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This much I know about marriage, five years in

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This much I know about marriage, five years onI know that being married to you is just like being in a long term relationship with you, except people don’t ask when we’re planning to get married any more, because we’ve already done it.

I know that choosing a lawyer for a husband is, on a practical level, the most useful selection I have ever made.

I know that when you told me that there’s no situation you can’t physically carry me away from, it’s the safest I have ever felt.

I know that you were lying when you said it was still true when I was heavily pregnant with our daughter, and it meant just as much.

I know that when they told us that the first year of marriage would be the hardest, they weren’t chuffing joking.

I know that we survived that year and all it threw at us – my panic disorder, our collective career-related nightmares – because we tackled it together.

I know that Japan will always hold a special place in our hearts because we went there during that time. We listened to Life’s a Happy Song from The Muppets soundtrack over and over again as we travelled around, because we’re super cool people, and because it gave us hope.

I know that marriage is about helping each other be the best we can be.

I know that you’re never going to be someone who puts a finished toilet roll straight into the recycling bin, and I accept that about you.

I know that I’m never going to be someone who lets a simple domestic foible go without writing about it on the Internet, and it’s good of you to accept that about me, too.

I know that having a baby has made me need you so much that it scares me.

I know we’ve been together for 13 years, but I still get excited when I receive a text from you.

I know that your idea of watching a film is pressing play and sitting still for two hours.

I know that my idea of watching a film is pressing play and then walking from room to room completing 897 domestic activities, and then sitting down and falling asleep.

I know that no matter what I’m going through, if I talk to you about it, I’ll feel better.

I know that marriage means knowing when to step up. When I had a panic attack at Heathrow airport on our way to Australia, you told me I could go home if I wanted to – even though you really didn’t want me to. And when, 12 hours later, we were stranded at Hong Kong airport and you were worried you wouldn’t make it to Sydney in time for work, I got us onto a flight. Because your feelings are valid, and so are mine.

I know that the love we feel for our daughter is unconditional and that our love for each other is not.

I know that realising this, and the shift we felt when this small human being took pole position in our lives, will only make us work harder at the marriage that brought her to us.

I know we’ve realised that it’s best for everyone that the period of time when a couple plans a wedding doesn’t go on forever.

I know that it’s not healthy for my entire sense of self-worth to come from the fact that you love me.

I know that I owe myself a lot more credit than that.

I know that, now that we have a baby, we have to help each other make time to be ourselves. To go to the gym, to see our friends, to write – making space in our lives to be who we are, is a two person job now.

I know that it was a privilege to crumble alongside you beneath the weight of responsibility we’d not quite prepared for on the day our daughter was born.

I know that we’re doing all we can to become the parents she deserves.

I know that if we believed in ourselves as much as we believe in each other, we wouldn’t have a single thing in this world to fear.

I know that during my speech on our wedding day I said that as long as we’re together everything will be OK.

I know that I was right about that.

I remember

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I remember my alarm going off at 5.30am like we were getting up to go on holiday. But we weren’t. We were getting up to go and have a baby.

I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room and the midwife coming to say we were first on the list and we’d be going down to theatre soon. That c-section we’d talked about, it was going to be happening soon.

I remember going onto the ward and putting on a gown and compression stockings and Leon getting into scrubs. We took a selfie. We look terrified.

I remember walking down to theatre and entering a room filled with strangers and implements and bright lights. I remember remembering to be brave.

I remember placing my trust and my heart into the hands of an anaesthetist I’d just met. I remember she was nothing but amazing throughout.

I remember what it feels like to park your phobias at the door – of needles, of incisions, of surgery – in the spirit of the greater good. Our baby.

I remember having a catheter inserted and realising that when I thought the upside of having to have the baby this way was that there’d be fewer opportunities for me to lose my dignity, I was wrong.

I remember losing all feeling from the chest down. I remember panicking. I remember calming down. I remember hearing “You’re doing really well, Charlotte” again and again and needing to hear it. Needing to be the child in the room for just a few minutes more.

I remember a sheet going up and it starting.

I remember suddenly chilling right out. I remember making jokes, people laughing. They weren’t funny I’m sure, but when a woman with her bikini line cut open makes a joke YOU LAUGH.

I remember feeling some pushing and some pulling and being absolutely able to handle it. I was doing this. Somehow I was letting this happen.

I remember that I’d almost forgotten what this whole procedure was for until the anaesthetist said “I can see a foot”.

I remember nothing and then everything. Time stopping and then speeding by. I heard “You’ve got to see this,” the sheet came down and our baby was there in front of us. A girl, they said, you’ve got a baby girl.

I remember that we laughed. A deranged, euphoric, overwhelmed guffaw at the sight of our giant, gooey, bright pink and white baby daughter, shattering our hearts with her very first cry.

I remember her disappearing out of sight and calling “Mummy’s here” as she shrieked from the scales. Mummy. Because that’s my name now.

I remember the moment she was placed into my arms, the softest, most precious bundle I’ve ever held.

I remember her looking straight at me, with these enormous, beautiful eyes that I couldn’t believe the two of us had made.

I remember looking at Leon and the world feeling smaller than ever before. There’s just three of us in it now. That’s it.

I remember the moment our lives changed forever.

Marriage: I notice

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Marriage: All these things that you've doneI notice when you switch sides with me on the pavement to protect me from passing cars.

I notice when you wake me after I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa, approaching with the kind of caution one might reserve for a lion or bear.

I notice that you only eat the lemon French Fancies from the box because you know that the pink and chocolate ones are my favourites.

I notice that you don’t complain that I always put my toothbrush, facial wash and moisturiser in your wash bag when we go away, despite having a perfectly good one of my own.

I notice that you sit through five episodes of Coronation Street a week, even though, most of the time, absolutely nothing interesting happens at all.

I notice that lots of people would get angry if their wife put their socks or boxer shorts in the bin because “the holes were just getting out of hand”. But you don’t.

I notice that you say “Back yourself” every time I doubt my worth, my skills, or my decisions, and that the words are slowly starting to go in.

I notice that you don’t comment that there were 36 Jaffa Cakes in the cupboard at the start of the week and none by the end, and that you ate precisely zero.

I notice when you come home after a night out, eat an entire Shepherd’s Pie and two Twister lollies, and pass out with the TV on. Because everybody deserves to let their hair down sometimes.

I notice that it takes every ounce of self-control you possess not to shout at the rugby when you watch it while I’m in bed.

I notice that you don’t mention that just because I keep my massive pile of part-worn clothes on a chair, it doesn’t make it less annoying than your pile that lives on the floor, and about which I never. stop. complaining.

I notice that you’ve started making the effort to hold my hand during a film since I gave you feedback about ‘ignoring’ me in the cinema.

I notice when you chase after a waitress at a wedding because I’m pregnant and not quick enough on my feet to score a canapé.

I notice when you take the time to read every blog I write before I hit ‘Publish’ – even though you’re tired and busy, and so many of them poke fun at you.

I notice when you go to the supermarket just because I really fancy some strawberries.

I notice that you don’t comment when I then don’t eat the strawberries because I filled up on KitKats while you were out.

I notice that you put your arm around me whenever ‘Jerusalem’ is sung at weddings because you know it always makes me cry.

I notice when you say that you’re proud of me for coping with the ups and downs of carrying our baby.

I notice that I couldn’t do any of it without you.

Life lesson: It’s cool to be kind

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Life lesson: It's cool to be kindExisting on this planet feels particularly tough at the moment. In the UK the past few weeks have seen attacks on innocent people, and more horror and sadness that any of us wanted to imagine. It’s impossible to comprehend let alone accept what’s been happening, or the pain and suffering that those affected, their families and friends are going through.

And if any comfort at all can be taken at such an awful time, I am trying to take some from the very fact that we find it so hard to get our heads around such cruelty. Because finding it difficult shows that most of us are good people who would never hurt anyone intentionally. We’re here to love and look after one another, to use our days to experience laughter and joy, and to demonstrate kindness whenever we can.

Most of us do this on a small-scale, day-to-day basis – perhaps to a friend or a colleague, or maybe even to a stranger should the opportunity arise. And others take it to the next level – signing up to be nothing short of heroic as and when the moment requires. And for those people there can never be a sufficient level of gratitude.

Living in London means it’s the norm to joke about the level to which we Londoners ignore/sigh at/silently despise one another whilst commuting or attempting to make progress down Oxford Street. It’s a busy city and I’m as guilty as anyone of getting annoyed about the pettiest of things, and of putting my head down and just trying to get around without yelling at anybody.

But there’s a big difference between cynicism about the pain-in-the-arse daily grind, and actually not giving a damn about other people. Because we do care really, and never is that more apparent than when it really matters.

And it’s this knowledge – that the vast majority of people are good and kind and, normally, just trying to get from A to B – that I’m trying to hold onto today. Feelings of despair and confusion are an inevitable part of dealing with reports of such cruelty – and it’s important to make time for them – but then hope comes from focusing on the positive side of humanity. The sweet joy of having the freedom to live the life you want to live, the love and loyalty we can show our friends, and the bottomless pot of kindness forever at our disposal.

All being well, we’re going to be having a baby in November. (A less serious post will inevitably follow about the endless joy of the first trimester, I’m sure). We’ve a long way to go but, as you do, we’ve found ourselves wandering around shops and spotting things we’d like to put in the baby’s room. And one such item is a picture that reads: It’s cool to be kind.

After this weekend, I’m surer than ever that I’m going to buy it, because there’s no better lesson we can teach our child. And it won’t do us any harm to be reminded of that fact everyday, too.

The small moments of joy that made 2016 more than bearable

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img_20160817_133724I don’t need to mention that this year has been… difficult.

But rather than add to the noise about the horror of 2016 – the deaths of numerous icons, the dream of the first female US president tumbling into the abyss, and the opportunity to spend Wednesday evenings watching people make cake whilst eating cake disappearing forever – I’ve decided to focus on the positives.

Because there’s nothing like a year filled with endless news stories of sadness and despair and a, frankly, terrifying political landscape, to make you appreciate the smaller moments that make up each day. So here are a few of the small but precious moments that made this year unforgettable for me. And I’d love to hear yours too.

Halting mid-order at the bar on Battersea Rise to sing emphatically to Blank Space by Taylor Swift with Ceri. Thank you for your patience, Mr Barman.

Sitting in the British Library with Alexa, working on our separate writing projects alone but together, and rewarding our efforts with door stopper sized pieces of cake.

Hearing my brother walking down the stairs saying “Alright then, dude” to his 10 day old baby son, Jack, who he was about to introduce us to for the very first time.

img_1739Having a panic attack at St Pancras station whilst waiting to meet Emma, telling her I was suffering, her saying “You know, I don’t expect anything from you” and it disappearing just as quickly as it came.

Receiving my first ever yes from an editor I’d pitched a story idea to cold.

1am Sunday morning, late January. Standing on the train back to Wimbledon with Sarah, covered from head to toe in sweat after throwing everything we had into Shake It Off. People stare. We regret nothing.

Watching Jack fall asleep on Leon and witnessing the precise moment my husband fell in love with our nephew.

The final seconds of Orange is the New Black series 4. *mouth wide open emoji*

Standing in a cramped pub in Hackney, the windows streaming with condensation, bouncing along as my friend Sara played bass in a David Bowie tribute band and having it confirmed that she is indeed the coolest of chicks.

Purchasing a yellow leather backpack under the guidance of my boldest friend, and never looking back.

Sheffield, August. A whole afternoon with Jen, Matt, Jo and Leon. I discover Hendrick’s, tonic and cucumber. Life becomes even more interesting.

The response I got to a blog called Solitude is good for you, loneliness is not. I thought talking about finding social situations difficult and needing time to myself would make me sound weird. But, as always, it’s never just you.

Reviewing my choice of outfit (below) for a two and a half hour hike between the Cinque Terre in Italy and realising once and for all that nobody will ever accuse me of being outdoorsy.

Dinner, La Loggia, Levanto, Thursday 19 May. We are at our best.

Falling out of a bar at 8.45pm on a Friday night with my two favourite drinking buddies, laughing like hyenas and heading off in search of food, any food, to soak up all the delicious, if ill-advised, margaritas we’d consumed.

Every time I did that particular type of sigh I reserve for when I close a book I’ve loved. (There were 16 this year, if you’re interested).

When Leon and I used our Nutribullet to make margaritas and we learnt the hard way what it tastes like if you line each glass with table salt instead of rock. (Not good, bro).

Watching Jack eat the tiny remaining peas from his dinner that he’d spread around his high chair from the tip of his mum’s finger.

Seeing the way he looks at her.

Demonstrating that I know all of the words to Mysterious Girl by Peter Andre at a wedding and feeling not a single ounce of shame.

The look of amused surprise on my friends’ faces at Thorpe Park when they discovered just. how. seriously. we take roller coasters.

Being taken to Budapest for my birthday and learning that the first rule of wearing a hat in 34 degree heat is: keep the hat on until you can shower your hair back to normality.

Spending a day with my five oldest friends discussing everything – from the super grown up world of marriage, mortgages and babies, to the most immature game of GUESS WHAT XYZ FROM SCHOOL LOOKS LIKE NOW! – and managing to empty a pub with our endless guffawing.

Every single commission, recommission, published piece, and positive comment that confirmed that, writing wise, I’m in this for the long haul.

The three hour masterclass I went to on how to structure a novel. I don’t know if I’ve got what it takes, but at least I know how to find out.

Discovering that, in Italy, having a doughnut for breakfast is not just acceptable but encouraged.

A chocolate milkshake with Rachel. It was 50% catch up and 50% “Charlotte, don’t let this opportunity pass you by – I’m going to help you take it.”

Realising that one of my very favourite things to do when I’m alone is to play No Matter What by Boyzone and sing both Ronan and Stephen’s parts. And don’t pretend you’re not now off to do exactly the same thing.

The expression on Leon’s face when he came home to find I was making homemade burritos for tea.

Going to see Frankie Boyle, Bridget Christie, Stewart Lee, Hans Teeuwen and Luisa Omielan and feeling that special type of excitement that only comes from watching really, really good comedy.

A Wednesday night in November. Stepping onto the escalator at Waterloo and smiling because that evening with those two women just happened.

Every other time I walked away from a catch up thinking “I cannot wait to see that person again.”

When the cat that visits our garden came into the flat and sat on our sofa for the very first time and there was an entire five minutes when I didn’t think she hated me.

My younger brother standing on the platform at Leicester station and pointing through the train window at empty seats because he knew I was worried about having to stand all the way back to London.

All the days I managed to continue living my life despite having a migraine every week for six months. You don’t get to win, I do.

Christmas. Every second of it.

Feeling everything on my family’s priority list silently shift and Jack taking his place at the top.

Standing in the upstairs bedroom of what will hopefully be our new home and seeing our future waiting for us.

 

The unexpected bookmark

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Valentine's Day - The Unexpected BookmarkWhenever my mum comes to visit, we go to my local second hand bookshop so that she can rummage around in the hope of finding a Ruth Rendell or Barbara Vine novel that she hasn’t read.

It’s a trip I’m always very happy to make. I mean, it’s not like you could ever have too many books, is it?

During one such visit last year, I found a copy of The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini – a book I’d always meant to read but just hadn’t got round to yet. The man in the shop said it was a must-read so I bought it and took it home (and later discovered that he was absolutely right). Unfortunately mum went away empty handed – it can be hard to admit that you have indeed read everything that your favourite writer has written – but she had a very animated discussion with the owner about her love of psychological thrillers, so it wasn’t a wasted journey.

I hadn’t opened my book whilst in the shop – having purchased items from there before I didn’t feel the need to check that the pages were intact or that the cover wasn’t hiding a Mills & Boon romp – but when I did I found this card that must have belonged to the previous owner, slotted between the pages like a bookmark.

The Kite Runner - The Unexpected BookmarkIt was so lovely that I just couldn’t throw it away.

It reminded me that my mum used to send us Valentine’s cards when we were very small.

That my dad kept a box I made him out of cardboard with a note attached to it where I’d written ‘A box to put things in’ by his bed for years. (Even then it was clear that I was destined to be a writer).

That when it was our birthdays at school, my mum used to put a little note in our lunch boxes to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY despite having said it many times that morning.

That my grandpa sent me a letter when I was at university to inform me that the Amazon purchase I’d made on his behalf had arrived safely, detailing every step of the delivery like a short story, which I will keep forever.

Handwritten words carry a weight that no text message, email or WhatsApp could ever match. We’re all so busy these days so to know that somebody has taken the time to sit down, whip out a pen, and write a message just for you makes it all the more precious.

I wrote last year about how you shouldn’t wait until Valentine’s Day to say nice things to each other, and I stand by it. But if you want to use it as an opportunity to reiterate how special somebody is to you, well, why not. You don’t have to attach a balloon or a human sized box of chocolates to it, just some kind words to show you care. Or if you want to do it the next day or the next week, or whenever the mood takes you, go for it. You don’t need a card shop to tell you when to express your feelings. They are not the boss of you.

I have kept this card on my desk ever since I found it. The owner may well not have intended to lose it when they donated the book and if by some incredible chance they were to see this blog, I’d happily send it back to them.

Until then, it’ll stay safely in my box file, tucked between my magazines, notebooks and postcards, quietly reminding me that if you enjoy a book, you should pass it on, and of the sweetest bookmark I’ve ever seen.

10 things I have taught my husband (and 11 things he has taught me)

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10 things I have taught my husband

1. The phrase ‘Softly softly catchee monkey’. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there the first time a person hears these words, but it’s a very special moment.

2. That when I say ‘It would be great if you could…’ (tidy the kitchen/empty the washing machine/stop eating all the chocolate and then leaving the wrapper in the cupboard to trick me into believing that there’s some left) I mean – ‘I’m annoyed that you haven’t already…’

3. That although having somebody say that they love you in person is excellent, from time to time, I will need to see that in writing via a greetings card.

4. That what’s even more impressive than offering to load the dishwasher, is actually remembering to switch it on. *twitches*

5. That watching a woman put on tights is 100% less sexy than it first appears.

6. That house trousers – i.e. a pantalon so comfortable that you can eat a giant roast dinner and 200g of chocolate and still not feel a pinch at your waistline – are an essential belonging (and in no way a sign that you’ve stopped making an effort with your appearance).

7. That attempting to rouse a woman who has fallen asleep on the sofa late at night is a task undertaken at your own risk.

8. That going to the supermarket (or arranging for a suitable representative to deliver their produce to your door) is something that people who like eating food HAVE. TO. DO.

9. That washing a jumper that says ‘Hand-wash only’ on the label at 40 degrees comes with consequences (namely me making shite and frankly terrifying jokes for the next three months about how I’m going to keep the now tiny jumper to give to the daughter that we may one day co-produce. Though, to be fair, he has never made that mistake again.)

10. That despite my limited physical strength, I would fight anything and anyone who ever tries to hurt him (and if they happen to pop round when I’ve just had a nap then GOOD LUCK TO THEM).

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And 11 things he has taught me…

1. That you can grate cheese onto soup. What was my life before I knew this?

2. That the level of rage I experience when attempting to update my iPod makes me very difficult to be around.

3. That some people like to sit and let their food go down after dinner, rather than instantly tidying the entire kitchen – and that doing so does not mean that they do not ‘respect the value of living in a clean house’ but that they are full, tired, and will do it in a bit.

4. That there is no limit to the number of rugby highlights a person can enjoy. Like, not at ALL.

5. That really it would be better for both of us if I just went to bed when I was tired.

6. That he is willing to lie to me about how ‘truly’ frightening rides are at theme parks in order to persuade me to go on them (I imagine that the people who run the automatic camera on Oblivion at Alton Towers enjoyed the moment when I found this out).

7. That there is no more effective way to avoid an argument than simply refusing to join in and leaving the room.

8. ….and that following a person who does this around and sighing will not alter their decision.

9. That having an iPad means that I can watch Coronation Street in the bath. (It is possible that this lesson was 40% motivated by knowing I will enjoy my programmes in a warm setting, and 60% by the knowledge that it will free up the television for X-Box based activities).

10. That it is possible to look at a person and wonder how on earth there was ever a time when you didn’t know them.

11. And that I never want that time to come again.

Why you shouldn’t wait until Valentine’s Day to say nice things to each other

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Despite promoting many causes I support, such as flowers and greetings cards and heavy consumption of marshmallows cut into heart shapes, I’m not a massive fan of the big 14/02. I like my love a bit more subtle, a lot less red, and in no way communal.

It’s harmless of course, but also pretty unnecessary. For those without a significant other who would like their situation to be different, it’s just a big pink helium filled reminder that it isn’t. And for those in relationships, it means forced entry into the annual Who’s More Romantic Than Who competition with the winning prize being nothing more than a few likes on Facebook and a credit card bill the size of Rome.

I have written before about how much I rate anniversaries because of the multiple excuses they give you to tell people that you like/love/can tolerate them happily for bi-annual dinner dates, and I stand by that heartfelt sentiment.

But what’s important is that what you hear from your beloved on these ‘special occasions’ is in keeping with the tone of the rest of your lives. In my opinion, you should apply the same rules to Valentine’s Day, and all its relatives, as you do to work-based appraisals – by which I mean that there shouldn’t be any surprises (with the following obvious gift related exceptions: mini-breaks, puppies, food and booze goods and spa related relaxery. It’s a word.)

What you hear on Valentine’s Day or any similar festival should be merely the highlights of a year filled with niceness, perhaps just said over champagne or whilst wearing something velour. Don’t wait for Clinton’s Cards to announce that it’s Official Romance Day to tell your girlfriend that you’re mighty glad you met her, or to mention to your husband that despite his apparent inability to replace an empty toilet roll, you think he’s the best person in the world. Say it now – right now – it’s always a good time to hear that.

IMG_20150208_113306-1024x1024In my opinion, life and love are both just too damn short for fannying about. If you’re holding out for a big marketing occasion to unveil that – SURPRISE – you are capable of expressing your feelings, then I can’t help but feel that you’re doing it wrong. It’s also just not a cost effective way to do romance. If you need to be in the presence of champagne and oysters every time you say ‘I love you’ then you’re going to need to take a long hard look at your finances before signing up to anything long term.

If you just see Valentine’s Day as the perfect excuse to say the kind of lovely things you say every day in a slightly different font or with a velvet coated box of chocolates then why not, treat yourself. But if you’re holding out for Interflora to let you know that it’s the right moment to start letting your other half know that you care about them then let me save you some time – every moment is the right moment to do that, whether you’re standing in a heart shaped arch made of balloons or waiting for a bus in the rain.

Because the latter will probably happen more often, so why not put that time to good use.