Last Christmas

This is a post for Josie's writing workshop at Sleep is For the Weak. I chose prompt 4. Become the ghost of Christmas past – share a story from a childhood Christmas.

My Christmases past all seem to distill themselves into 1984. The year that Band Aid went to Christmas number one, Last Christmas by Wham came second, and I was fourteen. Maybe it is because these songs endured so well that I am so often transported back to that time during the Christmas season.

I had started a new school that year, and I bought my new friends a wall calender of the Band Aid group as a present. I had rushed to Woolworths to buy the single the minute it was pressed, and actually have a very early edition of it that lacks the group photo on the back. I watched the video again today to enhance the nostalgia, and instead of the warm fuzzy feeling I expected, instead I noted for the first time how few women were involved. If such an effort happened today it would surely have far more female artists. I was struck by how times have changed, and how long ago 1984 really was. On the other hand if it was made today many fewer of the men would be wearing full make up. Whatever happened to the concept of eyeliner for men becoming mainstream?

I forget now exactly when my sister and I were deemed old enough to attend midnight mass on Christmas eve, but I'm guessing that by 1984 we did. I was never a particularly religious kid, but I loved singing. My sister and I would get lightheaded trying to sing "Gloria in excelsis deo" without taking a breath, or attempting the soprano harmonies for the "sing choirs of Angels" verse of "oh come all ye faithful". Furthur into the decade we would hit the pubs before mass, no doubt enhancing our vocal skills.

Though old enough to have a little sip of baileys after mass in 1984, I was still young enough to hang up my stocking. When I say stocking I mean an actual sock. No custom made velvet sock shaped bags entered our home, Father Christmas stuffed gifts (always starting  with a satsuma orange deep in the toe) into a woolly 'over the knee sock'. Do you remember those impractical items? For some reason we were not allowed to wear tights with out school uniforms, so we wore long socks held up with an elastic band around the thigh, the chilled and blotchy upper portion of which was displayed between one's hitched up school skirt and the top of the sock. I hear parents today dispairing of their teen daughters clothing, but really parents, do you remember how we used to dress in the early 1980s? New clothes featured heavily in our Christmas gifts from our teen years onwards. I remember a soft jumbo corduroy pencil skirt in black that I wore with a fushia printed black jumper, and a pair of winkle picker toed black suede stilletos. Lovely!

My mum and dad still live in the home where we grew up, but since living in America these past fifteen (really, how can it be fifteen)? years I have been home for the season precisely once. It is a time of year when I wish that I could just pop back for the day. I would show my kids the remaining tree ornaments that have survived from my youth, the ones we would carefully unwrap with excitement year after year, arguing over who got to put the long, delicate pink one on the tree, while we played a mixed Christmas tape, recorded from the top 40. I'm wondering now if my mum's carefully made starfall decorations, the ones with threads of foil stars handing from a cane circle that hung from the light fixtures in colours that perfectly matched the purple, turquoise, silver, red and gold carpets we had back in the 1980s, are still around in any form. Bringing out these ornaments was the mark of the beginning of the season, they gave the house such a festive feel and we always felt so sad when the house was returned to its ordinary unsparkly form on January 6th.

Mum and dad's home contains the ghosts of so many wonderful Christmases past. One day I will take the whole family home to share my childhood memories with them. On Christmas morning (after breakfast of course) we will let Grandad lead the way into the closed living room. He will carefully open the door while the children gather behind. They will be so excited, trying to peak, just slightly worried that Father Christmas may have forgotten them this year, and just when they can barely contain their anticipation he will throw open the door and shout "he's been"!

A book that changed me

A post for the writing workshop at Sleep is for the weak.

Just before Josie, Sian and Eva announced that they were going to Bangladesh in order to share with their readers the plight of children there I had been reading "Half the Sky". A book by Sheryl Wu Dunn and her NY Times journalist husband, Nick Kristoff, it shows us that most women in the world face huge injustice and inequality. It challenges us to act to liberate women everywhere,  and suggests that only when women are truly free can the world progress to be a humane place for everyone.

It is not an easy book to read, but it is a very important one. As a feminist in a modern country I get into debates about whether women should work full time, about the right to give birth without unnecessary interventions, about maternity benefits or  the need for professional mentorship. This book made me realize that my problems are luxuries. I wasn't abandoned at birth because I was female. I don't have to worry that my husband will sell my daughter to a rich old man, my earnings belong to me and not to the senior male in family. I was not horrifically injured when I gave birth to my children. I can choose the size of my family, be it large or small, and I don't have a 1 in 7 chance of dying in childbirth like a woman in Afghanistan, Guinea, Sierra Leone or Somalia. My voice counts. This is not true for most women in the world. The meaning of feminism has changed for me since reading this book. It means trying in any small way I can to give every woman and girl the chance to determine her own destiny.

I decided to join a microloan organization that was mentioned in the book, Kiva. This is a way to lend money directly to individuals. Most of the applicants are women, who need small amounts of capital to start or support a business. What better way to help another woman become self sufficient than by using some of the money I am so fortunate to earn thanks to the excellent education and great opportunities I have had to support a woman owned business in a poorer part of the world?

I've always been a fan of Nick Kristoff's work. My newspaper often goes straight from the blue plastic back into the recycling bin, busy lives leave little reading time, but I always read his column. He goes to places no one else does and brings back stories that break your heart. He challenges his reader to relate to people whose lives are unimaginably different to our own, and he succeeds. He expouses getting out of your comfort zone, going to see the world and to help people. I feel just a little bit connected to him now too. You see I follow him on twitter, and I suddenly thought "Nick Kristoff would support Blogadesh" and I asked him to retweet a blogadesh link.  He did! (Thanks Mr Kristoff.)

In those 140 characters, I felt the power of social media. I don't have many followers, but he has 953,292. Maybe the internet can change the world for the better.

the first moment

I don't have words to describe it. But this week, the writing workshop and the Gallery have teamed up, so maybe I have a fighting chance of conveying to you the most emotional experience of my life.

You see I had started to fear that I was too old, that I had inadvertently made an accidental 'choice' not to have children.

You tried to join us a couple of times, but I couldn't hold onto you.

The third time, despite the big belly, clearly possessed with some kind of life form, despite my in depth reading and detailed preparation, I don't think I truly believed that it was going to happen, that I was going to become a mother.

Then you arrived.

Women become mothers every moment of every day. It is so profound but yet so ordinary. Then it happens to you. Every phrase used to describe it is a cliche. I feel comforted by that. A cliche lets you know that an experience that knocks you sideways, that scrambles and purifies your whole individual world has happened before, and has been happening over and over since time immemorial. The experience is not unique, it is shared.


a post for the writing workshop and the gallery

when the lights go down in the city

It was the light that sold our house to us. We climbed up the stairs behind the realtor into the hallway and were met with a softly glowing room. The last of the evening sun filled the elegant space, bringing out the honey tones of the original hardwood floors, and throwing relief onto the delicate deco plaster molding. It was inviting. Beautiful.  A light to be basked in. It felt like home. The big square bay windows framed the sun setting into the hills, and as the daylight faded to deep blue, the pinpricks of light from the houses and streetlamps of the neighbourhoods below took over the illumination, the light source inverting, minute by minute, from sky to ground.

The odd thing about this story is that I looked at this house, the house became our home, on my third date with Geekydaddy. A bit of a strange thing to do on a date, but he was house hunting so I tagged along. I didn't dare to dream, back on that day when I first stood in this lovely room, that it would one day be my home, and that this very promising boyfriend would be my husband.

It was the light that marked the passage of time during my labor with Geekyboy. Rocking through contractions in a glider chair, positioned so that I had a perfect panoramic view of the bay and bridges from the fifteenth floor of UCSF hospital, time passed and the sky slipped from azure to velvet. The beacon of the Alcatraz lighthouse swept the bay, its rhythm providing me focus. In my own world, time had a different meaning. I was surprised when night fell and the only light outside came from the houses, skyscrapers and stars. At the peak of labor, between the onslaught of contractions, I remember feeling at one with the city, amazed by my body, and so fortunate to be giving birth to a baby in this place I love so much.  Holding him on my chest just after he was born, gazing out at the glittering skyline, I whispered to him "welcome to San Francisco".

The UCSF hospital birth center has some of the best views in the world. I'd put money on it being the best view of any labour and deliver suite anywhere. If you live here it's almost worth having a baby just for the view.

This week the evening light is testing my patience. The kids sleep in that beautiful west facing room. The shape of the window means that one panel is uncurtained, so every last photon of the waning light seeps in. Bedtime has crept from seven thirty, to eight, to eight thirty. The children refuse to settle. I open the door upon hearing non sleeping sounds and they scuttle back into their beds in the way that reminds me of cockroaches in a stairwell vanishing into crevices when the lights are flicked. They have been awake almost until ten some evenings, and then of course they wake up bright and early only to grow cranky during the day due to lack of sleep.

There is nothing I love more than the view when day is turning to night, when the natural light is still holding on, but the city lights are starting to take over in prominence. Much as I hate to wish time away, I'm looking forward to when the nights start to draw in and darkness falls a little earlier.

A post for the writing workshop at 'sleep is for the week'. I chose "light".

proud and thankful

This is a post I have been mulling on since last week. Then I saw Josie's writing prompts and realized she had one that was just perfect for it.

She asked

5. Pick an emotion that best represents your state of mind right now and write creatively on that theme.
- Inspired by my musings on blogging and emotional authenticity last week.



Last week I got promoted. I'm delighted at the recognition, and inordinately pleased with the rather important title I now have. In the past four and a half years I have had two children, two maternity leaves (admittedly they were short American ones), and still, I been promoted twice in that time. I'm in a very different place professionally than I was four years years ago.  I'm proud of myself. This isn't something I usually let myself feel. Most of the time I feel as if I could be doing better, and that at any given moment I should be using my time differently. When that promotion was announced, and I was congratulated by my coworkers, I decided to allow myself to bask a little. I might even say it again. Louder. I AM PROUD OF MYSELF!

Sometimes it seems there are so many negative messages out there about combining working with motherhood. "You will be overlooked, treated differently, respected less because you have children" these voices say. Many women hear these rumblings and wonder "is it worth the effort, going back to work. It feels so hard".

I by no means mean to deny the very real difficulties we women face, but I wanted to speak up, nonetheless. I want to point out that I became more effective at my job after I became a mother. I am more competent, responsible and focused. Perhaps because working is, on some level, a choice now.  I am more mindful about how I use my time. I'm a better listener and a more thoughtful person. I suppose I finally grew up. I believe that I have grown more professionally over the last four years than I would have done had I not become a mother.

This pride in my seniority comes along with thankfulness. I'm thankful that my company noticed my performance. I have a fantastic boss, who sees ideas generated and work delivered, not the occasional day off or early departure for child related activities. I'm also thankful that the company took my recommendation to promote a talented young woman in my group, a woman who just came back from her maternity leave herself. It is great to work in an environment that treats parents well.

I'm grateful for our wonderful daycare. I could not be happy and productive at work if I wasn't completely satisfied that the children were happy. And I'm grateful to the kids themselves, they are fantastic, healthy kids who almost never need to stay home sick (now that I've mentioned this they will, no doubt, all come down with the lurgy in time for my important meeting next week, but they are unusually robust, and for that I'm grateful) Mainly though, I feel thankful for Geekydaddy, a man who fundementally believes that a woman and a man are equal when it comes to careers and home, and who shares in my career achievements, and supports me through the ups and downs. I often wonder how I got so lucky, and it was on my drive home from work, remembering our first dates, that I put my finger on it.

Back when I was a flighty young thing on the San Francisco scene I met lots of lovely men. I was usually dressed to impress, in a mixture of sale price designer clothes, vintage items, and a fair amount of exposed skin. I had my belly button pierced, and sported long blonde hair with a daring platinum streak. I attracted quite a bit of attention from the boys. Until they asked what I did. Men would fall over themselves backing away from the bar when they realized the cute blonde chick had a PhD in molecular biology. Or possibly I am completely paranoid and I just had spinach stuck in my teeth. It was surprising to me though, that in this day and age (well this was 1997) so many men were disinterested in a woman because she had more education then they did.

Then I met Geekydaddy. He loved the fact that I was a science geek, and thought that having a girfriend with a PhD was the coolest. In fact it was after I showed him my PhD thesis, a scenario analgous to "Would you like to come up and see my etchings?" that I first  revealed a little more of myself to him!

More than ten years on, he is still proud of me, and that is even better than feeling proud of myself.

A different life

There are many cool things to do in the blogosphere, but one of the funnest, and most challenging of them is the writing workshop posted each week by Josie, who is herself an incredible writer and who blogs at “sleep is for the weak”.










I've not attempted it before, but she had a prompt this week that had me drifting into a reverie of 'what might have been'  so I decided to write it down; for myself really. Apologies for the self indulgence!.

She asked “imagine a parallel universe where a version of you that made a different decision exists”.

This is my “sliding doors” moment. You see, though Geekymummy did quite well at school, and went to Imperial College in London to study Biochemistry, she didn't get the A levels results she needed to go to Veterinary school. Her alter ego Vetmummy was so set on a career as a vet that she decided to repeat the exams the following year, studied harder and got the A levels she needed to get into the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons. She is a 39 year old vet living on the outskirts of Cambridge with her engineer husband, her two kids, three cats, four dogs and three horses.

I woke up this morning to the sound of hooves on cobble and the satisfied snort of a horse going out for his morning constitutional. I twitched the curtains (floral horrors I keep meaning to replace) and waved down at Cecila, the sixteen year old who I regretfully employed to tend to our horses in the mornings after the kids came along, and I realized I didn't have time to do everything. I don't regret it now though. Cecila reminds me of myself at her age. Horse mad, but not lucky enough to have a pony of her own, she would do almost anything for a free ride. I do pay her for the work she does for us, I hasten to add, but I know that for her the money is secondary to the joy she gets from riding our horses. I love to see the pleasure she gets from interacting with them. The poor beasts (Conker, a ridiculously shiny bay Welsh Cob, Princess II, a dotty chestnut Arab, and Bunce the ungrateful rescued Shetland pony) were released from their pedestals in our lives after the kids came along, so they thrive on the adoration Cecilia gives them. Still, I'm looking forward to going for a ride this weekend, maybe my parents will care for the kids for a couple of hours so Vetdad and I can have a quick gallop though the fens.


The next sound is of my mum shouting "get out", and I cringe as I remember that the door to the guest room is broken again, so she probably woke up with at least one of our three bed hogging cats on top of her. She is allergic to cats, and can't stand having them on the bed. I mentally compose an apology and hope she remembered her inhaler. I sincerely hope that Jasper the German Shepherd mix with the delicate bowels hasn't exploded all over the the hallway again, that would really be a bad start to the day. (he came into our possession after I  removed a foot of intestine from him. A meal of his owners brand new car upholstery caused an obstruction, and after he recovered from surgery his owners decided they didn't want the destructive beast anymore)

Fridays are a work day for me. I do four full days a week at the clinic I co own. Fridays are also the day my mum comes to look after the kids. This week she and my dad arrived THursday night, and are staying until Saturday, for a Mothers day gathering with my sister and brother in law and their three girls, and my brother and his wife and baby.  With Mum and Dad both here this morning Vetdad and I have plenty of assistance getting the kids ready for preschool and getting ourselves ready for our bike commutes, mine a short ride to the surgery and Vetdaddy's a more ambitious cycle to the gleaming office park outside Cambridge where his high tech start up company is located.

Today I'm performing a couple of TPLO surgeries, a challenging procedure to rebuild a dog's knee after a ligament injury. I've specialized in orthopedics since I spent a sabbatical in California 12 years ago. Whenever I perform the surgery I'm reminded of the night I met my husband.  A ski trip from the vet school ended in "the nawty dawg' a dog themed Tahoe City bar (where else would a bunch of vet students go?!) where the drinks were served in dog bowls. I glimpsed a raucous, handsome, sandy haired man, his shaggy hair and wide laugh made him seem part bloke, part golden retriever, and our eyes  locked as we slurped Margaritas through straws in a paw printed plastic bowl. The rest, as they say, is history.


I'm finding myself drawn more and more to the calm, emotion free environment of the operating theater these days. The emotional aspect of Veterinary medicine, the hard decisions and the impact they have on the humans involved are almost too draining for me now. My family takes almost all of the emotional energy I have, and I worry that I am not giving as much to my clients as I should.


But today I have mum and dad here to help carry some of the parenting demands. I call on the way home, Grandma has everything  under control, and my dad has slipped out to the Bell and Bear, he is almost like a local here, showing up every other Friday or so, and has a coterie of geezer friends who he likes to catch up with when he is in town. The bar is on my way home, so I lock my bike on a lamppost outside and pop in, to find he and Vetdad both propping up the bar. When I decided to go to vet college my dad was a little disappointed that I didn't chose something more cerebral, but he has long since realized that this work is my passion and I think I he quite enjoys the constant stream of animals that pass through the house. He has one of the menagerie with him at the bar, Muffin, our three legged border collie, who whirls to greet me with muddy paws and delighted dog kisses.


A swift half later, we barrel through the door, to find the kids bantering with their Grandma and eating their favourite dinner, Grandma's chicken stew. My mum looks tired, I'm so grateful that she is prepared to take on the task of a full days care of these demanding little people, and the relationship they have with their beloved Grandma makes it worth all her efforts. She shows me a story she, Vetgirl and Vetboy wrote and illustrated today, and we all swell with pride over the children. 

Our idyllic family teatime is interrupted by a splutter from Vetgirl "Mama I have hairdog" she says, pulling something long and fluffy from her mouthful of stew. I catch the look of disguised horror on my Mum's face. I'm not sure whether it is the malapropism (encouraged by me from an early age since I find it amusing), or the fact that there is animal hair in the food yet again; dog, horse, cat, other exotic beasts from the surgery, the house rolls with hairy tumbleweeds even just after a good cleaning.  I barely notice it any more.  This warm and cluttered family home with its human equine, canine and feline members is what I always dreamed of. It is worth putting up with a little hair in the food.


Disclaimer: This post is completely fictional, apart from the description of the 'nawty dawg' bar in Tahoe city. That is a real place, sadly no longer open for business.

What would your alternate life be?