The word 'goddess' implies, when used in Nigella's 'domestic goddess' context, an attractive woman who can juggle family and home - and probably a job as well - in a well-organised rather enviable way: baking sublime cakes as her children traipse in through the door wet and covered in mud, whisking their wet clothes off into the washing machine before they have a chance to whinge and get cold, and calmly mopping the mud off the floor, whilst the entire time looking unruffled, well-dressed and perfectly made up.
If that is a domestic goddess than I am definitely not one. However I do not consider myself an Earth Mother either (there is something rather hippyish and muddy about an Earth Mother to my mind and I don't dress like the former though mud and I are no strangers) and there are definitely days when I feel like a Drudge; when the hours from first waking to going to bed seem to be filled only with doing domestic tasks of one type or another, and usually for other people's benefit and to fit in with their timetables and demands. But there are also those days when I feel that I have achieved something in the domestic arena and feel a little like a demi-goddess at least.
For example today I made ham soup from a ham bone which Husband had picked up from Cranstons and put in the freezer either for soup or for the ferrets (I hasten to add that it was good quality ham and the ferrets are spoilt); mango and strawberry ice cream as a house-warming present for Post-Natal Friend E. (the one I met at baby massage); and pear and blueberry puree for the Baby (yesterday I made him parsnip puree and also pear and mango puree). Nothing was particularly difficult and I had thought of making oat cakes and flapjacks as well but those have not been achieved yet. Today, after all this cooking, I was feeling distinctly chilled and domestic goddess-ish.
This is despite the fact that the house is only partially decorated and the carpet in the dining room in particular is a mess, and the garden is getting more overrun by weeds by the day. Indoors my tomato plants don't look too happy but outdoors my roses are coming into bud and mostly look great, though one has some black blotches on its older leaves, which I don't think is too good a sign.
On the Baby front I've had mixed success as I gave him Strawberry, Banana and Blueberry puree yesterday and he was very unhappy all day and vomited most of it back up: I think the strawberries gave him tummy ache. Would a Domestic Goddess have made a similar mistake or would she have known instinctively that Strawberry puree would not suit the Baby?
A Domestic Goddess would doubtless juggle French lessons, singing lessons, various lessons for children and all her volunteering responsibilities with ease but I have just given up my French lessons as I wasn't getting time to do any practice: but I did do some singing practice yesterday. I also feel that I've done quite a bit for the Lanercost Festival, especially in terms of publicity but this is something else I am probably going to give up as I want to apply to be on the Board of Trustees for Tullie House Museum and I also need to get a job and if I'm working I think Lanercost will take up too much time.
The problem is one of time, and a text conversation with a friend earlier highlighted this. She said that as your children get older you actually have less time, not more. I have mixed feelings about this: life felt as if it was going to be easier with the older children at school, but of course I never really got to find out although being pregnant with them at school permitted more time than now the Baby is here. The Baby, being at the rolling-over-but-not-getting-any-further stage is now more demanding than when he was newborn in that he is getting frustrated and bored and needs picking up and cuddling and moving somewhere else until he gets bored of his new position and then needs moving again. He is also still eating almost every couple of hours, although the quantity is reducing so he may be going to get taller and a bit slimmer at last: particularly if he manages to start crawling within the next couple of months. And of course once he's crawling I am not going to be able to take my eyes off him, so the chances of doing much other than when he's asleep will reduce still further. I don't regret this as I love watching him develop, but it means my opportunities for proof-reading things, answering emails, doing singing practice, writing articles, and applying for jobs will be more limited.
Husband asked rhetorically this morning where the baby who was Oldest Son had gone. It seems, in some ways, such a short time since he was born, and certainly having another baby makes me reminisce about Oldest Son and Daughter as babies: but on the other hand I love watching them as they are. Again, this text conversation with my friend made me think of what I'm proud of them for. It's so easy to be aware of, and driven up the wall by, their failings - which are often characteristics you wouldn't dream of changing - but sometimes I think we need to step back and consider what we are proud of our children for.
I am proud of Oldest Son because he has a lovely nature. He is kind, considerate and good at sharing, and can come out with some quite perceptive and sensitive comments about other people. He is also good at drawing and far braver on his bike off-road than I ever was.
I am proud of Daughter's exuberant, brilliant personality. She is a brainbox but in a very down to earth way: learning things and studying or doing 'homework' is not hard work to her but just something she enjoys doing, and combined with that she has amazing confidence. I am also proud of her nearly swimming without armbands and of the way she keeps going when we go out on the tag-along, and chats away.
I am proud of the Baby because he is so happy and because he so often charms other people. His smile lights up his whole face and happiness spreads to everyone else as well: even more so his giggle. He appears to be quite a pickle and to have a good sense of humour. I am also proud of the fact that he seems to be strong and is now enjoying trying to stand up (when held): in fact quite often now he objects if you try to keep him sitting on your knees.
They were all worth having though I have to admit the times when I feel like a Drudge (rather than a Domestic Goddess), I wish I had a job and could escape for a bit: and then afford to pay someone to undertake some of the domestic drudgery.
Do Domestic Goddesses really look glamorous? Nigella seems to imply that they do but I've always preferred the rather more down-to-earth goddesses, as in the Greek and Roman myths, who fought each other for their men or who were fallible enough to fall for mortal men. I'm not sure that all of them would have worn full make-up every day: they were far too busy rushing around and stirring things up. And I'm sure that also by the time they had had 3 children they would have had a bit of a tummy on them.
My tummy still has not shifted - not surprisingly - but Post Natal Friend E. did comment this week that your body has a memory, and by Baby no.3 finds it easy to remember being pregnant. So this morning I woke up determined that I shall think about my 40-year-old triathlete's body instead, and make my body remember that, in the hope that I shall get it back into a shape approaching the one it had on my 40th birthday without too much work. Doing some exercise would help though...
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
SINGING FOR JOY!
I did a new piece at my singing lesson this evening. I was particularly pleased because I sight-sang it quite well (my teacher was impressed but so was I!), but also it was a piece I immediately liked and will now consider for my Grade 8 exam.
I was driving home debating in my mind what doing a new piece of music is like. Initially I thought it was like starting a new exercise book at school (do children still use exercise books nowadays or is it all loose-leaf printouts from the internet and virtual essays?). I remember the excitement of the smooth unspoilt cover and the pristine white pages, all waiting to be written on. There was a sense of anticipation: what pearls of wisdom, imaginative stories or brilliant pieces of work were going to fill these pages?
However the exercise books all too quickly would grow dog-earred around the corners, the cover would get torn and scuffed and doodled on, and the inner pages would become rough and bumpy from the indentations of all that writing. A piece of music doesn't become like that: or rather, the manuscript may as you work on it in more detail and put your own personal comments, reminders and notation on it (slow up here.... crescendo there.... keep that note light.... watch that vowel sound.... that's a sharp not a natural....), but the music itself, if any good, remains divine and familiarity, rather than breeding contempt, often breeds more awareness of the detail and awe for the skill of the composer. The performer or listener may become more comfortable with the piece and may temporarily grow tired of it if heard or performed too much: but after that follows the pleasure of going back to the piece many weeks, months or even years later, to rediscover it and realise that although you still know it well, there are more jewels to discover.
I have no idea whether the piece I first sang today will be one of those that lasts the test of time for me. I rather suspect it will as it comes from an anthology of songs and arias of which I never grow tired, Twenty-Four Songs and Arias of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries: a fundamental song book for nearly all singers I should think, with a well-chosen selection of pieces. My very first singing piece came from there and I still know it and enjoy singing it today, finding something different to consider every time I sing it, even if it is only to myself.
That is, of course, also the delight of live performing. Human beings rarely achieve perfection, especially ones with only the small talent I have (as opposed to those who are incredibly gifted and talented, though even those sometimes make mistakes), and when performing live you can always wish you had done something differently or better. But isn't that great: it means there is always something you can strive for, and so long as you feel your performance was good then at least you don't need to beat yourself up about it either.
I'm currently working on my song selection for a demo CD I'm going to make. My teacher asked who I was aiming it at: the answer is I don't know, but if even one or two people engage me and pay me to sing I will be overjoyed, and all my years of feeling a failure when I was at University should be finally put to rest.
I was driving home debating in my mind what doing a new piece of music is like. Initially I thought it was like starting a new exercise book at school (do children still use exercise books nowadays or is it all loose-leaf printouts from the internet and virtual essays?). I remember the excitement of the smooth unspoilt cover and the pristine white pages, all waiting to be written on. There was a sense of anticipation: what pearls of wisdom, imaginative stories or brilliant pieces of work were going to fill these pages?
However the exercise books all too quickly would grow dog-earred around the corners, the cover would get torn and scuffed and doodled on, and the inner pages would become rough and bumpy from the indentations of all that writing. A piece of music doesn't become like that: or rather, the manuscript may as you work on it in more detail and put your own personal comments, reminders and notation on it (slow up here.... crescendo there.... keep that note light.... watch that vowel sound.... that's a sharp not a natural....), but the music itself, if any good, remains divine and familiarity, rather than breeding contempt, often breeds more awareness of the detail and awe for the skill of the composer. The performer or listener may become more comfortable with the piece and may temporarily grow tired of it if heard or performed too much: but after that follows the pleasure of going back to the piece many weeks, months or even years later, to rediscover it and realise that although you still know it well, there are more jewels to discover.
I have no idea whether the piece I first sang today will be one of those that lasts the test of time for me. I rather suspect it will as it comes from an anthology of songs and arias of which I never grow tired, Twenty-Four Songs and Arias of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries: a fundamental song book for nearly all singers I should think, with a well-chosen selection of pieces. My very first singing piece came from there and I still know it and enjoy singing it today, finding something different to consider every time I sing it, even if it is only to myself.
That is, of course, also the delight of live performing. Human beings rarely achieve perfection, especially ones with only the small talent I have (as opposed to those who are incredibly gifted and talented, though even those sometimes make mistakes), and when performing live you can always wish you had done something differently or better. But isn't that great: it means there is always something you can strive for, and so long as you feel your performance was good then at least you don't need to beat yourself up about it either.
I'm currently working on my song selection for a demo CD I'm going to make. My teacher asked who I was aiming it at: the answer is I don't know, but if even one or two people engage me and pay me to sing I will be overjoyed, and all my years of feeling a failure when I was at University should be finally put to rest.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
HEATWAVE!
My memory of summers as a child is of my mother sunbathing religiously and my sister and I playing in the paddling pool. There was one summer when I read 4 books in one day and got told off for not going outside more but generally summers seemed to last forever and to be sunny day after day.
In my 20s and 30s, living in London, I loved the hot summer weather despite the sweltering tube lines and pollution if you were cycling or walking around. Life happened down by the river after work where people stood outside wine bars in the warm weather until it grew dark; the South Bank was a magical place of music and entertainment, close enough to Waterloo or Charing Cross station to stagger to get a train home once it grew cooler. Frequently I got sunburnt: lazing around at friends' houses or out cycling, careless about suntan lotion and keen to go brown. I only ever burnt once a year (even that seems too much now) and would then just turn brown.
Working in France in 1994 I would be out cycling or walking on the hottest of days, loving the heat. I remember getting out of the car at the supermarket in Perpignan to be hit by a blast of hot air like walking into an oven: I think it was about 40 degrees that day and the temperature was regularly in the mid-30s. Down by the coast there was a sea breeze to cool things; up in the mountains the mountain breezes; but they didn't stop the colleague I was working with and me developing tans which made us look like locals.
And then I got pregnant with Oldest Son in 2003 and the UK had one of the hottest summers on record. Husband and I were in Sherborne when I was about 4 months pregnant the day that the temperature hit 40 degrees C at Heathrow: I was glad I wasn't more heavily pregnant. I felt uncomfortably warm and heavy. Sadly, in a way, I've never enjoyed hot weather so much since and so when my Mother in Law wondered if, as a Southerner, I'd find Cumbria a bit cold, I thought it unlikely. In the May half term last year (2010) we spent a hot day in Keswick: even at 2 months pregnant I found it uncomfortable and just wanted to sit down in the shade somewhere (I wonder if I wrote about that in this blog?). So the past two days of this year's May half term, when the temperature has risen to about 27 degrees, I have understood the baby's discomfort. Both nights he couldn't settle to sleep until about 9p.m., which is most unlike him: today, when the temperature has dropped significantly, he was asleep at just gone 7.30p.m. I'm happy to see the sun but I have to admit that the slightly lower temperature is more to my taste nowadays. I find it difficult to believe that I went running when on holiday in Greece one year: although I never went very far.
Maybe my favourite weather, at least in terms of activity, is in fact when there is a thick layer of fresh snow on the ground, blue skies and the sun is out: you can wrap up warmly to suit whatever you're doing, and going running means putting on plenty of layers in the hope that you may be able to take some off rather than feeling too hot before you even start.
However, I like all weathers in Cumbria. Living in the country I am far more conscious of the changes in the seasons, even within the seasons, than I ever was when I lived in the city. Life seems to spring from all corners and in a crazy way I'm not surprised I got pregnant when I didn't expect to. I just wish there was some way of making the weeds less fertile!
In my 20s and 30s, living in London, I loved the hot summer weather despite the sweltering tube lines and pollution if you were cycling or walking around. Life happened down by the river after work where people stood outside wine bars in the warm weather until it grew dark; the South Bank was a magical place of music and entertainment, close enough to Waterloo or Charing Cross station to stagger to get a train home once it grew cooler. Frequently I got sunburnt: lazing around at friends' houses or out cycling, careless about suntan lotion and keen to go brown. I only ever burnt once a year (even that seems too much now) and would then just turn brown.
Working in France in 1994 I would be out cycling or walking on the hottest of days, loving the heat. I remember getting out of the car at the supermarket in Perpignan to be hit by a blast of hot air like walking into an oven: I think it was about 40 degrees that day and the temperature was regularly in the mid-30s. Down by the coast there was a sea breeze to cool things; up in the mountains the mountain breezes; but they didn't stop the colleague I was working with and me developing tans which made us look like locals.
And then I got pregnant with Oldest Son in 2003 and the UK had one of the hottest summers on record. Husband and I were in Sherborne when I was about 4 months pregnant the day that the temperature hit 40 degrees C at Heathrow: I was glad I wasn't more heavily pregnant. I felt uncomfortably warm and heavy. Sadly, in a way, I've never enjoyed hot weather so much since and so when my Mother in Law wondered if, as a Southerner, I'd find Cumbria a bit cold, I thought it unlikely. In the May half term last year (2010) we spent a hot day in Keswick: even at 2 months pregnant I found it uncomfortable and just wanted to sit down in the shade somewhere (I wonder if I wrote about that in this blog?). So the past two days of this year's May half term, when the temperature has risen to about 27 degrees, I have understood the baby's discomfort. Both nights he couldn't settle to sleep until about 9p.m., which is most unlike him: today, when the temperature has dropped significantly, he was asleep at just gone 7.30p.m. I'm happy to see the sun but I have to admit that the slightly lower temperature is more to my taste nowadays. I find it difficult to believe that I went running when on holiday in Greece one year: although I never went very far.
Maybe my favourite weather, at least in terms of activity, is in fact when there is a thick layer of fresh snow on the ground, blue skies and the sun is out: you can wrap up warmly to suit whatever you're doing, and going running means putting on plenty of layers in the hope that you may be able to take some off rather than feeling too hot before you even start.
However, I like all weathers in Cumbria. Living in the country I am far more conscious of the changes in the seasons, even within the seasons, than I ever was when I lived in the city. Life seems to spring from all corners and in a crazy way I'm not surprised I got pregnant when I didn't expect to. I just wish there was some way of making the weeds less fertile!
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