.

There – now don’t you feel better? Knew you would….
Oops! Missed an empty lightbulb packet hiding behind the pretty pink notepad…

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This is SUCH a difficult one for me. In my old child-free corporate-salary days, life was simple. Margaret Howell suits and Russell & Bromley (or LK Bennett) shoes for work, Boden (I know, I’m sorry: I was that girl) and R&B loafers for the weekend. Shift dresses from Austin Reed or Jaegar, scarves and wraps from Accessorise and Bob was my uncle (as indeed he is).
Now, with two boys, a different figure that I still don’t quite ‘fit’, a pesky dog who insists on jumping up, a shedding cat, all my own housework to do and a minimum of 3 hours walking to do every day… I just don’t know anymore. I seem to lurch between jeans, trainers (or wellies) and any sloppy old fleece, then get depressed, so go to the other end of what I would have termed ’smart-casual’ in the old days but which here makes me look as though I’m off up to Edinburgh for a secret liaison.
Any suggestions would be very gratefully accepted. It is no good telling me to utilise the old clothes because during any manic episode the first thing to go are clothes – capsule wardrobe is an understatement. Earlier last year I found myself in the middle of February with NO knitwear: this is Scotland! I think I had reasoned that it was nearly spring, everything was frumpy anyway, and it all had to go.
Trying on clothes is a nightmare, I just don’t have the time or confidence, and to be quite honest I get pretty overwhelmed in a shop with narrow aisles and strip lighting. One of the Trinny & Susannah books recommended jeans (OK), plimsoles (OK, but not when it rains), white t-shirt (OK-ish now that the puree and projectile vomiting phase is over) and a chic jacket. Therein lies the problem: the chic jacket. I bought 2: one from a charity shop, one from eBay – both very beautiful in a modern tweedy way. I have tried to wear them for normal everyday activities, but they don’t fit under my winter coats (which get used from autumn through to spring – and beyond!), I am terrified of getting bread/pastry dough pressed into the jacket sleeves and they don’t roll up to do the washing-up. The back rides up quite uncomfortably letting the Siberian wind attack my kidneys while I attempt to hang out the washing to dry. Jackets are also just not cuddle-friendly: I wish I was more of a cuddle mummy, or maybe that the boys were more amenable to being cuddled, but on the odd occasion that they do want to snuggle in, I do not want sartorial elegance to get in the way.
So, this season (ha!!), I am going to try out the jeans and white t-shirt thing, but with soft and pretty cardigans. I might even attempt to customise and embellish the way other clever, wholesome mummies manage to while simultaneously darning a sock and preparing a gourmet meal for their adoring husbands to come home to.

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What a night… 1am the smoke alarm wakes Mr Dotty. He gets to the foot of the stairs, rushes back up, shakes me awake and tells me sharply that I am ‘in charge’ of bedrooms. Groggily I stand outside the childrens’ bedroom like a retired sumo wrestler who has forgotten how to wrestle, instead of more practically gathering up dressing gowns and slippers (note to self, must find slippers). Mr Dotty emerges from the acrid smoke-filled sitting room bearing what was a bright orange reusable Sainsbury’s shopping bag: filled with quick-exit swimming things (including brand-new bra). The bits of the bag that hadn’t welded themselves to the storage heater welded themselves to my bra, knickers, white towel….. The worst thing is that the week before I left the vaccuum cleaner out and the hose melted in exactly the same way.
Anyway, disaster averted, back to bed, Wee2 bed-hops back to ours, I can’t get back to sleep so I tiptoe into Wee2’s bed. Wee2 appears with beatific grin ‘Oh – THERE you are!’ and squeezes in beside me.I wait until he is asleep, climb over, tiptoe out back into big bed, Wee2 appears once again. He ends up sleeping horizontally, Mr Dotty is oblivious, the dog is in the middle between the bedspread and the duvet (having magically metamorphosed into an alsation [the dog, that is, not the duvet]), the cat is wherever he feels like and WILL not move and I resign myself into morphing myself into a size 0 contortionist.
Gosh, I’m looking forward to the rest of the day!
Do you know: it just got better and better. Heaven only knows how: but it did. We took the boys out for a jolly old-fashioned walk to the park via the newsagent (sadly Spa – our independent newagent closed a couple of years ago and is now a very expensive designer clothes shop) for the boys to spend their pocket money on over-priced comics with irresistible plastic gimmics shrink-wrapped on the front, followed by hot chocolate at Marmions: a haven for all post-school, pre-toddler group and generally exhausted Mummies of Melrose. So far, so good. Then Wee1 asked if we could bake biscuits when we got home: ‘Of course, darling’ I said, full of Doris Day floral-pinny hope and joy. Post coffee/hot chocolate I popped into the Co-op for eggs and let Wee1 hold the bag. Here endeth the Doris Day moment.
We trudged up the hill in the merciless drizzle, let boys keep hold of (light) bags while parents carry (VERY heavy bicycle and scooter). Mr Dotty decides to take the scenic ’short-cut’, Wee1 follows, Wee2 wants to follow – but only if Mummy will hold his hand. Short-cut involves two mile trek further UP steeper hill, over rough woodland terrain, to end up 5 yards away from where we left perfectly servicable tarmaced path. On the way we lost 2 eggs, broke a third (or so we thought…. actually fourth) and mushed a container of prime Scottish raspberries destined for my morning porridge into an instant smoothie. As if that wasn’t enough, my attempts at easing the road with little nature notes (Oh, look at that wild woodland violet/wild garlic/wild leek/late primrose) were interspersed with ‘Mummy – what’s this?’…’It’s a pine cone, darling – there are lots in this wood: it’s a pine wood’…. ‘Mummy, what’s this?’…’it’s another pine cone, sweetheart’…. ‘Mummy, what’s this?’… ‘it’s a PINE CONE!!!!!!!!!!!!’. Funnily enough, no biscuits were made this afternoon: I had a lie-down instead.

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Today I published!! So excited..
Earlier Wee2, Betty & I went to visit a girlfriend, whose birthday it is tomorrow. I bought her a book – which of course I also had to order for myself. We have the most marvellous bookshop: Mason’s of Melrose which is a feast of books, bookmarks, cards, notecards, and where the children and Betty are welcome. I realised that today was only the second time that I had used the car this week: hurrah!
Mr Dotty took Wee1 for his rugby practice (I must try and get a photo of them: they are so wee and all elbows and kneecaps!).
This afternoon was quiet – naps for me & Wee2, then I FINALLY got on top of the ironing. Mr Dotty’s ‘best’ shirts have been peering at me through the basket weave since the New Year: I swear the sleeves have been moving in an attempt to grab me by the ankle as I pass by…

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I’m not very good at this stuff. I’m 42 and still trying to get into the habit of cleanse/tone/moisturise once a day, never mind twice. In the past I have tried several methods to try and get the habit: the more usual one was to buy ever-more expensive products. Now poverty (and reality) has struck. I did try Tesco’s ‘bnatural’ range – and it is actually lovely, but then, having gone down the natural route, I became more obsessed with more natural. Having borrowed India Knight’s book ‘The Thrift Book’ (how thrifty is that?!), she recommends the oil cleansing method using a mixture of castor oil and olive oil (www.theoilcleansingmethod.com). I have ordered the castor oil online: Boots don’t stock it because, to much sniggering and giggling, it is no longer recommended for its ‘original’ purpose. India Knight’s book is, by the way, well worth buying and is a joy to read, as well as being full of very useful and do-able advice.
As for make-up – even more hopeless. I do try and make the effort: a light foundation if I can find it, blusher if I’ve managed to find the foundation, lipstick (I try and keep some lying around in the kitchen, car, handbag, coat pockets just to remind me I should be using it) and mascara a couple of times a year. I’m going to try and do mascara a bit more as it does make a big difference to my face. The other thing that I am never without is Elizabeth Arden’s 8 hour cream. Great for chapped lips (and ears in -24º Warsaw winters) but also as a lip gloss. The smell is divine and reminds me of trips to the cinema with girlfriends where we would pay the extortionate fee of £8 per seat and have a private room with our own screen and waitress service bringing jolly good G&Ts. I do find smells the most evocative of the senses. Perfume: Organza by Givenchy (although I’m fearing it may be nearing the end of its life) and Bulgari. I used to wear much heavier oriental scents, but whether it is the baby-factor or just growing up, they now sit on me like a rather daft over-trimmed hat.

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