Letter to my 13-year-old...

I’ve been feeling old lately; my grey roots come back quicker than they used to, my face takes at least an hour to look normal in the mornings, and my knickers have become high-rise elasticated torture devices designed to contain the hateful middle age spread.

What’s worse is the fact that the eldest child has just turned 13; a date which loomed ominously on the calendar for months, like a death knell to any lingering belief that I was still a ‘young mum’, rather than the fully paid up veteran I actually am.

Being the mother of a teenager is a big responsibility, and I’ve decided to mark the occasion by offering her some advice which might help her on her way. So here it is:

Dearest Emily,
Thirteen – wow, how did that happen? Is it really that long since we met? The day you were born was the worst and best day of my life. Nothing could have prepared me for the tsunami of pain which tore through my body that day; wave after wave of agonising contractions  which seemed to go on for hours. Actually they did go on for hours; 16 to be precise. 

Sixteen hours of terror, blood and tears, but then suddenly it was over – like the calm following the storm – and there you were, staring up at me with those beautiful blue eyes; this perfect pink girl. It was love at first sight. You changed my life that day.

So, what am I going to tell you? It's not as if I have all the answers yet, we're all learning, all of the time, but here's a few things I jotted down.

1) Don’t follow the crowd. You are so bright and creative and people are naturally drawn to you, so don’t shy away from that, embrace it. It’s better to be your original self than a poor copy of someone else - even if people don't fully appreciate you for it to begin with. Never lose your individuality; it’s what makes you who you are.
2) Next – and I really mean this – never diet. Dieting steals the joy from life. Be kind to your body, think carefully about what you feed it, keep it active, and you will never need to worry about your weight. It took me 28 years to figure this out (and I still struggle with it), so consider this advice a gift.
3) Try not to take yourself too seriously. I mean it – learn to laugh at yourself. We both know this isn’t always easy for you, but trust me it makes all the difference when times get tough. 
4) Be nice to your brothers. Now don’t roll your eyes! Yes, I know they’re annoying, noisy, nit-infested stink-bugs, but they will always stick up for you against enemies, even if they think you’re being an idiot. Because that’s what families do. Trust me on this one. Plus they adore you, even if you don’t always see it.
5) Never perm your hair – I know you like curls, but curling tongs will do exactly the same job without the commitment. This comes from someone who spent a year growing one out – I’ll never get that time, or self-respect, back.
6) The next one is simple but so many people don’t get it; be kind. It costs nothing and can make all the difference to someone. There will always be people who are cruel simply because they can be. Stay away from them and surround yourself with other kind people – it makes for a nicer life. 
7) Say ‘yes’ to as many things as you can – it can bring you to some surprising places.Take risks and don’t be afraid to step out of your comfort zone, because that’s when life gets interesting. It’s a short life and as your grandfather used to say, we’re a long time dead.
8) This next one sounds like a cliché, but dance as often as you can – even if you’re alone – especially if you’re alone. Yes I know your ballet career began and ended before you were four (you really shouldn’t have shoved your dance teacher like that), and yes you have two left feet, but it doesn’t matter! Nobody can be unhappy when they’re pirouetting around the kitchen.

I shall finish now, I know your iPhone is calling. But I’ll just leave you with this last thought. Life is just a series of good and bad decisions, of triumphs and screw-ups. What sets you apart is how you deal with them. But just remember, your mum’s always here to help.
Love you,
Mum. 

Working mum v stay at home mum...it's not that simple...

What is it about motherhood that makes women so nasty to each other? How often do you open a magazine or paper to read yet another article criticising stay-at-home mums for being unambitious and lazy or berating their working counterparts for being cold-hearted career bitches?

The latest woman to weigh in on this ongoing and seemingly endless debate is ex-Apprentice star and controversial TV social commentator Katie Hopkins, who recently tweeted, ‘Full time mummy is not an occupation. It is merely a biological status’.

Why people feel the need to come out and make these sort of incendiary comments aside, you can’t help but wonder what she hoped to gain by saying this at all other than alienating at least half of her female Twitter followers.

Of course she's not new to controversy. This is the woman who said she wouldn't allow her children to play with kids who had what she deemed to be working-class sounding names, such as 'Tyler' or 'Charmaine'. She also accused Lilly Allen of being fat and hideous after giving birth. Yes, this woman is a nice piece of work.

I’ve never fully understood why there is such a divide between ‘working mother’ and ‘stay at home mother’, mainly because as most mothers reading this will know, it isn’t that clear cut.

First off, how do we decide who is a working mother and who isn’t? Clearly someone who puts on a business suit each morning and works a 14 hour day could be classed as a 'working mother'. But what about women who work four hours a day – does that still count? What about two days a week. In a charity shop. For no money. Does that count?

What about women who run a business from home, fitting it around their children? Or the mummy bloggers who manage to make money out of blogging about kids or travel or shoes?

Aside from the myriad jobs a mother does during the day – the washing, the cooking, the homework, the general drudgery – who’s to judge what’s worthy of the term ‘working’ and what isn’t? (And yes, in theory men share these jobs, particularly when a woman works full time, but for now I'll assume the woman carries out the bulk of them.)

In Katy’s world it must be so simple: To work or not to work, that is the question? But I have news for her, it’s more complicated than whether you can be bothered or not; it’s not always easy to find a job that fits around the school run. It doesn’t always make financial sense to work after you’ve factored in childcare costs. Some women have children with special needs. Some women may have worked hard for the last 20 years and are taking a few short years off so they don't miss out on their kids being small.

And some women live in the Australian outback where job opportunities seem to be limited to car washing or truck driving.

When I fell pregnant with the tweenager I fully intended to return to work after she was born. I was working in an office job which I was perfectly happy with, DH and I had bought our first house and were busily trying to pay for it, and so I felt extremely fortunate to find a day care centre around the corner from my office. It was perfect, if I wanted to pop in to see the baby during the day I could. If there were any problems it would take me two minutes to get there. I had it all worked out.

Then I gave birth and realised I really, really wanted to stay at home with her and so, ever resourceful, I figured out a way to do just that by child-minding a neighbour's baby. It helped cover my costs while affording me the time I wanted with my baby.

Thirteen years on and I haven't worked full-time since, instead just dipping in and out of things as they come along. 

I did a stint volunteering for the charity Bodywhys (The Irish Eating Disorders Association) for a few years, work I enjoyed greatly. And I once pretended to teach English to Emirati kids for a summer (they didn't learn anything except that I wasn't very good at controlling them). I loved this job, mainly I suspect because it meant leaving the house alone each morning, something which felt as tantalisingly dangerous as having an affair. 

The columns I occasionally get paid for are less like work and more an exercise in plate-spinning since inevitably the three-year-old will want a drink/DVD on/trip to the toilet the second I start typing. And it's not unusual for him to slap the laptop shut when I'm not looking, often losing hundreds of words at a time. In other words, working from home and resident three-year-olds are pretty much mutually exclusive in my opinion. Not that I regret being with him, he's my last and I'm enjoying our time together before he sets off for kindergarten next year.

BUT, I will admit there are days when I would literally give anything to put on a pair of high heels, a pencil skirt, and drive away to an office to hang around people who don’t cry if they get the wrong coloured cup, or who need to be chased around the house to get their bottom wiped.

And the idea of earning a proper wage is beyond seductive but it's simply not that easy. Childcare in Australia is prohibitively expensive - even if there were any suitable jobs for me here in Paraburdoo - and it simply wouldn't make financial sense for me to go and work at the moment, unfortunately.

So it's not as straightforward as Ms Hopkins would have you believe. We don't all live in Notting Hill with an army of expensive nannies to help us maintain our TV careers. Neither do we spend all day with other yummy mummies, discussing Cath Kidston's latest print over a low-fat cafe latte (although I'm fully confident such creatures exist!).

Most women are just muddling along somewhere in the middle, feeling like we're failing no matter what we choose. Because the truth is, we can't win either way; if we work we're letting our kids down, if we don't work we're letting ourselves down. We can be hard on ourselves like that. Because let's face it, the men aren't saying anything, not a word. Men are good like that. No, our worst enemies are other women. And the last thing we need are stuck up, opinionated harpies from the telly, spouting vitriol at our choices.