about a week or so ago, i read this article.  typical daily mail tripe – a beyond-sanctimonious mother who says that bosses are right to distrust women who don’t want children, then goes on to call childfree women selfish, partying backstabbers who are unreliable in the workplace.

i spent about a millisecond getting irate over it, then promptly discarded it from my thoughts as so much ludicrous rubbish.

or so i thought.

but over the past day or so, i’ve noticed it lurking at the back of my brain again.  so i went back and re-read it, wondering what the hook was that wouldn’t let go.  and there it was, staring me in the face:

Yet if she says she hasn’t a shred of maternal feeling in her… my heart whispers: ‘Lady, you’re weird.’

It was welcome news, therefore, to discover this week that I am not alone. Research conducted over six years shows that far from bosses and colleagues always being suspicious of a working mother, the opposite is becoming true: it is the childless woman who is regarded as cold and odd.

… many employers believe them to lack what the study calls ‘an essential humanity’. And I know exactly what they mean.

that nugget of truth that i can’t dismiss quite so easily.  people think it’s weird to not want children.

the reason i can’t deny that, is because i see it over and over again in my own interactions.  almost all of my friends have at least one child now, as do a significant proportion of my female colleagues.  so when children or pregnancy come up, i can chat with ease about pelvic spd, breastfeeding, cloth-vs-disposable, and developmental milestones.  i’ve absorbed quite a lot of mother-related knowledge by osmosis, it would seem.  so invariably, when someone then asks, “so what about you and your husband?”, and i say, “oh, you know, we’re not really going to do the kids thing,” they look at me with suspicion.

i know, in that instant, that what they’re thinking is, “lady, you’re weird.”

and what follows is usually a combination of the pitch about how fabulous children are, and oh-you’ll-change-your-mind certitude, with an underlying layer of confusion and incredulity.  at times, there’s even an undercurrent of hostility – as if i’m somehow denigrating their experiences by saying i don’t want the same.

what follows by me, is a response that’s become nearly automatic – myself acknowledging that 99% of the world have kids, that i know i’m an outlier, that i actually really like kids (really i do!), that i know if i *had* kids i’d feel differently, that my own mum was great and definitely-not-deficient-in-any-way.

in other words, i know you think i’m weird.  i apologise for unnerving you with my weirdness.  really i’m not a psychopath.

but at the bottom of it all, is a lack of comprehension.  they simply don’t understand, and there’s a real sense that i’m lacking in something – that “essential humanity”.  because for 99% of the world, having children is something so central to the human experience, and by missing that, how could i *not* feel that i’m missing out?

it’s precisely that which the (otherwise disgusting) article hits exactly on the head.  that otherness which sets my life choices so outside the realm of understanding of pretty much everyone else.  precisely that which i can never change about the way i feel.

so as repelled as i am by the otherwise wildly ridiculous assertions the author makes – that by not having kids i am “cold, calculating, sad, and mad” -  i can’t deny that bit that she gets right.  the bit that’s gone unspoken in every conversation i have with mums.  i am weird.  everyone else knows it, i know it.

but she had the gumption to actually say.

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“i’m going to shoot you!!!  i’m going to shoot you!!!  i’m going to shoot you!!!”

i abruptly surface from the depths of a dream to hear someone screaming this in the street just below our bedroom window. it’s 3 am.

shaking jonno awake – “did you hear that??!”

“i’m going to shoot you!”

jonno rolls over, “wha??”, and then attempts to go back to sleep.

adrenaline pumping, i get up and call 999 in the dark, relay the details whilst peeping out the window to try to see what’s going on, then creep back into the bedroom.  jonno is still lying there.

“c’mon, let’s move away from the window.”  “why?”  “because if someone’s going to start shooting, i’d prefer to be as far away from the bullet trajectory as possible!”  he reluctantly gets up and pads to the back of the house with me.  the cat crawls under the bed.

people still shouting outside.  surely someone else has called the police as well?  this is a residential street.  the shouting moves up the street away from our house.  i crawl back to the window looking for the police.  a minute or two later, they arrive, bringing an ambulance as well.  they stop in front of our house.  the phone rings.  it’s the police, wanting to know which direction the guys went in.  i indicate the general direction and they head off.

we climb back into bed, and lie there for a bit, heart still racing.  i say, “that’s the thing about living in a city – everyone always thinks someone else must’ve called the police.”

j says, ” well if it made you feel better, it’s good that you did.”

“*what*!??! what do you mean, ‘if it made me feel better’??!  what would you have done?”

“i wouldn’t have called the police.  people who announce they’re going to shoot someone, never actually shoot someone.”

“oh really?  is this in your vast experience of witnessing shootings?!”

“i’m just saying that people who bluster about it never do it.”

“you know, i’ve lived in major cities since i was 17, sometimes in rather dodgy areas.  i’m as jaded as the next urbanite, and hardly someone who overreacts to general city craziness.  but when someone’s shouting that they’re going to shoot someone, i’m not going to be the one to make that judgement call about whether or not they really mean it.  i’d rather call the police and say, ’someone is threatening to shoot someone outside my front door,’ than call and say, ’someone just shot someone outside my front door.’ ”

so, dear reader: what would you have done?  ignored it on the assumption that it was just bravado? or called the police?

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there is a british idiom which is so perfect in its meaning for the expression it is meant to convey: gutted.  when you are gutted, it feels like someone has just ripped your insides out, like something has just torn you up inside.  destroyed you from the inside out.  devastated.

i went out for a six mile run this evening, came home, withdrew my entry from the edinburgh marathon, and cried.

for the past three weeks (ever since my 20 mile run) i’ve been battling hip pain, to the point where i’ve barely been able to run at all.  the physiotherapist diagnosed bursitis of the hip  – the cushion of fluid that allows the tendon to glide over bone becomes inflamed and painful.  it can come from overtraining, and/or iliotibial band syndrome.  probably a combo of the two since i haven’t been able to do my yoga in the past 6 weeks, whilst simultaneously racking up lots of milage.

i’ve run through lots of pain before, stubbornly and ill-advisedly.  i once limped with gritted teeth through the last 10 excruciating miles of a marathon, popping insane amounts of ibuprofen, i was so determined to finish.  but if it hurts this much after just 6 miles, i’ll never make it for 26.  not in five days time, not for more than four hours of running.

the only thing worse than having to drop out now, would be having to drop out midway through.  i’m trying to comfort myself with that thought.

still, i’m crushed, and can’t pretend otherwise.  to come so close, to have trained so hard… and have to give it up.  i know people won’t understand why it’s so hard for me to accept. i know i means nothing to anyone else.

but i meant an awful lot to me.

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in norwich, posties are able to “opt out” of delivering bnp election materials.

As part of a “conscience clause”, postmen and women in Norwich can choose whether or not they deliver the canvassing material if they find it offensive or for personal reasons.

And some have refused to deliver the BNP’s controversial leaflets, which set out the party’s policies regarding immigration, out of fear of being threatened by members of the public.

…

Workers were asked to start delivering the material this week ahead of the European elections on June 4.

Within BNP’s pamphlet, it sets out that the far-right party is constitutionally opposed to racial integration, campaigns for an immediate end to immigration and the voluntary resettlement of immigrants living legally in the UK “to their lands of ethnic origin”.

as much as i detest the kkk bnp, the problem with this, is, of course, the slippery slope. where does it end? the postie who decides that s/he finds delivering porn objectionable? or pro-choice literature? or certain prescription medications? it has unsettling parallels to the “conscience clauses” for pharmacists in the u.s., or the case brought by the registrar in islington who refused to carry out same-sex unions.

your job as a postal carrier, is to deliver the post – not pass moral judgement on either the contents of that post, or the people for whom you deliver it. as election material, no matter how repulsive i find it, (and as an aside: how is it not considered “hate speech”? **), as long as it is legal, it should be delivered. as for feeling threatened, well, surely that’s a matter for the police, isn’t it?***

it’s reprehensible stuff, to be sure. but in a democracy where the bnp is <*gag*> considered a legitimate political party, they have the same rights as any other party. censorship and politics is not a role royal mail wants to take on.

**whilst i am on record as being opposed to hate speech laws, if they’re on the books, shouldn’t they be enforced?

***oh, right – not in this country, where the onus is always put back on the victim to try to protect themselves better next time.

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as the clock hands stretch past midnight, the house becomes still – just the soft creaking sounds of an old house settling to keep me company.  and as i relax into the darkness, a quiet contentment steals up on me.  after a hard day’s work, i look around to see my books placed on shelves, my photos hung on the wall, furniture that i’ve selected arranged just so.  it’s been so long since i bought anything of solidity, or was able to arrange the few possessions i had.

for the first time in a long time, i feel comfortable.  plain as it is, this home finally reflects something of me – i’ve been so self-contained for the past 6 years, owning not a single extraneous piece of paper, or mote of dust, always paring down to the bare minimum.  but finally i have a space to fill up as i like, and as i sit here revelling in it, the sense of *release* washes over me, catching me off guard, stinging my eyes.

during the luscious hours of sunshine today, i spent some time digging in the dirt.  i’ve been working on rehabilitating the neglected garden, and there was just one task remaining – uprooting a weed that had been so long-entrenched  it had grown into a small tree.  i sweated and pulled and yanked that sucker out, all the way down to the rootball.  it finally came free with a massive heave, leaving a satisfying blank slate for the new plants i’d bought at the garden centre.

i hadn’t wanted this move after all – it was jonno’s idea, jonno’s initiative.  i was loathe to uproot.  but as difficult as all the upheaval has been, i am so grateful for this fresh start.  a blank slate to create a place of my own – and i had no idea just how much i needed it.

jonatha brooke – your house

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“you’re such a retard”

“that’s so retarded”

i hear these phrases, this word, bandied about so very often, as if it’s just another turn of phrase for “stupid”.  people tell me they don’t mean anything by it, as if the lack of ill intention means it doesn’t cause people pain.  as if using “retarded” as an insult is a victimless crime.

it’s only seen as victimless because the people who are most harmed by it are often the ones least able to speak out against it.  using “retarded” as a synonym for stupid/useless/backward/wierd  is, by inference, equating people who have a diagnosis of mental retardation with all of the above.

for every individual with learning disabilities, there is a different level of intellectual impairment.  the flip side of that, is that every individual also has a unique set of skills and abilities – just like everyone else.  we spend so much time focusing on the differences of people with disabilities, that we overlook the ways in which we are all alike.  using the “r” word is a mark of disdain, of degradation, of setting someone apart as a lesser person, someone less deserving of respect – someone not like everyone else.

people with learning disabilities face enough obstacles for full and valued acceptance in our society – perpetuating hurtful language and stereotypes only compounds these.

i’ve worked with people with learning disabilities for 17 years now – as someone who advocates on behalf of people with learning disabilities, i try wherever possible to challenge people when they use the “r” word.  at the same time, i know that as just one person, i won’t change a world where people are too lazy to find other, less offensive ways of speaking.  people who say it’s just “political correctness gone mad”.  but whether i say anything or not, i notice and i cringe – i notice every time. it doesn’t have to be me you’re insulting for me to be offended.

our language reflects our thoughts and attitudes.  we need to stop and think whether using the “r” word is really what we want to say about not only others, but about ourselves.

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last week (whilst i was without internet), channel four ran a series on adoption in britian which simply broke my heart.  as many will know, adoption is an issue i am incredibly passionate about because all of my four brothers and sisters are adopted.  one brother and one sister were adopted as infants, but the other brother and sister came into our family as near teenage siblings, so my family has experienced both ends of the adoption spectrum.

the dispatches episode lost in care focused on the thousands of children in britain who spend their lives being bounced around “the system”, with poor prospects for being adopted and in many cases shoved out into the world at just 16 years old.  without the stability, education and skills to transition into fully functioning adults, they often end up poor, in trouble with the law, or pregnant.  for example, it’s not uncommon for older kids to have been through 20 or more foster placements, and it hit home hardest when they interviewed teens talking about being uprooted from a foster family every few months, throwing their few possessions into garbage bags to change placements at the drop of a hat, being put up in hotels and temporary accommodation when placements couldn’t be found.  i found myself in tears at their description; i vividly recall my new brother and sister arriving at our home toting garbage bags of meagre possessions, so used to disappointment and impermanence that it took them months to even unpack

how in the world can we expect that children will get a good education, or develop trust and empathy, when their whole world fits into a bin liner that they have to cart around from foster placement to foster placement because they don’t have a home or family to call their own? that we continue to fund such a broken system producing broken children, is positively criminal.

try to imagine your life without a mum or dad – who kissed your scraped knee when you fell?  who came running in the dark when you had nightmares?  who comforted you when you were teased at school?  who helped you with your homework?  who taught you to drive?  who helped you open your first bank account?  now imagine turning to a paid carer for all of the above.  now imagine if that paid carer was a different person every few months.

my brother and sister are considered statistical anomalies – as a set of older siblings of colour, their chances for adoption were considered slim.  and yet even though we know how deeply foster care scars children, and we know the odds for adoption decrease exponentially with age, many kids languish in the system for years as opportunities for a home and family pass them by.  too few carers, too few families, too many kids living in limbo for too long.

surely a caring, permanent family is the minimum every child deserves.  i urge you to watch the programme if you haven’t already, and to write to the children, schools and families committee about the horrific way we fail our children.

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this is the before picture:

people who’ve known me for a while will have heard the story of “the day jen decided to start gardening”. shortly after i’d moved back to boston, i found myself unemployed, up early one morning with nothing to do and contemplating my new back yard. having my own back yard was a novelty to me, having just come from 8 years spent in a shoebox of a new york apartment – i finally had an overgrown patch of earth to call my own. and by “overgrown”, i really mean junglefied. it had been sorely neglected for many years; while there was a corner of the yard that had evidence of once being a garden, there were large thickets of bamboo grass, unruly grapevines with an invasive stranglehold, and stands of weeds higher than my head. and so, as i stood there on the back porch with my coffee one unseasonably warm spring morning, surveying my newfound expanse of land and overlooking the overgrowth, i thought i’d start taking out just a few of the biggest weeds. wandering in wearing my pyjamas and slippers, i grabbed hold and started pulling. after a few short minutes, i came across a weed i’d never encountered before – it had tuberous roots, thick as fingers, that went straight down deep into the ground like underground cables. trying to pull only resulted in the roots breaking off beneath the surface, a definite no-no if you want to eradicate weeds. i had no proper gardening implements, but looking around i found a big stick… and started digging to china.

i spent 10 straight hours that day, digging up weeds, lopping back branches, and sifting through soil. i spent the entire day in the blazing sun up to my eyeballs in dirt, and by the time dusk fell, my shoulders were knotted, my face burnt, my pyjamas ruined. but i had transformed that wildly tangled eyesore into a square of beautifully groomed and prepared soil, with nothing but my stick and brute force. it was (and remains) one of the most satisfying things i’ve ever undertaken.

that summer, my garden became my oasis. i planted vegetables, flowers and herbs – i still remember the layout, where the snapdragons and sunflowers were staked along the fence, the thick bumper crops of basil and tomatoes that i gave away to friends and neighbours in brown paper bags, the exuberant orange daylilies that edged the perimeter. on my way home from work in the afternoons, i’d stop off for a six pack of sam adams and a newspaper. let the dog out to roll around on the lawn, set up the armchair in the sun, turn on the radio, and read the paper while nursing my beer and listening to music backed by the soft chug-chug-chug of the sprinkler. i tenderly nurtured those small green shoots, watched with pride as they grew bigger and stronger, and silently mourned as the blooms faded and fell. years after i’d long-since moved from that apartment, i’d find myself wondering if new tenants had kept it up, or even noticed the care and attention i’d invested for so long.

this is my second garden, and while it doesn’t hold a candle to the size of my first, i found myself out in my pyjamas last saturday, hacking away with a small pair of pruners and pulling down giant swathes of creeper. lots more work to do, but it’s a start:

parlour steps – the garden

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so after two long and painful weeks, i am back online.  i also now hate virgin media with the intensity of a thousand suns, but that’s another story.

how’s everything been going in the interim?  well the move has turned into one of the worst-planned-and-executed operations since napoleon’s waterloo.  however we’re now fully here, sans sofa and a few other essential items.  up until a few days ago, the place was chaos – thanks to the determined efforts of j, it is now a slightly more refined chaos. here’s a peek.

the kitchen:

the lounge (and air mattress we’re sitting on in lieu of a couch)

the hideous orange hallway (why??!)

the peculiar toilet/utility room (i *hate* when they do stuff like this, in a effort to appeal to sharers)

the spare bedroom, cute husband (and icky drapes)

the “master” bedroom with soon-to-be-replaced velvet curtains

the bathroom

the decked patio

the in-need-of-overhaul garden

still needs a lot of work and cleaning.

i’m absolutely run down, falling apart at the seams exhausted.  in addition to the move and between-two-apartments limbo, i’ve been working like crazy (late even! and i never stay late!), and running like mad.  i’m now rather worried, as i’m suffering some sort of painful hip muscle strain and pretty sure i’ve got a stress fracture happening in my foot (which i’m ignoring).  only 2 weeks until the marathon, and i’d be devastated if i couldn’t finish it, so i’m stressing – trying to rest *and* maintain my conditioning.  i just feel run into the ground, like a could take a long nap at any given point during the day.

so i’ve been coming home late, running, eating and falling into bed.  then last weekend, a girls weekend in brighton with my heavily pregnant friend tonia…

and j’s birthday on the sunday…

… the sunday which also happened to be mother’s day in the u.s., and which i missed.  guilt.  also, a sad indicator of how reliant i am on those little email pop-up reminders and other internet-based cues, none of which i had access to. also a strong indicator of how very fried i’ve been.  so happy belated to my mum and my two sisters (one of which is due with her second little boy quite soon!) and my stepmom  i’m so sorry i missed telling you what fantastic mothers you’ve been, and how much i love you all.

so that’s what’s been up with me… what’s been up with all of you?

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just to say

a) we’re sort-of kind-of moved, and it was awful

b) in the 21st century it apparently still takes 2 frikken weeks to get internet set up (where are my flying cars?)

c) i’m going through serious connectivity withdrawals (what’s this strange shaking?)

d) i’m really liking our new place and can’t wait to regale you with photos and ikea stories

i miss you my darlings!  til then, big kisses.

***mwah!***

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