Making time

After my last rant about the parenting-versus-writing issue I have stepped back from twitter a bit. I love the writing community on twitter but it steals time at an amazing rate. So I’ve dipped in, read a few things, chatted briefly with friends and turned it off again. It’s been quite liberating.

Now I only really read twitter in the evenings and at the weekend. So far this weekend has brought Danuta Kean’s Myslexia article on how women writers find time to work. An Alison Moore quote about writing after her baby was born, “If I didn’t sit down and do it every evening, I was admitting that I would never get round to do it.” And Jon McGregor’s response @jon_mcgregor: Striking that I’ve *never* been asked how I juggle childcare and writing, or how parenthood has affected my work. Are men ever asked this?”

This argument is never going to go away, is it. Surely the question shouldn’t be how do women writers find time to write, but how do writers find time to write. Because everyone is balancing writing with the rest of their life.

I have found that less time means more time. When I had whole days, evenings and weekends with nothing to do, I never got anything done. Now that I have considerably less time, I am forced to prioritise. I am making time for the things I care about. I am reading less, but better. Because I am ‘reading like a writer’ and being more critical, which takes longer but gives me so much more. I am making time to write, managing my time so that I have 8 hours a week to write while Mollie is at nursery. Yes it means I have to be organised and some things will slip but I prioritise the important things and let other things go. And most weeks I realise that Mollie’s nursery teachers won’t care if my tshirt isn’t ironed, the dogs won’t mind if I am writing notes on my phone while they are sniffing about on their walk. It doesn’t matter that my house is not a show home. I have a 3yr old and two dogs. It seems time-wasting to try. It’s much more important that I have quality time to play with Mollie, that she is happy. And the real time saver is stepping away from the Internet. Turning twitter off. Ignoring my emails.

For those 8 hours a week I am disciplined. I sit down and I write. I don’t touch the internet, don’t wander out to buy cake. I drink a lot of coffee and I write. Having the pressure of only 4 hours twice a week makes me work hard. I feel lucky to have those hours to do something that I love and I know what a buzz writing gives me when I get in to it and shut everything else out. If the writing doubt creeps in I think about my wife at work and daughter at nursery and I get on with it. I make a deal with myself. It’s this or the ironing pile.
I love writing. I hate ironing. There is no contest.

I am not a naturally organised person. I haven’t backed up my phone since christmas and the other day I drove for half a mile with it balanced on the roof of the car. But I want to write, so I am writing. I am making the time. I am writing this on my phone at 6:30 in the morning with Mollie cuddled on my lap watching her favourite tv show.

I always remember Jeanette Winterson’s response to the ‘I want to be a writer’ question. She simply says “Then write.” And she is right. If you want to write, you write. You get on with it and make time. Male or female, parent or not. There will always be something to distract you, be it work, relationships, twitter or domestic mess. But if you want it enough you’ll make the time to write.

Summer survived

Eight weeks of summer holidays survived. And enjoyed! Now Mollie is back at nursery and we have all settled into new routines, influenced by our summer holiday learnings.

Inspired by the circus and olympics, Mollie now goes to gymnastic lessons every week. She is learning how to swing on the bar and balance on the beam and is loving it. In 5 weeks she has grown in confidence, strength and balance and is so proud of herself. Ballet and gymnastics have become central to Mollie’s days. She watches and recreates Strictly, puts on shows for her nursery teachers and dresses up in dancing clothes and sighs at my lack of flexibility.

In the hour between nursery and gymnastics we go to the library. We sit on the dinosaur rug and look through the train book box. We read books together and explore the pictures and discover new authors. Mollie has an Elmer book bag that is always overflowing and a new Elmer library card to match – the observant and inspiring librarians presented it to her when they spotted her bag, how about that for going the extra mile!

The library books have been sneaking into our lives since the summer holidays, inspiring and teaching us. Mollie discovered information books and is now soaking up books about the body and doctors and ballet, teaching us all with her incredible ability to remember new information.

Emily Gravett’s Spells introduced us to the Babbit. A crazy half bird half rabbit that has become a family favourite. Every family has them, the little sayings that sneak into the vocabulary and end up as part of family life. In our house they all seem to creep in from the literature we share and our playing with language. And now the Babbit, and the tickling and giggling that accompanies the word, is part of us. Emily Gravett is a genius.

The joy Mollie still finds in board books has reminded me that she is still little, even though she doesn’t sound it when she is bossing me about trying to recreate the positions in the ballet book. She is still little, but she is getting over her fear of spider webs – because Emily Brown puts her hands on cobwebs in Cressida Cowell’s Emily Brown and the Thing.

Books can teach us so many things.

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Soon it will be time to start looking at schools for Mollie and asking the questions about gym clubs and school libraries and phonics tests. But I’m less worried about Mollie’s learning at school now. I’ve seen her be inspired, follow something she loves and grow in confidence. I’ve seen her love of books and words develop. And I’ve seen us embrace it all as a family and change our routines to support her.

Perhaps those eight long weeks will have a longer lasting impact than any of us initially imagined.

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Love, not less

I am always saddened to hear motherhood referred to as a beautiful club that opens up previously unachievable levels of love.
It is not a contest. It is love. We shouldn’t measure it in these terms. ‘I love more than you love.’ ‘My love means more than your love.’ No. Love is personal and can’t be measured against itself.

So when Twitter started rumbling about the article in the Telegraph where Amanda Craig claims that motherhood gives you ‘a deeper understanding of human nature’, I read the article for myself. And then I got angry. There was the same old claim – ‘No matter what your experience of adult love, there is nothing as strong as the bond between a mother and a child.’ I had an emotional response to the article that was fed by my own experiences and of those of my friends. I had a bit of a rant on twitter, Stella Duffy wrote a very articulate response to the article and I congratulated her and let it go.

Except that I couldn’t. It bothered me for the rest of the day.

When my daughter was born I lost count of the number of people who exclaimed about the immense, overpowering love that I must be feeling. But I didn’t feel love. I felt broken and resentful and sad. And terribly, terribly guilty. And it was made so much worse by the huge expectation that a mother should love her child immeasurably and uncontrollably. It was also made so much better by my hugely supportive wife, and by close friends who were honest and open and admitted that they had felt the same way. It would come. It was okay.

And it did. But it was far from the uncontrollable passion held in such high regard. It was a gradual love, a learning of this new person in my life.

So, according to Craig, am I less of a mother? Less of a woman? Less able to experience human emotion? Less able to write about the human condition? Am I a bad parent because I wrote about needing my own thinking space during the summer holidays? Is my wife less able to understand human emotions because she isn’t the biological mother of our daughter? Or is she one of the chosen ones because her love for our daughter was so immediate and obvious and open?

Of course not. That’s what these horrible articles and this awful debate do. They make you feel less. And I am sick of feeling less.

I gave it some space and then read the article again. I was still angry. And confused. She seemed to be saying that as a mother you won’t be able to write properly because you won’t have the time or the energy, but if you are not a mother you won’t be able to write well enough because you won’t have a deep enough understanding of human emotion. So that leaves… men? Why must women always be categorised and challenged against their parental status? And why so often by other women?

I understand how lucky we are to have our daughter. Not that long ago two women would not have had that choice. A lot of women who want a child are not able to. We are lucky. But equally, I’m still a woman. Still a person. Still an individual. Not any more for being a mother and not any less.

Everyone writes from their experiences to some extent, but to say that you can’t write outside of them, and miss out on something essential if you don’t have children is ridiculous and really very sad. You don’t have to be a mother to experience motherhood. It’s all around us. And being a mother doesn’t have to define you or limit you. Everyone has something that gets in the way of their writing. Children, parents, work, illness. It’s called life. Virginia Wolf is set up as an example of the perfect woman writer. Childless of course. But her own mind got in the way of her writing. There is always something. Will always be something. The key is wanting it enough to find a space to make writing a part of your life. The key is knowing who you are and not allowing others to make you feel less.

So who am I?

Well that is the big question. Who am I, and what am I doing here?

I have never blogged before. I havent seen any relevance in it for me. Why would I write a blog when I have nothing to say, nothing to promote, nothing to achieve. Why would anyone want to read anything I have to say?

I was clearly missing the point.

I now think differently.

I am a woman. I am gay. I am a wife. I am a mum. I was a student. I was a teacher. I am still learning. I am still teaching. All these things seem very relevant now.

I am a mum to a 2 and half yr old and I am beginning to emerge from behind the nappies, the playdough and the children’s tv.

I don’t like what I’m seeing.

Before I had my daughter I was a teaching assistant in a primary school. It wasn’t the most well paid job in the world and there was a fair amount of staff room bitchiness, ineptitude and politics to deal with. But I loved it. I loved the children and seeing them achieve and benefit from a little extra help. Now I look at my friends and old colleagues and I see mass redundancies, teachers working with no assistants or assistance, budget slashing, newly qualified teachers working in cafes because they can’t get a teaching post but have uni debt to pay off, mums living on 40 pounds a week because their DLA has been cut, and endless, endless paperwork. It is clearly hurting them. Ultimately, it is the kids who lose out. Childrens centres and services are being cut, libraries are closing, schools are being forced to increase class sizes and reduce staff. If a child survives all that unscathed they make it to university where the fees are so high they are starting out in life with a debt that will burden them for years.

Do I want to go back into that environment? I don’t think so. My wife says you have to be in it to change it and I think she’s probably right. A thinking point.

When you are a parent you look at the world through your child’s potential future. I do not like what I see. Our government are tearing at society and public services whilst giving hefty tax breaks to huge companies. Rick Santorum and Margaret Court are shouting out to the world that my family is unnatural and poisonous. And yet I do see a lot of hope. The uncut and occupy movements give me hope. Stonewall gives me hope. The mainstream acceptance of gay parents like Charlie Condou gives me hope.

If last year, with its accounts of the Arab spring, the uk uncut movement, its good, bad and ugly has taught me anything, it’s that you are never a lone voice. You are always a part of a community, you share an ideology with others.

I am a woman. I am gay. I am a mum. I was a student. I was a teacher. I have read Jeanette Winterson and Caitlin Moran enough to know that there is something in that.

A good friend of mine once told me that I never finish anything (apart from relationships). She was absolutely right! I am very easily distracted. I start something and whilst working on it I come across something interesting and I follow it, abandoning the original project. I have half an open uni degree in English literature. I got distracted. (And now the course fees have gone up astronomically, I may never complete it.) But I learnt a lot in those three years and it’s all patchwork pieces.
So maybe I’ll come across a great article somewhere and get pulled in another direction, maybe I’ll never write more than this, maybe my embracing of twitter will take over entirely and I’ll never achieve anything other than laughing at pictures of cats.

But I have said this. And maybe, for now, that is enough.

I’m looking forward to finding out.