Category: Eva Talks About…

… but my boy left me stumped. He does regularly, if I’m honest with the questions he poses.

It started during half term break and we took a road trip to France. Within seconds (no exaggeration) they were fighting: ‘Get your foot away from my shoulder!’ (The boy was getting comfortable and the engine hadn’t even been fired up) ‘Ugh you’re disgusting! Muuuuum he’s disgusting, he’s farted. Open the window, I’m gobnna pass out!!’

My response was to tell them to shut up, fix up or all privileges will be taken away until we return. Quiet. It worked!

Half an hour in to the drive to Folkestone, and I’m extolling the beautiful scenery of the Sussex and Kent countryside and the early morning mist laying across the fields.’Shurrup loser’ ‘No wonder you can’t get a boyfriend with a face like yours.’ And so it continued. For eight hundred miles. I zoned out, to my credit, but like a ball of Play-Doh that keeps getting prodded, I finally lost it (my self-control not the Play-Doh) and turned into the kind of monster that Greek mythology is made of. Silence. Again. All that could be heard was the rumbling accusations of whose fault it was and the reverberating beats of House music. Then a small voice pipes up; ‘Mum, how do you feel about being a mother?’. Boom, just like that.

Hmm. Conundrum. Tell the truth (as I have always preached to them) or tell a big fat fib (which I have also preached to them about not doing). In my infinite wisdom I went for truth. Going for comedy gold, me!

The truth is, I’m blessed and lucky to have been able to have kids. I’m grateful. Truly. But how do I feel? Really? When I’m faced with the fighting, the back chat, the stroppiness, I ponder why did I sign up for this? They infuriate me until I’m flipping my finger, mouthing obscenities behind their backs or saying out loud ‘FFS now what?’ when they call me. Their obstinate characters makes me want to cry at times. Honestly? I find myself calculating how many more years I have until serenity comes a knocking. Yup. There, I said it. Confessions of a mum.

There are people who don’t have children as a life choice. I get that. Not everyone wants a kid/brood. As a result, they have money in their pockets, freedom to travel and live life as an adventure. My life is more like a rollercoaster at an adventure park— and going without so the kids don’t need to. Sounds like a bum deal, right? Conversely, my kids are a credit to themselves. They excel at all of life’s basic needs to survive, they’re intelligent with great aspirations and all round great human beings. I love hanging out with them, they’re great company (when they’re not being little shits) and when I consider everything, I am actually rather enamoured with the title of ‘Bat Shit Crazy Mum’. They make me laugh, they drive me to distraction and they have taught me many things about myself over the years. Years of self-doubt has been thrown to the wayside when I realise that my biggest challenge has been to bring up three kids in this crazy world and they’ve done me proud. So, in all of this? I’m really honoured to be their mum. That’s how I feel.

Take care,

Eva x

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It’s no secret that my kids, although grown up, take up a lot of my time. Each one is at different stages in their lives, and well, I’m pretty redundant. I’m not “mummy” anymore. That came to a grinding halt when they were old enough to walk to school with their buddies, leaving me with a new found freedom. I decided to embark on my lifetime aspiration of becoming a full time writer. I’ve always written (much of my work is unpublished or has been recycled into eco friendly loo roll…that’s not to say it was only worthy of said job, but much of it, along with my huge collection of DC Comics was inadvertently turned to pulp after a leaking roof.)

Where was I? Ah yes. Kids. Aspirations. You see, I knew what I signed up for when I saw the two lines in the pregnancy test.Three times. I went for a hat trick. Call me Ronaldo. How do you do?

I enjoy being a mum. My little cherubs have grown into strong willed, funny and empathetic young adults. I’ve loved it. They were my little sidekicks. Now, they look forward to hanging out with me and so do their friends. Not too much mind you, because that’s just a tad weird, even for my atypical set up.

So, what’s my issue? It’s this; I have goals. Aside from my regular writing work, I’ve written a book (as yet to be published) which was one of my intentions and currently working on book No 2. I see posts on my social media feed how someone has written 2000+ words in one day. I’m in awe yet feel inadequate. I should be living out my fantasy of sitting from morning until night, surviving on coffee and chocolate, typing away and completing a novel in two months, with another on the way. That’s not my reality however. Mine is when my son walks in (actually he skulks) through the door and tells me how he had a debate with his English teacher during a discussion about Boo Radley. He had to give his opinions on the enigmatic character. My boy is of the opinion that Boo Radley had hygiene issues. Then there’re my daughters. My eldest has adult problems that she needs to discuss with mum. Woman to woman. My second daughter is approaching that stage, so she also needs mum. In between all of this I have to be a mediator during fights, be their negotiator for detentions and issues in and out of school.

Regardless of my own personal goals being relegated to the snail lane, I’m slowly but surely getting there. I am honoured and glad that my not so little kids still reach out to me. I am their mum after all. These are moments they will remember and hopefully bode them well in the future. Someone said I make sacrifices. Nope. I don’t. I’m still living my dreams out, but at a different pace to others. I won’t get this time back with them. My stories are my own so they can take their time getting out there.

For all the chaos in my life, when those three teens announce their love and respect for their “crazy, unconventional mum”, everything pales into insignificance.

Take care, Eva x

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Believe it or not, I’m actually quite shy. Mmmaybe shy’s the wrong word. When I’m faced with groups of people I don’t know — be it on social media or in real time, I tend to sit back, clam up and analyse my environment before I participate in chatter. Then once I’ve warmed up, my shield disintegrates and I’m sociable me. So, for someone who has mostly only been within the realms of Facebook, embarking on my Twitter voyage was unnerving to say the least. I was going public.

I have Facebook and Instagram but that’s within the comfort zone of familiarity. I know my followers. My private photos remain private (yes I know your stuff is never truly private on social media as far as the government, MI5, KGB, Google and any other powerhouse there is out there goes, BUT — and the but is nearly as big as mine) Jo Public can’t see my life. Where was I before I went off on a tangent? Ah yes, my Twitter experience. I was, and in many ways still am, a rookie. However, when I tentatively entered the circle of the writing and Twitter community, I wasn’t expecting it to take me into its bosom and show me just how great it is to be part of likeminded people. I have formed some great friendships and it varies between supporting each other during our writing projects, technical meltdowns (I’m rubbish with techy issues) to offering kindness when we’re struggling, personally.

There’s also banter and a lot of laughter, conveyed through the power of word (as in writing not Microsoft) , gifs and images. Your day can be lifted when you feel bleugh just by a simple message. I’m lucky, because I know there are a lot of negative folk and trolls out there. Although I’ve experienced it personally, I’ve managed to deal with them…again, thanks to the advice of a fellow Twitter friend. I’ve learned so much from the community and they’ve shown kindness. When I thanked one of my Twitter friends, she replied ‘we’re all in the same trenches, so we help each other out.’

So, in a volatile society that we’re living in, ironically, I’ve found peace on social media. Who’d have thought heh? Obviously not me. I am truly grateful to each and every one of those who probably don’t realise what a prop they have been at times and I honestly don’t think I’d have gotten through my manuscript without their help. To make me laugh is tonic to my gin, and more often than not, these people do exactly that. I guess what I’m saying in all of this waffle, is that social media can work amazingly well, if used properly and respectfully.

Right, I’m off for a well earned cuppa and a little chocolate as I wait for my kids to return from after school detention. That pre ‘back to school talk’ lasted all of three days. Aaaanyway, I’m off.

Take care,

Eva x

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…BACK TO SCHOOL No three words are more beautiful than those. Even if Jake Gyllenhaal told me ‘I love you’, I’d be happy but not as happy as when I hear ‘back to school’. Tomorrow I shall watch them trudging up the road towards school and rejoice as they return to detentions, discipline and lots of study.

I love my kids, I do. However, when they’re in the same room/building as each other, all hell breaks loose. Granted my eldest lives and works away from the family nest, but I still have a 15 and 12 year old to contend with. Moving to the coast has been the best decision. They’re feral and living life as kids did in the 70s and 80s. However, when they’re both home and brooding in their respective bedrooms, it’s as if there’s an evil force that drip feeds bad thoughts into their hormonal fuelled heads; ‘do it, do it now’ and one deems it necessary to break the peace by turning into the agitator. It’s then that the screams and abuse starts, usually spurred by my 12 year old boy provoking his 15 year old sister. It’s often like a scene from The Exorcist. I expect to find her head spinning, Regan MacNeil style. True. I get scared at times. Also true. My neighbours must also get scared at times…I’m almost certain the Pastor living peacefully next door prays with his family and congregation for my lot:

The smart mouth retorts, the catty comments and of course the photographic evidence taken during hostile moments (which adds petrol to a smouldering fire) between them, then reels me into the crossfire. I often feel like the third wheel in all of this, attempting to write/work and be a good mum/mediator/peace finder. It’s like standing precariously on the precipice of a cliff, trying to find the right balance, which inevitably goes wrong. I do try, honest. I try my hardest to zone out and to have an objective point of view, averting a ‘It’s because I’m the youngest/middle child’ outburst spewing out at me as if their position in the pecking order is my fault (which technically it is I suppose). See what I mean? I can’t win. Then, they push and push and push until I go bat shit crazy and sound like a trap queen. They bring out my inner gangster (or gangsta/G if I want to sound cool…which I’m not. I’m mum aka Muggins).

I’m grateful that I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to have three kids, I am, truly. They’re smart, strong willed and bloody funny. Conversely, they are exemplary examples of young adults when we go out. When people approach me and comment on what well mannered, intelligent and confident kids they are, I feel that for every potential ulcer and migraine I get, that it’s been worth it. I’m proud to say I’m their mum.

Will I miss them when they go back to school tomorrow? Erm no. You thought I was getting soft, didn’t you? I’m proud of them but I’m not mad either.

So, back to school tomorrow. I have given them the ‘work hard lecture’ but more importantly, I’ve told them to try not to get detentions or into pointless spats that results in beef with other kids. I don’t want to don my Supermum cloak for a while.

Take care, Eva x

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We know it’s been around for hundreds of years and it will continue. Recent times have indicated that it’s as rife as ever and that’s because people feel more confident to voice their opinions behind a monitor and a keyboard. Thus we have a new kind of bigot.

However, there’s still the old adage that attitudes are borne from the home. Which is essentially true. My kids are the way they are because of their up-bringing. Old school respect and empathy to all, regardless of any race, creed or colour. With a heavy heart I am writing this blog, as an observation and from personal experience. My kids are mixed race. They are so multi-culturally diverse that nobody can tell where they’re from- but they do have an exotic look about them, which over the years has meant that they have been subjected to racist abuse, since they were very small. Some of the abuse in very recent times has cut close to the bone. Words that no man, woman or child, should be subjected to.

So, as parents, their father and I have to pick up the pieces. The truth is, I feel responsible for their angst. Should I not have fallen in love with a man of colour and multi-races and gone on to have children? Should I have stuck to my own kind and not have risked my children a potential life of racism? I’ve had a member of my family voice their opinion of ; ‘Well you made your decision to lie with him, deal with it.’ The patriarch of my family also voices his opinions to everyone, including my children. At what point do you draw the line?

We are not the first nor the last family to be part of this draconian attitude. This will continue, as long as there’s a lack of acceptance. Maybe in future generations it will be diluted, but this has to start from childhood. Children aren’t born racist. I know of one child who has been taught not to play with certain races because their father has a dislike for them. I despair. I really do.

Of course we all have opinions and preferences, but maybe teach the kids to make their own decisions? Teach them that it’s ok to not have the same mindset as others, but don’t be nasty or relentless about it. As adults, it’s our place to guide them through the minefield of growing up and being held accountable for your actions.

Have a lovely day, Eva x

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I had a recent discussion with someone who’d mentioned that their little ones’ personalities were not only developing, but were showing signs of growing up so quickly. They had been warned by another parent that: ‘Bigger kids means bigger problems.’

There’s no doubt that kids don’t come with a handbook (nor do adults, for that matter!) and as a parent of three, I can confirm that they have all challenged my patience at various stages in their lives. It would have been nice if they all posed said personality transitions at the same stages, but noooo no no. That’d be too easy. Mother Nature has a grim sense of humour. ‘You want kids? Here, have three, but they will all test you at different points in their lives.’

For example. My eldest was a dream as a littlie. Perfect. I was blessed and spoiled. Then a glitch at age 10 sprung out from nowhere. That lasted a long and heartbreaking two years. Done and dealt with and she returned to being her dreamy, easygoing self.

Child No2. From the womb until age 3, I was convinced that I had spawned the child of the devil himself. Mother Nature played a cruel trick on me. She led me to believe mother/parenthood would be easy, after child No 1. She’s now a feisty teen, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I do argue with her occasionally (when she’s tested my laissez-faire attitude to the limit) and I have flipped the finger behind her back, as she’s walked away, many, many times. She is however, a typical teen and will grow out of it. Conversely, she can be so lovely and is the sweetest and kindest girl. That’s why I know, she’ll leave this raging hormonal stage.

Child No3? He’s funny, kind and selfless. He does the dumbest things- for example; what possesses him to think it’s a laugh to jump around over rotting floorboards on the top floor of a dilapidated house or light a camp-fire in said house? Boys have a sense of curiosity and adventure which, although I wholeheartedly embrace, does contribute to my greying hair. He’s at the awkward stage of trying to find his place in pre-teen life.

In my experience, I’ve found that bringing kids up with an iron fist in a velvet glove has worked (so far), and it’s more important than ever before, in these times where kids attempt to be the boss of the parents, that my efforts in this belief are put into reality. My brood have pushed the boundaries, and overstepped the mark, they’ve dragged out the inner trap queen in me, as I spout out language and an attitude that shocks them into silence- but it’s their way of testing the water. Every stage has its tests. In all of this, as their mum I have found that being their friend as well as their mentor has gotten us through trying times and potentially irreversible damage. Kids are more inclined to be open and truthful about their experiences and to seek out your help and advice if they’re not afraid to approach you. I’ve lost count of how many parents are shocked and gutted to find out what their kids have been up to, after the event. By then, it’s too late.

My kids have an element of fear with me. They fear ‘bat shit crazy mum’ but they also love ‘fun and open minded’ mum. The mum their friends love to talk to. The silly mum. The easy to talk to mum. My methods may be unconventional to some, but it works for me and my brood. In a crazy, judgmental society we live in, bringing up kids to their full potential and live their best life, is the greatest gift we can give them.

Remember that growing up isn’t easy, and we were young(er) once upon a lifetime ago, so don’t be surprised at anything. The epoch is different, but it’s still kids growing up.

Take care, Eva x

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As a writer, I am what is known as a panster. I have an idea and begin to pour what’s in my head onto paper. Actually, I lie, I pour my thoughts through to the keyboard. As with everything in my life, I have a general idea of which way I’m going and let it take me to where I’m meant to be. I work it out as I go along. I’m good at going with the proverbial flow, rather than plot and plan. I’m terrible at planning. In fact it always goes to pot when I try to be organised. So, to avoid disappointment, I fly by the seat of my skinny jeans. It works, for me anyway.

My eldest sought some motherly advice from me when she was struggling with life decisions 15 year olds are expected to make as they prepare to sit their GCSEs (show me a 15 year old who knows what they really want at that age, and I’ll show you a man who knows what women’s monthlies feel like!). Aaaanyway, as I was saying, my daughter wasn’t certain which route she should take. I told her that in life, we will always be faced with decisions to make and situations that we have no control over. What will be will be.

‘Go with your gut, and if that feeling takes you to a completely new direction, then so be it. There are times where we are determined to take a certain route, because in our minds, that’s where we should be going. BUT (and it is a big but) we then find ourselves living life as though we are pushing treacle up a hill. Life is like SatNav. You take the wrong turn, and it’ll reroute us to our correct destination. This is life. Take the turning and see how it pans out. Trust in your instincts and your passion. You will be happy when you reach that personal nirvana.’ It was a long and deep speech, granted, but she took it on board. Towards the end of her A’ Levels she rang me from college and started the conversation with; ‘Mum, remember what you told me a couple of years ago?….’

Here we go. I knew what was coming. She was now adamant that her life wasn’t in politics and Economics. It was in cooking. So, I smiled down the phone and told her that I trusted in her thoughts. Many people thought I was a crazy/slack mum for not following the conventional parenting route (nothing new there), but I know my daughter better than any nay sayer. Three years on, she’s flying up the culinary ladder and (I won’t name drop) she’s worked at one of the best hotels in the world, under the wing of a famous chef. She’s being sought out by big names in the chef world. She’s not yet 21. My daughter is the equivalent of a panster. Her entire mindset is a reflection of her laissez-faire attitude.

So, in a nutshell, we may not know where the road is taking us when we make snap decisions borne from our gut, but go with it. If it scares yet excites you at the same time, then do it. It’s better to test the water than to walk on by. Life’s too short for ‘I wish I…’

Take care, Eva x

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I’ve had a few thoughts lately, which a very dear friend of mine echoed in a recent conversation- the contentious issue of large age gaps.

It’s a topic that even in the twenty-first century, is still greeted with disapproval (silent or vocalised) and none more so than when a woman has a relationship with a much younger guy. It seems that women are given a hard time in whatever choices they make when it comes to sex and partners…

A guy who sleeps with lots of women, is a stud, a player. Yet these labels are an accolade to his prowess. A woman, confident in her own skin and sexuality is looked upon as a slut, who must have insecurity issues and a need for attention. Umm nope. Sorry, all’s well in her life. She’s just red-blooded and has needs which silicone toys just can’t fulfil. The precept is as old as time and it clings onto its threadbare perceptions like an indelible stain.

Then we have the issue of an old man having relationships with much younger women. Again, he’s congratulated for still having enough ‘lead in his pencil’ to maintain a healthy sex life (although I’m sure Viagra helps) and it’s deemed as acceptable. Obviously, circumstances vary across the board. Some old men need to feel they ‘still have it’ and find young women whose motives are for financial security. These older men don’t recognise the implications or prefer to shy away from them. Conversely you have younger girls with older (but still young) men and society question his intentions and whether they are predatory or genuine. Then there’s the recently divorced Middle Agers who meet girls a lot younger than them as a confidence booster. There’s a plethora of examples!

Now we have the ladies. They’re deemed as cougars, mother replacements or old and lonely. If a woman meets and forms a relationship with a guy twenty or thirty years younger than her, it can be greeted with derogatory opinions. The woman may be attractive or in good shape ‘for her age’ but she will carry doubts on her appearance and ageing body, along with all the delightful facets a maturing woman has been generously gifted by Mother Nature, at the best of times. However, when critics express their thoughts or worse, remain in disapproving silence, they often don’t realise the affect it has on her. Take the French President’s older wife. He was a 15 year old school boy and she a 40 year old married woman when they met (although they didn’t become a couple officially until he was 18). The ex-teacher takes a lot of stick for being the epitome of a cougar yet the male rock stars of late, are seen as ‘dudes’. Life heh?

I have people within my circle who have relationships with people a lot younger than them. One couple are childless and enjoying the ride. I wish them the best. It works stupendously well for them both.

The other is a ‘mature’ man with two adult kids, his partner is ten years younger than his eldest, has several grandchildren and now a small child with said young woman. Horses for courses.

All in all, we don’t know how long we have on this Earth, so, like those dud mechanical grabbing machines you find in arcades, snatch up any chances of happiness that comes your way.

Take care, Eva x

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