Only time will tell

I promised myself that I wouldn't take on any new work before we go on holiday next Sunday. Typically, I'm facing three new deadlines this week and the cleaners can't come on Saturday so I will have to do all the pre-holiday ironing and scouring of the house myself (or who knows what our relatives will think if the plane crashes and they have to organise a dirty flat).

Talking of plane doom, I've got a little bit more chilled out about the flight. And it's a bloody good job because the doctor's prescription Diazepam got a trial run on Friday night and did nothing. Clearly I need something more drastic to take me down. I've made several enquiries and am hoping an old friend can save the day (she has "contacts", don't you know). Failing that I'll be forced to neck all eight remaining Diazepam with a litre of vodka. If that plane goes down, I don't want to know anything about it. Matt will be pleased.

Eliott has been in fine fettle over the last few days. We've been to Chessington where he braved the log flume (there's a lot to be said for being over 0.9metres at 23 months of age). We've also commenced "Daddy Day" which takes place every Wednesday and is an attempt to ease the pressures on yours truly. I took full advantage and by 10am last Wednesday I was showered, dressed and delaying switching the computer on so I could watch the end of "Playing It Straight USA". Old habits die hard.

Eliott's been chattering for England too. Unfortunately, little that he says makes sense and there are still only a handful of recognisable words in there, none of which are fully formed (unless you count "no"). I'm trying not to worry and take it as it comes. It's a year now since the majority of Eliott's buddies started talking. Will he catch up? I have no idea. I hope so. There's no physical reason for him not to that we know about to date (he is booked in for a hearing test next month). He seems to understand everything I say but I have no idea whether he's at the same developmental point as his peers or if the problem is more deep seated. Sure, he can take a nappy bag to the bin and blow kisses on demand; he can do every action under the sun and is obsessed with Superman to the point that he runs around the playground (in full Superman costume) pretending to be him. But in the absence of chatter I'm struggling to teach him. I'm still going over basic words because I can't be sure he understands them. I keep reminding myself that he probably understands just as much as other children, but without the security of speech, I don't know how to move on and to stop treating him like a baby.

It also gets harder and harder to talk to other mums about the kids' development as they tell stories of sentences and songs and excitedly ask me to "guess what new word I've taught him/her to say???" They can't help being proud of their young 'uns and I should stop being so sensitive, but it's something me and Eliott are totally excluded from for now, and I have to sit quietly and patiently until we get on to more important matters like whose kid has crapped on the carpet this week?

Talking of toilet-matters, Eliott did a wee on his potty. It was a pure fluke, but a proud moment. Matt is in charge of potty training. I would rather wait until I'm sure he's ready ("mummy I need toilet" springs to mind) but I keep my mouth shut and let the lads get on with it.

There is still no movement here on a second child and the way I'm feeling there never will be. I just did an interview with a mum who told me the transition from one to two children completely did her in and she had to give up work completely. I don't want to give up work. Or to be so stressed I can't appreciate what I've got. Or to have logistical problems getting two bairns to Chessington on the train (let's face it, I will never learn to drive). Call me selfish (I am) but the thought of disturbing our happy set up with the return of sleepless nights and wall-to-wall screaming makes me feel more than a bit queasy. HUGE respect to the mums who have done it. I increasingly think it's just not for me.

Like so many other things, only time will tell.

Enough is Enough

Ok. I admit it. Not coping very well at all.

I've done ten magazine features so far this year, seven features for the web, 14 beauty news stories & features and re-edited an entire website. Is this a lot for a part-timer? I have no idea. I'm probably just being a big wimp, but it certainly feels like a lot.

And, in case you think I'm a queen lightweight, I still have no childcare in place.

People keep asking me 'how I do it'. The truth is, not very well. I'm flying by the seat of my pants and working like a dog, until midnight most nights, having a very limited social life (read: virtually non-existent), doing no exercise and plonking Eliott in front of his Dvds for an hour a day while I scurry into the kitchen to make surreptitious phone calls to editors and interviewees.

On Good Friday I was interviewing a real life case study while Eliott was winding the phone cord around his waist and screaming "Bowwwww!!!" at the top of his voice.

It's hardly ideal.

Now, don't get me wrong, I don't expect any sympathy. This isn't a cry for help. I'm over the moon about my writing and all the opportunities that have come my way over the last six months. I mostly love what I'm doing and have a regular flow of ideas and heaps more contacts than I've ever had.

But on nights like last night, when I finally logged off and crawled into bed at 12.45am only for Eliott to uncharacteristically wake up at 1am (and, even more uncharacteristically, stay awake until 4am), I feel like taking all ten Diazepam tablets the doctor has prescribed me for my terrifying flight to Ibiza, and sleeping for a week.

Something has got to give. And that's my last cliche of the evening.

Oh, and by the way, my BIG interview was with Cynthia Lennon (and anyone who knows me or has read my blog for any length of time will know what a MAJOR deal that was ). It's out now in REAL magazine as part of my "Casualties of Fame" feature. Yay!

Plane scared

I still haven't booked our holiday. Everytime I get a step closer I can't do it. The truth is, I'm terrified of flying again.

In the past, I've forced myself to do it with a combination of "rational" thinking and booze. I've always been able to do enough of the "when your number's up..." and "more chance of winning the lottery..." mantra-ing to get me to the departure gate on time. But now I'm not just thinking about me. I'm thinking about my beautiful baby boy and the thought of anything happening to him and not being able to protect him is nothing less than blood-curdling.

Again, the rational part of my brain kicks in: he travels in the car, he travels on the tube, he walks along the road (albeit in my vice-like, hand-holding grip). I know that there is more chance of a plane landing on our house than us being involved in a fatal, mid-air collision on a Sunday afternoon over Southern France, caused by the air traffic control man's inability to do his job whilst eating cheese and watching football (there are endless scenarios - we've also survived the impact but been eaten alive by Mediterranean sharks, for example).

I don't want to give in to my fear and spend countless hours stuck on (infinitely more dangerous) cross-Europe coaches. I've been to many places in the world (and survived) and I want Eliott to share the same sense of wonder, adventure and experience that comes with international travel.

I also (desperately) need a week on the beach and if today's weather is anything to go by I'm not going to have much luck in Brighton or Bognor.

Perhaps if I don't dream about an air disaster tonight I should take it as a sign that we will make it to the Balearics and back in one piece.

And that, my friends, is irrational thinking at its very best.

Full steam ahead = chaos

It's been so long since I blogged that I had lost my password and forgotten my username. Thanks to my efficient organisational skills I managed to retrieve said information from a crumpled post-it note and here I am.

First off I'd like to say hello to the 20six exiles (how Matrix is that?) who have popped in for a virtual Hob-nob. Due to insane workload I rarely get chance to respond to comments but rest-assured I read them and am really touched that you cared enough to stop by.

Today I stood in front of the magazines in Sainsburys and two of the lovely glossy mags (namely Real and Practical Parenting) were sporting my features on their front pages. I don't quite know how this happened. I know there has been a helluva lot of hard work involved and also the current contents of my desk may provide a clue:

Several A4 pads filled with interview notes, one empty box of Cadbury Roses, one Drifter wrapper, one swish, moleskin notepad from a launch party, one fluffy elephant, one Sunday Mirror payslip, one pencil (blunt), one box of tissues, several hundred thousand post-it notes, two diaries, one journobiz beermat (sorry, mugmat), one reel pink cotton (?), seven dictaphone tapes and one broken dictaphone, one Foo Fighters badge (choking/stabbing/piercing hazard), hundreds of Sainsbury's Active Kids vouchers, one book ("wheels on the bus"), one baby monitor (broken), one Take That address book (circa 1990, falling to bits), one glasses case (empty), several original, 1970's-era photographs of Rod Stewart, a million loose paperclips, one Ibiza guidebook, one ideas book, one red nail polish (unopened), one overflowing desk tidy (don't even go there), several unopened letters (yikes), one clock (broken), one Foo Fighters CD (overused), one filthy phone (on last legs) and one ridiculously overflowing in-tray.

Am I missing Peter and Jordan by telling you this?