Of Chalk and Cheese

Two very different incidents over the weekend have got me marvelling about how truly different my children are from each other. Little did I know, when I rashly exclaimed at number two's birth "My goodness, you're your sister", how wrong I would be proved. The physical changes became gradually apparent; after the shock of jet black hair they shared at birth had faded, DD1's colouring turned to my dirty blonde, whilst her younger sister stayed stubbornly brunette.

Physical differences are of course less interesting to me than their differences in character. In many ways this too became obvious when they were still tiny. Problems with reflux meant DD1's first few months were emotionally fraught and physically exhausted while her sister ate and slept well almost immediately, and it seemed reflected in their general temperament.

We popped to the shops on Saturday to pick up a few bits and pieces, and the familiar cry of "mummy, I need a wee" was soon heard. I looked around and mumbled something about trying to remember where the toilets were. When I looked back, number 2 had disappeared. I headed towards the toilets with DD1, only to  find DD2 purposefully striding towards the back of the store already. "It's ok, mummy", she said, "the toilets are over there - I asked a man". It truly amazed (and worried) me to see her confidence at age four - I barely dare ask strangers for directions at *cough* years older! Needless to say, even at two years older, it's not something her sister would ever consider either, which I must confess saddens me a little - I'd love to give her a bit of a confidence injection sometimes.

Yet an incident on Sunday reminded me that she has her own positive attributes where her sister may perhaps be "lacking". We went for a lovely bike ride with some friends along a canal. All was going well, when, around an hour in, DD1 slipped when pushing her bike up a hill, and fell. Her friend behind her struggled to stop, and ran over her arm at the elbow. From the initial cries we could tell something was not right, and my husband hurried back to fetch the car to the nearest point (thankfully close). From that point, through to being diagnosed as having a broken arm, having had it x-rayed three times and cast twice until we were ready to go home around 6 hours after the incident had happened, she was incredibly calm and uncomplaining, and her bravery really impressed me. It's probable that her younger sister would have howled and complained through the entire process.

I suppose it will never cease to amaze me how the same set of genes mixed slightly differently can result in such different little personalities, and seeing that mix develop and grow truly has to be one of the most fun aspects of parenting.

Singing the January Blues

I always find January to be a bit of a strange month. The gluttony of Christmas has gone and we're all supposed to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed and somehow full of new motivation to improve ourselves via the means of resolutions. Even the days are getting brighter again, which normally heralds instant cheeriness.

I know I'm not the only one to be what can best be described as a massive post-Christmas hangover. Whilst December is a dark month, I miss the decorations and the twinkle of the fairly lights. I miss the fact that nobody needs an excuse to get together with friends, and yes, I miss the abandon of not worrying about being "good" about what you are eating or drinking for a while.

Coupled with a lot of uncertainty about my job, the fact that Him Indoors is stressed about his, and the general demands of a hectic household, my current instinct is to hide away in a little hole until at least February. Whilst hibernation is appealing, however, it's not really a viable option. Instead, it seems I have two options - carry on feeling down, or try and pick myself up, dust myself off and start looking forwards again. So, whilst I'm not a great fan of New Year's Resolutions, I'm going to treat myself to a belated one this year - namely, to keep smiling.

Source

Review: Cottage Croquet Set

Before I start, I can almost hear you exclaiming - "Croquet? In December?!" To be honest, it was also my first reaction when I was offered a croquet set by Garden Games for me to review. However, I have always wanted a croquet set and I also figured there could be no harm in finding an excuse to get the kids outside in the garden at this time of year. (I must confess my imagination got a little carried away and I had visions of "ice croquet" on a blanket of crunchy grass. Any excuse for a nice hot toddy afterwards...)

Anyway,  back to the set. The set contains four mallets, four balls, metal hoops, a winning post and a set of rules in a nice sturdy nylon bag:

(as you can see, someone was so keen to get going, she refused to keep out of the picture so you'll have to take my word for it that there are four of each...). The quality of the mallets and balls feels really great, but in a silly way it was the metal hoops that impressed me the most. A lot of croquet sets I have seen in the past have included basic wire rings, but these ones are solid and sturdy and definitely won't end up bent out of shape:

The set retails for £79.99, which may seem like a lot I suppose, but I do think this set would certainly last. This is a good thing, as to be honest the only downside I could see what that I think my children (4 and 6) are still a little young for it, and could probably do with smaller mallets. It is definitely intended for adults or older children, and I can see us getting more use out of it in future when they are a little older.

All I need now is for someone to buy me a house with a large lawn so I can do it justice...

Body Celebration, or The Frankenstein Blogger

Google +...it seems you either love it, hate it or are completely oblivious to it.

I, for one, love it. Maybe it's just the fact that I am one of the few people that don't have a facebook account, but I post fairly regularly on there. In fact, in a lot of ways I use it like an extension of Twitter - down to the fact I was been invited by someone from Twitter, and most of the people in my circles are the weirdoes and reprobates those I talk to on Twitter too.

Anyway, a couple of Twitter friends and I regularly post Man or Woman of the day - a kind of Hot or Not that generally just degenerates into a weird slanging match that most of you probably are frankly best off steering well clear of. After another random celebrity got pulled apart for whatever reason, it led to another of my rambling thoughts about body image.

I've mentioned in the past about various things I don't like about my appearance, but I thought it was time to turn the tables a little and focus on the positives. If anyone were to ask me which bit I did like, I would probably say my waist. Maybe my lips too, but mainly my waist.

In a lot of ways it's not a very exciting body part, but I distinctly remember as a young teenager lying in my bed and tracing the curve of my hip and waist, and feeling decidedly womanly. Later on, I was (un)fortunate to be in my prime when crop-tops were at the height of fashion, and a cinched in waist was a useful thing to show off. Now, after the passage of time and having given birth to two children, the skin may not be as taut as it used to be, but I'm lucky enough to still be able to fit into the same clothes as I could 20 (eek) years ago.

Women's magazines often feature an "ideal" celebrity, with features that apparently all women lust after - Jennifer Aniston's hair, Angelina's lips etc etc, and I wondered whether we could create a whole person out of our favourite body parts...

I'd therefore love to know what your favourite bit of you is. If you're feeling really brave, you could email me a picture (email address is on the "About" page), or post it on your blog and we can even see if we can get a whole person together...

Size Matters

I came across the image above on the deepest, darkest depths of the internet recently and it finally jolted me into writing a post that has been floating around the corners of my mind for quite some time.  I have somehow never managed to make the jumbled thoughts in my head on this one into a reasoned post as it’s a horribly emotive subject, so I hope I can manage it this time.

Let me make it clear before I start; I am sure the thought behind the original slogan; “Real Women Have Curves” is admirable, in that it is trying to get women to accept their bodies for what they are, not the stick-thing models they see in magazines. And yet, I will admit that every time I see it, it irks me terribly. You see, I have blogged before about how I am not a fan of labels if they can possibly be avoided, and it strikes me that there is a danger with this thought of simply replacing one unrealistic ideal (women have to be thin) with another one that may be shoehorning women into another defined box (women have to have “curves”).

I’ve thought long and hard about what it actually means for a woman to be curvy, and as with most things, if you trawl the internet for long enough you come across so many different definitions as to be pretty meaningless. One messageboard tells me that “when women describe themselves as "curvy", it's the new code word for "fat"” (charming, I think you’ll agree). The general consensus, however, appears to be that it means women have to be small waisted, large-bottomed, and most importantly, large chested.

Now, there is certainly absolutely nothing wrong with being a perfect hourglass shape. The fact of the matter is that not every woman is that shape, however. It may be true that women's chest and dress sizes have increased over the last 50 years, but that doesn't necessarily mean that everyone suddenly looks like Marilyn Monroe. Look at any high street and you will see a vast array of different shapes and sizes.

I suppose you will think I am lucky when I say that I have been naturally slim-ish all my life (yes, I might even have been called "skinny" at one point or another). That doesn't mean I haven't had plenty of hang-ups about my own body. Take the breast size debate, for example. It's not a huge secret to anyone that knows me that God missed adding some padding "up top" when he created me. Every time I get frustrated by lingerie companies that start sizing their sizing at a B-cup, I try and console myself with the fact I can still shop in the “my first bra” section of M&S if I really wanted to. (Hoorah for choice.) Technically I may have curves in that I am blessed with a small waist and large-ish hips, but I certainly don't recognise myself in the descriptions of curvy that I have seen. Id' like to think it doesn't make me any less real, however!

Photoshopping is commonplace in both fashion magazines and glamour shoots, and the rise of plastic surgery means nobody has to look as nature intended if they don't want to. As a mother to two girls, this saddens me greatly. I would like to think that growing up they will be accepted for how they look, whether that is like Twiggy or like Dawn French, and, most importantly, for them to be happy in their bodies. The last thing I would want is for them to feel the need to look like Katie Price because that is somehow what is now expected!

Saying that Real Women have curves is therefore meaningless and dangerous in my opinion– we might as well say real women are green. Can't we just agree that all women are real women, just like all men are real men, and that is all that matters?