How To Talk To Ageing Parents About Retirement Living & Care

Talking to your parents about how they wish to live and be cared for during their retirement is vital.

You understandably want to respect their wishes and make the later years in their lives as comfortable as possible. But that doesn’t mean that this is an easy conversation to have.

Some parents may not like the role reversal and some children may find it upsetting to talk about.

While it may be difficult, it’s essential that you take the time to do it now rather than later. To give you some much-needed advice, use the suggestions in this guide to help you.

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Be patient and understanding 

The best way of starting a conversation as important as this is by being honest.

Let your parents know that you are concerned about their health and well-being and want to help them get organised.

You may find they have made some initial plans or know how they want to be cared for or where they want to live. But you may also find that they are not currently willing to discuss it.

Be patient and don’t be too forceful. Remember that this is a sensitive issue for them too.

But now that you have set the ball rolling, it may make them realise they need to make necessary preparations. So don’t give up, but be gentle and understanding in your approach.

Know where their important documents are kept

Another way of starting the conversation is by asking where their documentation is kept. This should include wills, insurance details and their doctor’s contact number.

Explain that it’s important for you to know where they are kept, just in case they are in an accident or become ill.

This can give you the perfect opportunity to determine what has been arranged and what hasn’t.

For instance, you may find that your parent’s wills are no longer relevant and need to be updated. You can then suggest helping them get everything up to date and prepared.

This should then naturally start the discussion of how they want to spend their later years.

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Talk through their options 

Some elderly parents may not want to talk about retirement living and care because they don’t know what options are available to them. So visit informative sites like Churchill Retirement and show them the facilities and homes that are available. 

Or you could call care providers who could visit them at home each day or organise a consultation face to face. 

Gather plenty of information and talk through all of the options with them. They will appreciate the trouble you have gone to and the research will help them make a more informed decision. 

Ask them what they would like and listen carefully to their answers. Even if it’s not the answer you want to here, again remember to be patient. 

Whether it’s health issues, financial concerns or living needs, it’s always better to talk while your parents are still able. 

That way you can help them make the necessary arrangements that will make their lives easier and more enjoyable as they get older.

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Over 40? - Do You REALLY Need To Be Told Which Hairstyle to Have?

It's weird, isn't it that when you reach a certain age you are deemed incapable of choosing make-up and applying it or selecting the hairstyle that suits you best.

It's Your Hair - Do Your Own Thing!

To be frank, I'm a little tired of the "Fab Haircuts For The Over 40's" articles, or the "How To Apply Make-up without looking like Dracula's Grandmother" type pieces.

Obviously our skin and hair has changed but we know that.  Unless you've been wearing a potato sack over your head for the last ten years, you've probably been tracking every wrinkle, blemish and age spot.

So why is it that younger women and the media are quite happy to lecture us on what we should look like when we were the ones who came up with many of the trends that are still around today?

Time after time we see the old beauty tips and tricks recycled and presented in the slightly breathless tone so beloved of the few women's print magazines still left in circulation.

I find it somewhat amusing that the 'new' make-up techniques such as baking actually originated in the Drag Community many years ago.

Which probably explains some of the sights I've seen on YouTube.

And then there's the mystery of the 'duck face' selfie.

Any picture containing several teens / twenty-somethings tends to resemble a row of ducks at a funfair gallery.

I dread to think what the photos accompanying CVs look like.  How can you possibly look like a potential credible addition to a business when you look like you should be sucking a lollipop and wearing ankle socks?

See the joy of being that, shall we say, little bit older is that you can wear what you want and the World can go whistle.

But then there's the "women over a certain age are invisible" crew.

Do we really vanish once we hit 40?  Or do we subconsciously decide to retire from the spotlight?

I'm not suggesting you need a truck load of fillers, eyebrows like landing strips and a day-glo tan to fit in but if you want to make the effort - great.

If you don't, also great.

What you don't need to do is absent yourself from all the things that once gave you pleasure on the basis that you have hit a certain chronological age.

The truth is many are uncomfortable with ageing (me included) and don't know how to treat us.

We are a walking reminder of what is coming (should they be so priviliged to enjoy a long life) so there is the mocking, the teasing, the gentle gibes, the discounting and the all-out ignoring.

The Daily Mail in particular loves its articles about women who have the temerity to still want to compete and who invest in beauty treatments to rival younger women.

"Look at her" crows the Mail, "She thinks she looks half her age".

I doubt she does.  But I wish some of these ladies would understand that maturity has its own kind of sexiness, its own power that we should not give away by lessening the beauty we have today.

We need to strive to look comfortable in our own skin - bien dans sa peau - as the French would say.

And then we can wear what we like and it will not matter in the slightest. Because we won't care.

As Eleanor Roosevelt said "No-one can make you feel inferior without your consent".

That's the reminder many of us truly need.

Not another article on hairstyles.

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Have You Got The Welcome Mat Out For Anxiety?

It dawned on me the other day that the reason for my (comparative) inertia when it comes to grabbing the bull by the horns (or indeed any other colloquialism for getting off your backside and acting), is that I have probably been suffering from anxiety for most of my life.

I carry a vague sense of unease around with me most of the time.  I've even given it a name - "The Fear".  It is a shapeless, amorphous blob which lurks behind doors and curtains and casts a shadow on the gloomiest day.

I could write a list of things that could have triggered it.  But, you know, nobody lives to the age of 50 without having had something unpleasant happen to them, a loss, a scare, a disappointment.  That is, to quote one of my mother's more annoying truisms, "all part of life's rich pattern".

I carry "The Fear" around with me most of the time and it makes itself known in strange symptoms like my "glasses thing" (or OCD), my inability to leave fluff on the carpet (whilst being completely able to ignore dusting), my requirement for absolute darkness and silence at night.

Anyone who leaves the empty cardboard tube from the toilet roll on the floor of the toilet feels my wrath.  I cannot bear wet towels on beds, shoes on in the house, toothpaste lids left off.

It's all about control.

And, more specifically, controlling "The Fear".

Lots of us, of course, would medicate it away somehow.  Or read endless self-help tomes ("When I loved myself enough to knit my own yoghurt").  Or seek therapy. (And how does that make you feel? Well, crap, actually).

I'm not entirely convinced acknowledging "The Fear" helps.

We are all battling the human condition and (to quote mum again), we all have our cross to bear.

There's one of those motivational postcards I often see on Facebook which says something like "be kind because everyone is fighting a battle we know nothing about".

I suspect that is entirely true.

Which means, some of us have developed more effective strategies for dealing with "The Fear".

Or are we so far in denial we think we can get to Narnia through the wardrobe.  (You can't, I've tried).

Perhaps this is why there are so many videos of cats doing, well, cat things.

I love that quote about cats by the French Renaissance write Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592) who said:

"Quand je me joue à ma chatte, qui sçait si elle passe son temps de moy plus que je ne fay d'elle?

(When I play with my cat, who knows if I am not a pastime to her more than she is to me?)

Cats really don't, to use the vernacular, give a stuff.  They do what they want and bugger the consequences.  In fact, most cats would sniff, scag your tights with their claws and then say"what consequences" whilst yawning.

Montaigne also said "There is no passion so contagious as that of fear" and "The thing I fear most is fear".

And that's the thing about anxiety too.  You get anxious about whether you're anxious.  And then you are.

I often theorise that lots of 'odd' behaviours are simply displacement activities to avoid looking within and admitting that you are anxious.

Lots of us simply hide away.  Or leave parties early.  Or 'forget' to turn up at all.  That old saying about "always finding me in the kitchen at parties" is a neat metaphor for social anxiety.

You'll always spot the anxious at children's parties because they'll be the ones clearing up the remnants of sausage rolls and half eaten pizza armed with black bags and an air of determination not seen since the Blitz.

The anxious will always give themselves away by hating things that everyone else likes - just in case they have to join in. Christmas?  Too commercial.  Ditto Valentines Day.  Any major sporting tournament, big event in the social calendar, spontaneous knees-up.... "I can't be bothered with all that", they'll say.  " All that fuss and unnecessary expense".

Hell would be joining the Parent Teachers Association.  Or being invited up on stage during a live show.  (I'm seeing Derren Brown in April so fingers' crossed he doesn't spot me!).

We anxious ones always stand apart like statues.  We avoid eye contact.  If someone speaks to us, sometimes it's so surprising we actually jump.

At conferences we anxious avoid eye contact.  We take urgent phone calls.  We write notes.

We anxious ones like to end even the most terse email or text with a row of kisses.  "I hate you, you bastard" xxxx

The thought of upsetting someone and having to deal with the consequences is always far scarier than standing up for ourselves, claiming what's ours, demanding to count.

It's a shame there's no secret handshake to announce you are suffering from "The Fear".

Social Media is very fond of urging you to find your "tribe".

My tribe would be named (and this is one of my dad's favourite jokes), the "Elawi".  Ask them where they are and they say "we're the Elawi" (where the hell are we)?  

Since I've had "The Fear" for well over 40 years, I guess I had better get used to it.

And as a parent, the last thing I want to do is pass it on to the kids.

Kids have superheroes to help them synthesize their fear, to give them role models for, to quote Percy in Blackadder "putting ice cubes down the vest of fear".

Perhaps in later life we just need to say "sod it - The Fear is part of me.  It is who I am".  Perhaps acknowledging the intruder will take away a little of the horrid antsy, unsettled feeling. Perhaps after all we just need to put the welcome mat out for anxiety and some days, just some days, it may go and visit someone else for a change.

The late Helen Gurley Brown said that when she was upset she would lie on her sofa with her cat and talk it out, a bit like a court hearing.  I did this, he said that and so forth.  She would do this until she felt better.

I think I want to get another cat.

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On Waiting For An Ambulance

Yesterday.  Early morning and Dad is on the phone.

I think your Mum has had a stroke he says.

I throw on my clothes and race round to their house, a few lucky minutes away.

It is 9:30 am. An ambulance has been called for.

My lovely mum, Kay

Mum suffers from a condition called Temporal Lobe Epilepsy and, occasionally she has a major fit which ends up with her being hospitalised so that she can get the right medication.

This time she looks much worse than usual.  She is lying in bed, eyes wide open, just staring at the ceiling.

I caress her hair and say "Hi Mum" but she doesn't respond.

"Dad," I say, "If this is a stroke, perhaps you should give them a call again?"

When our parents are elderly and we are not spring chickens ourselves, it is especially difficult to remain tactful whilst ensuring that the best outcome is reached for everyone.

Every word is monitored.  Each expression goes through a kind of internal quality control whilst we ourselves are fighting to quell our own panic.

The minutiae of life seem suddenly massive.  That cup of tea, clearing away the breakfast things, packing the bag for hospital.

Nothing can be found.  Nothing is in its right place.  Dad can't remember where he's put his glasses, his watch, the phone.

And despite this rushing around to find stuff, time seems to slow right down.

The waiting.  The interminable waiting.

We circle around each other, checking Mum every few minutes or so.  Her eyes won't close.  Her breathing is laboured.

We phone again and are given a set of questions and tasks to complete to check Mum's responses. She does not seem to be able to see but she can clearly hear and grip our hands.

At the end of the call we are asked to listen to a recorded set of instructions which seems to be never-ending.  Don't move the patient if they have fallen.  Watch the patient to make sure their condition does not deteriorate.  And on and on.

I don't want to listen to the recording.  I want Mum to be with someone who can actually DO something to help her.

There is nothing we can do to make her more comfortable.

I make more tea.

The ambulance service says an ambulance is 'on the way' but no they cannot give us a time frame - despite the fact that I thought they still have set response time targets to meet.  It is, they tell us, a very busy morning for the ambulance service in the Cardiff area.

Dad takes his tablets.  I phone the Husband to update him.

The front door is open so that the crew can come straight in.

I ponder that I wish I had some sort of medical training.  You feel so useless, don't you?

And I watch Dad, who has been married to Mum for 53 years fighting his fear of a separation which will be truly crushing.

Then there's the 'debate' about telling my sister.

Dad is torn about whether to tell her and worry her.  Worried that she will get in her car and race down from the North too fast.

I tell him that he must tell her or she would never forgive him.

"I'll tell her when we're in hospital" he says.

The thing about being a long-term carer as Dad is, is that it is such hard work only total control of each and every detail of daily life makes it bearable.

Carers must walk the knife edge of copable-with and all-out-emergency and pray that today everything will be OK and that the next brush with trouble is weeks away.

Mum has had her condition since 1984 and Dad has spent the last 32 years learning about her condition, coping with it and caring for her.

There is no let up.  It's a 24/7 job.  There are no obvious triggers, apart from stressful situations but, in a world which reduces daily to enable them both to cope, the smallest things can be deemed a stressful situation - going out to lunch,  family problems, even a tiny disagreement.

After two and a half hours the ambulance turns up.  Mum is taken to hospital.  Dad goes with her.

She is in safe hands.

We cannot be cross at the ambulance crew who are doing the best they can.

We do wonder about the pressure the NHS in Wales is under.

Mum spent the next 7 hours in a bed in A&E.  They had no pillows.  A pillow in A&E is "like gold-dust" Dad was told.

She is later moved to an Assessment Unit which is pleasant and clean.  The staff are kind and smiling.

I go back home to see the Husband and the kids, who I hug a little bit tighter.

They want to know what has happened to Nain and whether Taid is OK.

"I don't understand it", Ieuan says, "Nain was fine when we were there on Monday".

And that's the thing for those of us caring for elderly parents.  All our lives can change out of the blue.

That's why I like to make the most of Christmas and any special family occasion.

Mum is now safely back at home, having been discharged just over 24 hours later.

We are thanking our lucky stars and so relieved to have her home.

But, with that long wait for the ambulance, it's just as well that it wasn't a stroke because the outcome could well have been one I really don't want to think about.

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All Alone In The World - The Husband's Off To Sales Week

So it's the company 'sales week' for the Husband and he has jetted off to Canada to discuss all things IT and look at snow.

This means I am left home alone - with the exception of Caitlin and Ieuan - to deal with any DIY disasters and to practise my cooking with the kids as guinea pigs.

I am, as Caitlin used to say as a toddler (and we've no idea why) - "I'm all alone in the world".

It is an annual ritual which I both dread and look forward to in equal measure because somehow it seems to mark the true start of the Hobbis family year.

This is, like most of the stuff I worry about, completely illogical, as the Husband is frequently away for four or five days in various parts of the year.  What I think makes this week different is that it includes the weekend.

Weekends without him seem endless, not least because I'm not too good at wresting, light sabre fighting and crafting.

Currently Storm Imogen is in full force and I am listening to the wind battering our extension roof.

The Husband has been gone less than an hour and there is already some strange cable hanging off the roof which I have inspected but which doesn't seem to be live or connected to anything in particular.

The roof is also leaking in the kitchen and I can see a couple of the suspended ceiling tiles previously stained with damp getting darker where the rain is coming in.

Add to the list a boiler which likes to cut out when its pressure drops and a smoke alarm given to going off in the complete absence of any smoke, and you can see why I might be feeling a little nervy.

I also hate being without the Husband now at nights.  I don't feel completely safe.  The sound of creaking floorboards is magnified.  In fact every sound is magnified.

And the kids frequently choose the Husband's absence to develop a new lurgy or, in Ieuan's case, to start his full blast night-time shouting.

I know it's not particularly feminist to make these sorts of admissions.  Truth be told, since I gave up work Mat and I have fallen into pretty traditional parenting roles and they work for us.

I often think of those whose partners are in the Military or have to work really long stretches away. Our kids miss their dad terribly after just a few days.  What must it be like after months?

I suppose you adapt.

As usual, you've just got to get on with it really, haven't you?

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My Favourite Posts Of 2015

JANUARY

I started off January in my typically upbeat fashion, bemoaning the plunging of the village back into un-fairy-lit darkness and, rereading the post, I can cheerfully (!) say that things are exactly the same this year.  Greyness?  Check.  Incomprehensible travel company TV adverts?  Check.  Celebrity Big Brother?  Check.  New Year's Resolutions already bitten the dust?  Check. Oh well. At least we know where we all are.

It's January - Rage, Rage Against The Dying Of The Fairy Lights

The Hobbis Family Christmas Tree 2014

FEBRUARY

In February, the four of us got crafty with the lovely people at Brecon Carreg and learned how to re-use water bottles in some fun craft projects.  Welcome to the World the rather terrifying Stewart the Robot and yet another Caitlin-inspired puppy called Lucy.

Water Way To Spend A Day With Brecon Carreg

Ieuan at the Brecon Carreg craft day

MARCH

In March I shared what it's really like to have your babies over the age of 40.  Would I change anything?  No.  I would have had them 10 years earlier if I could have, but life's not like that, is it?

Having Babies After 40.  My Experience

Caitlin - born in 2007

APRIL

On a lovely warm April afternoon we went exploring to one of our favourite places,  Dyffryn Gardens in the Vale of Glamorgan. We are lucky to be surrounded by so many beautiful places to visit in South Wales.

Our Visit To Dyffryn Gardens

MAY

In May I decided to share a little more about the family.

A Bit About The Hobbis Family

JUNE

In June my thoughts turned to the knotty issues surrounding female friendship and why, sometimes, our friendships can just die a death without a word being spoken.

Ever Dumped A Friend Because You Didn't Feel Their Equal?

JULY

And in July I pondered on the fact that so many of us mums give ourselves a hard time once the long summer school holiday hits when, in reality, we're all coping the best we can.

Mums - Struggling With The School Holidays Already?  Here's Why You're Doing Fine

AUGUST

In August we went exploring again and discovered a fabulous castle right on our doorstep at Caerphilly.

We Packed Our Imagination - And Went To Caerphilly Castle

SEPTEMBER

The kids increasing love of iPads drove me to question whether technology is a force for good or evil in the family!

Technology - Does It Bring Families Together Or Push Them Apart?

OCTOBER

The 21st October was "Back To The Future Day", the day when Marty and Doc arrived in a future replete with every sci-fi gadget humankind could conceive.  Actually, they did get one or two things right but I contend that you can change your future in an instant, just by changing the way you think.

You Don't Have To Go Back To The Future To Change Your Life Today

NOVEMBER

I always perk up at this time of year because I absolutely adore the run-up to Christmas, the lights, the shopping, the menu planning, the decorations - everything.  I also find people are generally nicer, happier and more approachable.  People you haven't spoken to all year get in touch.  There's a magic in the air.

Because there's so much to do though,  I spend a lot of time writing lists.  My memory is not what it was!

Think You're Forgetful?  I Took My Son To Start Nursery A Week Early

DECEMBER

In December I wanted to remind everyone that we can make all our lives better if we would only concentrate on the habitual stories we tell ourselves - and write some new ones.  It is often not helpful to cast yourself in the role of villain or victim.

Want 2016 To Be Your Year?  Tell Yourself A Better Story

So there you have it, 12 of my favourite posts.  I hope you'll stick around for 2016 and I'd love to know what you think about my writing.

I wish all of you a happy and healthy 2016.

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Think You're Forgetful? I Took My Son To Start Nursery A Week Early

I was born a week early. According to my mother, anyway, whose memories of my induced birth, due to sky high blood pressure are sketchy to say the least.

Ieuan

I've been early for things ever since. Meetings, conferences, seminars, exhibitions, theatre performances, I've been early for them all. I have spent countless hours sat in lobbies looking at dreadful carpet, listening to the sort of piped music that makes you yearn for death. I have shelled out hundreds for unnecessary coffees and Danish. I have read acres of dull newsprint and flimsy celebrity magazines.

Whether this is a strange streak of perfectionism (Freud would use a less polite word) or an inherent love of organisation is debatable.

When I was still working, I prided myself on my multitasking and organising skills. I'd arrange numerous events, write and proof-read numerous newsletters and maintain databases without any problem.

In Law, as in any other field, time is money and each unit of time is measured and, if you're a lawyer, billed.

Since I gave up work to have my children (July 2007), it appears all these skills have gone out of the window. Now that 'deadlines' and 'targets' have been removed, I seem to have lost all impetus and the smallest task takes on a Herculean perspective.

You might have thought that with something as important (to me at any rate) as my son's first day at nursery I would, in true helicopter mummy fashion, be there on time, in a non-stained dress with infant duly spruced and perky.

Unfortunately I am mortified to report that, although these 'critical success factors' were partly met, today I took my son to start nursery a WEEK early.

Admittedly I am not 'without form' in the area of the curricular cock-up, having missed a dressing up day and book fair. It doesn't help, I know, that my Parentmail email address is the one I don't really use and I am not really in the 'mummy gang' who congregate there serenely each morning while we bomb up breathless and dishevelled.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Ieuan hadn't practically run in to start playing without so much as a backwards glance. The staff probably think I have some form of dementia or that I drink. The correct date for Ieuan's induction was, it turned out, written at the back of an information leaflet I hadn't fully read. (Why at the blummin' back?!).

So I had to drag him screaming his head off OUT of the school and march back home.

Hubby of course was his usual sanguine self. "Hmm", he said "I should probably have read the leaflet too". My worries about Ieuan now being psychologically scarred were duly dismissed. "He's fine about it", said Hubby, "why aren't you"? Um.... because after 20 years of organisation and method I'm becoming scattier than ... I can't remember what!

So, roll on next week's induction. At least we had a dummy run. A dummy mummy run!

Thanks for reading Mother Distracted.  I really appreciate your support and I'd love it if you could share this post across social media. If you’re new to Mother Distracted, why not join me on the Mother Distracted Facebook page, tweet me on @lindahobbis or follow me on Instagram. 

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Over 40s Mums - Too Busy To Work On Your Look?

Every Sunday morning when I was single and before the kids came along, I would spend the time pampering and preening.  Eyebrows were plucked, legs shaved, even a face mask applied.  In those days baths were leisurely and bubbly.  Nails were painted in different shades a couple of times a week and I would think nothing of applying a full face of make-up just to go to the shops.  Good self care was just part of my weekly routine.

Now that I am in my 50s and balancing the challenges of self-employment with caring for two energetic bundles of mischief (the Husband claims to be "self maintaining" out of protest for my lack of cooking skills), having a regular beauty routine should be even more important.

If only I had the time!

Actually, that's not entirely true.  It isn't always the lack of time that stops us over 40 mums from caring for ourselves.  No, I think it's that our priorities have changed.  And many of us are more confident in our own skin and don't feel the need to camouflage what we have thought of as our imperfections.  Now we are more accepting - even if we are aware of the changes in our bodies - the odd grey hair here and there, the odd patch of dry skin, the slight weight gain that comes with the approaching menopause.

We look at some of the fabulous over 40s celebrities with their chutzpah and verve like Dame Helen Mirren, Kim Cattrall, Sharon Stone, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Julianne Moore and, with the wisdom of age, rather than judging them, we learn from them.  We look at how they present themselves, the way they style their hair and their wardrobe choices.

But these ladies work hard on their appearance, self-acceptance notwithstanding! It's less of "take me as I am" and more of "take me at my very best".

There are so many fabulous beauty products on the market that there is, in truth, little excuse for not making the best of yourself.   When I do manage to sneak in a few minutes in the bathroom for some pre-school-run preening, I will apply a tinted BB cream (Garnier make a good one), some black mascara (currently I love Benefit's They're Real) and a tinted lip balm such as Carmex.  Just enough to get rid of the early morning zombie look if one of the kids has been up in the night.

I know more organised ladies keep a make-up bag with essentials to hand - and some even keep a duplicate set in their car - how organised is that?

I also find that reading beauty blogs is a great way to keep up to date with current products and application techniques.  Some of these girls and boys are good and have make-up tutorials which show you how to create the latest looks step-by-step.  Don't be put off by the fact that many of them are much younger - you can honestly learn a lot.  Don't be afraid to tweet or send them a Facebook message either because many beauty bloggers are happy to give their advice on products, colours and application techniques.

Another good place to learn about the latest colours and techniques is the local beauty department in your local department stores.  It is often possible to be shown a "5 minute look" or for the assistant to test make-up colours on your skin.  Yes, you may feel obliged to buy but you don't have to - just say that you will ask a close friend for their opinion and pop back later.

There's a great deal of truth in the old maxim that "if you look good, you feel good" so I think we midlife mamas should make sure we demand our fair share of "bathroom time" and treat ourselves to a new lipstick occasionally.

If you have daughters, I think it's important to be a good role model for them and to teach them that it is enjoyable to be a woman - no matter what your age.  If they always see you make-up free and with your hair scraped back in the infamous "mum bun", they may not be inspired to make the best of themselves!  My daughter is 8 in November but she always notices when I am wearing make-up.

I think the key is balance.  A healthy acceptance of the face and figure you have now, coupled with the confidence to wear the clothes and make-up right for you is key - as is diarising the time (if that's what it takes!) to make sure you look your best.

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8 Lies I'll Tell Myself This Autumn

Now that the kids are back in school, leaves are turning brown and the air has that lovely crispness about it which heralds the onset of the kind of weather in which you can legitimately cover yourself in faux fur and stop worrying about shaving your legs,  I find myself making many promises which rarely come to fruition.

I say promises.  Actually I mean blatant fibs. But the intention is there. Readers, I give to you the 8 lies of autumn.

1.  I will cook something featured in The Great British Bake-Off

Excited by all that artistry, the creation of statues out of dough and cakes so large you could wedge a barn door open with one,  I consult my wall of cookery books, find my flour is inhabited and my eggs don't float at the right angle (I've read up on egg freshness you know) and then ponder whether I am brave enough to turn the K-Mix on.  Yes I actually have a K-Mix but I'm a bit scared of it.

Generally, this is so stressful an experience, I put the whole thing safely in the hands of Mr Kipling and mutter about baking a Christmas cake this year.  (See lie 4).

2.  I will not watch X Factor or Strictly Come Dancing but will read a book instead.

The Husband and I have the same conversation each year along the lines that both programmes have 'gone downhill', we don't know any of the 'celebrities' on them and we should just turn the damn TV off and chat or read.  Obviously this means will end up watching one or the other (or if the Husband is not around, possibly a combination of both).  Who can resist Simon being mean? Or having a bet on how long it will take before Mrs O starts throwing water?  And the dresses on Strictly.  I love the dresses.

3.  I will not leave all the Halloween pumpkin carving to the Husband

I am the proud possessor of Martha Stewart's guide to Halloween - which is one of my favourite celebrations.  In it, she gives templates for carving 4 ft high witches and cats out of balsa wood and her home (mansion) is a fantastic concoction of spiders, webs, potions and cute themed cupcakes. There is, let me tell you, emphatically nothing produced by Cadburys.  Her fancy dress costumes would not look out of place in a Hammer Horror film.

In reality, this means that the Husband and I argue about whether 3 pumpkins is overdoing it a bit and then I leave him to assert his masculinity by carving them out in the cold in the garden.  After a bad tempered trip to ASDA where we are usually too late to get the kids' choice of costume, I then spend two hours putting our Halloween decorations up indoors. This means getting out Mr Bones (our full sized plastic skeleton) and making sure there are spiders webs in all the corners.

I am sure that this really irritates the real spiders who live in all the corners but it's company for them, isn't it?

4.  I will make a Christmas cake.

Now, admittedly, baking a fruit cake is not too difficult but by the time you tally up the cost of all that dried fruit, marzipan, icing and a decent whisky to 'feed' the cake (and fortify the cook), you may as well buy one of M&S' finest creations and stick a Santa ornament on the top.  Plus, nobody in our house will actually admit to liking Christmas cake except me.  Strangely it usually all gets eaten, even if the kids just pull the icing off.  I may just be better off buying a packet of ready roll icing and sticking a toy reindeer on it.  Sorted.

5.  I will keep up with my exercise routine.

Well, I would, if I actually had one, apart from my weekly Pilates.  I have visions of jogging through darkened streets lit by twinkly fairy lights with my breath frosting into the cold air.  This would be great if I could cantilever myself away from The X Factor. Or jogged.

6.  We will invite people round for mulled wine and mince pies.

I could eat mince pies every day but mulled wine on the other hand can be just plain lethal.  I had a spectacular fall from grace the Christmas before last after consuming too much and having to stay in bed for the whole of the next day.  The Husband was left to "babysit" (sorry, I meant parent) which as every mother knows means the appearance of far too many crisps and jam sandwiches and a sink full of dishes.  God knows what he fed the kids.

After much consideration about who to invite and whether guests tanked up on mulled wine would be quiet enough not to wake the kids, we usually decide to go up the pub (our village has 3) instead. Mulled wine is usually restricted to a dose in a plastic cup served by The Conservatives at our village's irrepressibly twee "Dickensian Fayre".  Jenna Coleman would not be all that impressed.

7.  We will make autumn collages from the leaves and berries we find on our walks.

We do venture out to Cosmeston, our local nature reserve and through our local woodland but apart from the kids trying to wound each other by using pine cones as missiles, we never seem to get into the whole 'nature as art' thing.  You won't get me to make a collage using anything found where they've been walking dogs for a start.

And I'm always a bit suspicious about blackberrying near the road (all those fumes and the risk of being run over).

I once made Sloe Gin after a sloe picking episode with my dad.  A word to the wise.  Do NOT try to pick sloes at twilight because you can't see the little swines.

8.  I will get all the Christmas shopping done by 1 December.

I promise myself this every year and it never works because I'm never sure how much is 'enough' and I have to make sure each child receives EXACTLY the same or there's war.  And if that wasn't difficult enough, coming up with a natty and exciting combination of stocking fillers each year is even worse than deciding on the 'main present'.

By the time the Husband and I get round to thinking about each other we normally agree we don't need anything at all and then pick a couple of books from Amazon.  Mine are usually cookery books (Lord knows why) or something from the self-help genre along the lines of "20 things I would tell myself if I loved myself enough, even though I can't really be arsed".

I love this time of year.  I really do.  I think I'm going to see if the flour's weevil free and de-rust my cake tins. It's OK to use WD40 on them, isn't it?

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Family Values? They're All Relative.

I love a bit of nostalgia.  I love home-made and vintage.  Tea-cup candles scented with hyacinth, retro postcards and photographs from the '30s and '40s.  I love the traditional image of family - the Sunday lunch with its roasted chicken and apple pie goodness.  Ah, memories laced with brown sugar and cinnamon and lashings of custard.

My family is small and, I suppose, quite traditional.  My parents met and married in their twenties. My mum had me when she was 25 and my sister at 28.  My father was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy and my mum worked in the local library - a job which she gave up to be a stay at home mum.  

Step forward 50 years and that concept of a family as 2.4 children, a working father and a stay at home mum is antiquated - a cliché straight out of 1970's sit-coms.  I think, if we're honest, there are many who miss the kind of stability this seemed to offer society.  I can remember once discussing divorce with my mother (not my divorce, I hasten to add!).  Her response was "in those days people just didn't.  This was a world where most people still went to church on Sundays and the 7th day was acknowledged, respected and offered a 24 hour haven of peace from the rigours of life.

Of course, the black side of this was the denial of all those who didn't fit into the heterosexual mould and the iron-clad insistence that there was only one definition of marriage and only one construction for a family.

Today anything goes.  Marriage, relationships, family units - are no longer hampered by any religious or gender considerations.  Marriage has in many ways just become an announcement of who we love most at any given time.  I personally regard it as more than that, having been raised in the Church of Wales but I know that, these days, I'm in the minority.

I had children in my 40s because I wanted to create my own family.  I wanted something that would outlive me (what Richard Dawkins calls the "selfish gene"), to mark my existence.  I have read legions of self-help / law of attraction / NLP books and always wince when the 'recipe' for self actualisation gets to the inevitable bit about "contribution".

Being cynical, I always think that when you are living in a castle and flying about in a helicopter from seminar to seminar, the opportunity to  'contribute' must be huge.  For those of us down on the ground, our contribution must, out of necessity, be smaller - random acts of kindness, charitable donations where we can and putting others' needs before our own.

Isn't this what a family is for?  Isn't this what families do?  Yes I know there are dysfunctional families but I prefer to believe that in our daily life with our relatives we mark our passage through life by caring for one another and sharing the good things in life.

Those who no longer have a family or who are isolated for any other reason are not barred from finding this kind of emotional support,  Today, as the local becomes ever-more global, as the internet links us across continents, we are able to communicate and form friendships as never before.

A new type of family is being born. "Find your tribe" we are encouraged - those people who understand you, with whom you belong.  Mothers, in particular, are finding that they need each other more than ever before. And this despite working mothers being pitted against stay-at-home mothers with monotonous regularity.  Many mothers are sinking under the weight of guilt as they try to redefine their new family structure.

As a late baby boomer (born in 1964) I was raised to have a career.  I was never pushed to get married and have children (although I am always honest about the fact that I wish I had had my children earlier in life).

So now that I am, rather belatedly, here, it feels as though the rug has been pulled from under my feet.  The mums I talk to on Facebook and Social Media in general are questioning who they are and how they should raise their kids without losing the person they have worked so hard to be.

The type of family unit I grew up in feels like something from an Agatha Christie novel, all gin & tonic after work for dad and afternoons baking and listening to the radio for mum.

Much as I miss it, I have to acknowledge that the families created by women, whether mothers or not, offer a love and support that is often far more powerful.

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Pondering Change And Loss in Great Malvern

It is a sunny afternoon in Great Malvern.  I am sat a stones' throw from the Great  Malvern Priory sipping coffee in blissful isolation whilst the Husband has taken the kids swimming in the Malvern Splash pool.

Great Malvern Priory

Clouds are scudding across the blue sky, casting shadows on the slumbering occupants of the Priory's graveyard.  I am reading the bestselling book by psychoanalyst, Dr Stephen Grosz called "The Examined Life - How We Lose And Find Ourselves".  It is a collection of stories based on the the sessions Grosz had with patients over many years' private practice.

His contention is that we are better equipped to change ourselves, and consequently our lives, when we understand that all change involves some form of loss.

It is only when we embrace this loss and accept it that we can move forward.

For example, when we marry, we lose our single self.  As women, when we have children we may lose our figures, our freedom, our confidence. And yet, we rarely stop to think of the losses that almost always accompany a change in direction.  We may take the road less travelled without always thinking of what we leave behind.

There is no better place to read Dr Grosz' stories, it strikes me, than close to the bones of those who loved and lost, hoped and dreamed hundreds of years ago.

There is always something poignant and touching about graveyards.  It's that mix of the reminder of our own mortality with the realisation that, beneath our feet are those who probably thought they, too, might be lucky enough to escape that last throw of the 'die'.  The pathos of the sheer banality of life sometimes adds almost an unbearable weight of meaning to the daily minutiae we repeat almost without thinking.

I ponder that I am quite hopeless at being on holiday.  I am also reminded of the truth that "wherever we go, there we are".  We can travel mile after mile but there is no escaping our essential selves.

I always like to believe that each holiday contains the kernel of an enormous life change.  That new experiences will weave a kind of psychological magic - making us better, happier, calmer, greater. Travel broadens the mind, they say but minds are pretty elastic I think.  Stretch them so far and then ping, back to normal we go.

I wish I could relax more.  Be calmer.  Less neurotic.  People rarely appreciate that, for the neurotic soul, not only is there the burden of the worry but also the weight of guilt in the suspicion that we should not allow ourselves to acknowledge these feelings.  Giving ourselves permission to wallow for a while is almost a luxury.

For mothers, the chance to think and ponder in quiet introspection is, for many of us, a luxury.  But to acknowledge our own hopes and fears safely out of the way of our children is a necessity. We all need to take the time to recoup our strength and to remember that many have trodden our path before us - and will do so long after we're gone.

I finish my coffee and amble back to meet the family on the steps of the exhibition centre where, in the rare and brilliant sunshine a band is playing rock 'n' roll classics in the open air and families mill happily about.

Time goes on in the shadow of the Priory.

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Why I'm buying pregnancy testing kits in my 50's

It's highly ironic, I think, that I have spent more on pregnancy testing kits in my late forties and early fifties than I did in my twenties.

This has nothing to do with not using contraception but everything to do with not knowing exactly whether I am menopausal or not.

My periods now turn up every 8 weeks or so and it seems to be a lottery as to which month they choose to appear.

It can take so long that it's a toss up whether the menopause has finally started, or whether I am pregnant - which, at 51 would be a surprise I really don't want.

In fact, the trip down to chemist for a pregnancy testing kit is far more fraught with mixed emotions than it used to be.

One the one hand a late baby (and mine were already pretty late at 43 and 45) would turn our lives upside down but the thought of no longer being fertile is quite a psychological event in any woman's life.

I can understand why menopause used to be referred to as "the change".

Some women define themselves by their fertility.

They love having babies.

For them, it is the ultimate proof of womanhood.

For many of us though, having children is something we do to complete a relationship - because we believe in family - rather than an obedience to the ticking of our biological clock.

There is plenty of information online about pre-menopause symptoms.

This article at www.patient.co.uk lists no less than 66 symptoms to look out for - including headaches, exhaustion, decreased motor co-ordination, night sweats, insomnia, muscle cramps and backache.

But there is such a wide variety of symptoms that could apply to almost any illness, it doesn't really help you to decide whether you do indeed have menopause symptoms.

Irregular periods are certainly one symptom, as is menopause weight gain, the appearence of a rounder, fuller middle.  And while I suspect I might occasionally have experienced a hot flush or flash (as our American cousins call them), I'm still not entirely sure.

My GP says that, to see whether or not I am menopausal, I would need a blood test  to measure the level of the follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) which can be an indication of menopause, but there is no definitive test.

This could only be carried out if I stopped taking the contraceptive pill.

That sounds way too risky to me so I'm stuck in some sort of peri menopausal wasteland until I haven't had a period for at least a year.

So, what are the chance of conceiving naturally during your 40s and even 50s, and what about pregnancy after menopause?

In your 40s, your chances of getting pregnant naturally are about 20%, falling to less than 5% in your mid 40s and 50s.

There is also the increased risk of chromosomal abnormalities and a higher chance of miscarriage.

Nevertheless, I conceived naturally twice during my mid to late forties so there is hope if you have also left it late to start a family.

In terms of IVF, in your early forties you have roughly a one in five to one in 10 chance of a live birth per treatment cycle.

From age 43 onwards, success rates fall to around one to five live births for every 100 women .

From 43 to 44 onwards, your chances of success using your own eggs really are minimal, because conception rates per cycle of IVF are so low. (source www.babycentre.co.uk).

Also, mothers over 50 are at almost three times the risk of low birth weight, premature birth, and extremely premature birth and their risk of giving birth to an extremely low birth weight baby and the risk of fetal mortality was almost double. (source:  Wikipedia).

Surprisingly. pregnancy after menopause (which you'd think would be impossible since you're not producing any eggs), is possible. Here's an explanation from www.babymed.com.

"Menopause drastically changes a woman’s body. When menopause occurs, a woman no longer gets a monthly menstrual period.

This is because the hormones that trigger ovulation and pregnancy are not longer as strong in the body as they were when the woman was twenty years younger.

Estrogen and progesterone will drop, and this will cause the body to no longer have the ability to get pregnant.

But since the process of menopause takes anywhere from five to ten years to complete, this is an awkward time in a woman’s life.

She will still have a chance of getting pregnant.

 With menopause, the hormone levels will drop, but there are times when they will spike during the course of the change.

At this time, a woman’s body can be able to still conceive a child, giving into the fact that a woman can get pregnant during or what they think is after menopause".

So, even though I know the chances of conceiving are very small, I don't want to take any chances.

If I were to get pregnant through some random last throw of the fertility dice, I would have the baby but as a late mother I am already worried about being in my 60s when my kids leave school.

That's the thing late mothers may not admit to;  the pressure to live longer, not to conk out, to remain a fully functioning parent to support their kids as long as possible.

To undertake this commitment in your 50s must be huge.

The other day I was asked by a lady who had her three children in her twenties whether I thought having children in your forties was selfish.

My honest, and immediate answer was yes.

I've written before that having children is in many ways a selfish act at any age but there is the extra poignancy of having a late baby - a kind of bitter-sweetness overladen with a hefty dollop of guilt.

For the next year or two, I'm guessing I'll be a frequent visitor to the chemist.

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England's Football Lionesses are "going back to being mothers" - the FA's own goal

If you blinked, you might have missed it.  Yesterday the FA welcomed the England Women's Football Team on their return from the World Cup with the following tweet (which was rapidly deleted).

Source:  www.telegraph.co.uk

It read "Our #Lionesses go back to being mothers, partners and daughters today, but they have taken on another title - heroes."

The author of the tweet, James Callow, Content Editor at the Football Association rejected any allegation of sexism. He said, on his own Twitter account, "the piece is intended to sum up a nice moment when players are reunited with their families. Human interest is a big part of any sports reporting. I'd have done the same for England men, absolutely."

This did nothing, however, to avert the media storm which led to the tweet being featured on the front page of the Metro and covered on other media outlets such as Sky. Allegations of sexism and patronisation of the women by the FA flew.

My take is that the tweet was badly worded but unfortunately hinted at what mothers suspect some men really think of professional women - that their jobs, their vocations, their sporting activities are something done to pass the time when not up to their ears in dirty nappies and pureed fruit.

Are women still defined primarily by whether or not they are a mother?

I have never seen news coverage which suggested that the England Squad were "going back to being fathers" after their last (dismal) World Cup attempt.  Nor have I seen male soldiers returning to greet their families to speculation about the amount of DIY waiting for them to get their teeth into.

I worked for over 20 years before having my kids, reaching director level in the last law firm in which I was employed.  Now, I'm a full time mum and there are some who really don't know how to pigeon-hole me.  Am I just a drain on the tax-payer (even though I contributed since the age of 17)? Is my value to society reduced because I am not inputting data in an office somewhere?

I'm sure many of my fellow Stay-At-Home-Mums are familiar with the echoing silence that occurs in conversation when they are asked what they do and reply "oh, I'm at home full time with the kids".

We can't win either way can we?  It sometimes seems as if we're neither valued as mothers or employees (or entrepreneurs!).

Just because I currently am lucky enough to be able to raise my kids full time does not mean that I have become a one-dimensional, cardboard cut-out unable to contribute in other areas.

Has anyone ever asked JK Rowling when she is going to stop writing and go back to being a mother?

Mothers, whether working or not, are all raising the next generation which is endless, tiring but ultimately life-affirming and beyond value.

This does NOT mean that we are unable to stand shoulder to shoulder to our male peers in every sphere - whether professional or sport.

And this is not a feminist rant.  I am not tarring all men with the same brush.  Today men are often as likely to be at home raising kids as their partners - and risk the same social alienation and identity issues as women.

But implicit in that misguided tweet is the fact that even in 2015 women are somehow expected to choose what they want to be famous for.

The legacy of the Lionesses in this World Cup has been to bring women's football home to many of us who previously haven't taken that much notice of it, all without flash cars, ridiculous pay packets and falling out of nightclubs.

The FA might want to take a look at its definition of  "sportsmanship" - and avoid any future own goals.

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My Boy Ieuan Is 6

So my Spiderman is now 6 years old and I, like many other parents, have no clue where the last six years went. Readers of this blog will know that I had Ieuan when I was 45 years old.

Baby Ieuan  in 2009

Ieuan was born by elective caesarian at the University of Wales Hospital, Cardiff at 9:48 am. His sister, Caitlin was born by emergency caesarian when I was 43 and it was thought that this would be safer for Ieuan due to my age. I was given the option to deliver 'normally' but was too nervous to do so since Caitlin's cord was wrapped around her neck three times.

Ieuan's birth was relatively uneventful, save for the Husband passing out and having to be fed coffee and chocolate by the consultant whilst the rest of us waited patiently for his eyes to uncross.  Never let your husband abstain from food and water in an act of 'solidarity' would be my tip.  Unfortunately, at the moment he chose to blank out, the nurses were doing the ice block test to see if my spinal block had worked and I had to be returned to the trolley.

Ieuan at National Trust Dyffryn Gardens, Vale of Glamorgan

I have no truck, I should say at this point, with anyone who claims that real women do not give birth this way. I have read such rubbish since having my kids aimed at making women feel inferior because they did not 'push'.  I'm assuming that these critics are part of the same group of breast-feeding nazis who decree that breast is best to the exclusion of all else, including common sense and empathy with new mothers.

Ieuan and his maternal grandfather, 'Taid'.

Ieuan has grown into a delightful, caring little boy who I've nicknamed "the Chairman of the Board" because when he's out and about (usually dressed as Spiderman) he addresses all and sundry, talks to anyone and flirts outrageously with any girl or woman he considers to be "foxy".

With Big Sister Caitlin outside the National Museum of Wales, Cardiff

You may not believe in Astrology but Ieuan, being a Cancerian shows quite a few decidedly Cancerian traits ("Cancerians need a lot of attention due to their unpredictable character":  They are intuitive, insightful and have an excellent memory"). Cancerians are loving and loyal, although they can be moody, cranky and,er, crabby. They are also supposed to love their food and luckily Ieuan is moving out of his "half boy, half peanut butter" phase to try a wider variety of foods and, occasionally, vegetables).

Tree climbing at National Trust Dyffryn Gardens

Ieuan's favourite things at this stage of his life (apart from any Marvel superhero) include Lego, swimming, wrestling with his father (it was a complete shock to me, never having had a brother, to find how rough boys are at play!) and, just recently, Harry Potter.  I suspect he may be now be occasionally dressed as a wizard.  He loves Cherry Bakewells and Quavers and has probably broken a Guinness Record for the consumption of pears and bananas.  His squash has to be blackcurrant and his pasta requirement is for spaghetti or fusilli ('curly pasta') only. His current favourite phrase is "I'll do it tomorrow"!

His party this year was a superhero party at Hamleys in Cardiff (one of their many themed parties) and he had a wonderful time surrounded by Batman, Supergirl and Batgirl plus his superhero friends.

Hamley bear popped in to say hello and to dish out hugs.

Playing Superhero Statues with Batman

I can't believe Ieuan will be going into Year 2 in September. They grow up so fast, don't they?

Happy Birthday Ieuan - my little superhero.

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A Mummy Blogger's Guilt

Recovering from Britmums Live 2015 and still marvelling at the sheer volume of mummy bloggers, their chutzpah, their confidence and their blogging prowess, I am sat in my 'writing chair' (mine in the day, the Husband's in the evening) trying to 'inspire, educate, entertain' and many of the other goals discussed over the weekend.

Except I can't.

Nope.  It's an inset day and Caitlin and Ieuan are out playing in the garden whilst I sit here and feel what can best be termed as "extreme blogger guilt".  The Husband is in the loft working from home today before flying off to Europe on business tomorrow.  There is a kind of irony in that fact.  He is being paid and therefore has no qualms in focusing solely on his job. He will appear as referee and sounding board for both the kids and I if need be, but he has none of the accompanying guilt I feel.

I, on the other hand, am somewhat confused about what I should be focusing on.

If you are a 'stay at home mother', even if you work from home (or are trying to create a new job role for yourself), it feels as if your 'job' is to focus entirely on the children.

Don't get me wrong.  I chose this.  And yes, I'm bloody lucky.

But the boundaries are all mixed up.  I watch the kids play from the french doors' window and think "I should be out there with them.  I am missing valuable moments of their childhood which I will never have again"

The blogger in me says "yes, but you are not just a mum.  It is OK for you to try to re-establish yourself in the World, to create a niche, make the most of your education and help your husband to secure your kids' future (and, alright, to have some blogging-related fun times along the way).

It is not that wall-to-wall childcare is difficult in terms of 'technical ability' but the occasional mundanity and the sheer repetition can really grind you down - particularly if you have just had a (rare) two day break away from your kids and can just about still remember what it was like to have nobody to answer to but yourself, nobody else to worry about and nobody else's expectations to dash apart from your own!

The Husband has not had to make this choice and I'm not sure he altogether understands how vast a choice it feels like I have made sometimes.

Organisation is the key, I suppose.  A timetable which allows me to focus on time with the kids and time blogging.  The solutions are there - practicality should be my watchword.

But even then, I'm not sure it will heal the rift I feel between me as a mother and me as the professional working woman I once was.

I don't think I have ever felt more conflicted.

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