Category: Eva Talks About…

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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…and the focus was all about the boobies. Now it’s all about the booties (and I’m not talking baby shoes).

We’ve always had the need for never looking our age. It’s a perpetual cycle of wanting to look desirable and accepted in the modern world. However, there’s no such thing as anti-aging or perfect. We age, it’s life. We’re given the chance to get older. Some aren’t blessed with that privilege. No cream or tangible product contains the elixir of reversing the process of getting older or turn you into something you’re not (even plastic surgery needs to be maintained).

Many moons ago, in the 90s, no self respecting woman’s drawers (excuse the pun!) were without a Wonderbra. That bad boy could truss your chest into the hemisphere. Breasts were heaving. You could adapt them to whichever level you desired at the tug of a toggle and even fill the gaps with a couple of dubious looking pads. I had a friend with whom I was on the bus one night, armed with a takeaway (clubbing was hungry work) and the innocuous looking pad had fallen. “Erm excuse me, I think you’ve dropped a prawn cracker,” came a tentative voice from behind.

We both looked down, to find the padding had fallen out of her bra. That was the last time she wore them without securing said bra properly.

Fast forward to current times and it’s now about the bum. Have a flat, out of shape or small tushy? No problem. Ladies, we now have magic leggings. Yep. Bum shaping and lifting is no longer reserved to nude coloured, pull everything in and push up, Spandex, under your clothes. No, under is now over. These creations will give you a butt as round and hard as a ball of Edam cheese. Heck, you even get the cheese wire thrown in for good measure to separate your cheeks. Ok, maybe you don’t exactly get given wire to enhance the derrière, but it looks like it.

Many young girls and mature women are vying for this ‘new look’. Whether they admit it or not, they want to resemble the perfectly sculpted bodies that we are exposed to on a daily basis. I’ve had times of insecurity and looked at myself negatively, but as a mother to two daughters, it’s my responsibility to show them it’s ok to be and look like themselves. Photo filters, Botox, lip fillers, false eyelashes, body crushing corset style waist cinchers, bum lifting leggings- the list is endless. None of it is real and I have spent a lot of time convincing them (and myself) that they don’t need to fall into the trap. I want my girls to believe in themselves and not feel they need to look a certain way to fit in. Stay healthy and look after yourselves and your skin, has always been my advice to them. It’s been passed down through four generations of women in my family.

Like yourself, and your confidence will shine through. In a relentlessly trending society, stay classy.

Take care, Eva x

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We all love to hear endearing declarations, but when those words spew out as easily as squirty cream after every conversation, over and over again, they can become hollow. I even got into this habit at one point and found myself telling the insurance clerk on the phone that I loved him at the end of the call. Habit. See?

When I choose to say I love you or I miss you, it’s because I do. Anyone who hears me utter those words, feel honoured. I’m now a fully fledged cynic, so take that to the bank!

Lockdown has brought out the best and the worst in us. For me, it’s been liberating (ironically) and enlightening. I feel like the shackles that once constrained me, have been removed. I’m at that place in my life where if I don’t want to do or say something, then by golly, I won’t. I won’t make an excuse either. I’m tired of appeasing people and I know that there are many out there who can relate, but remain acquiescent.

I was told “I miss you” a few weeks ago, and as I opened my mouth to reciprocate the sentiment, to avoid offending/upsetting the person, I considered what I’d rather say….which was the truth. My truth was, that I didn’t miss them, simply because they’ve never ever given me reason to miss them. You can’t miss what you’ve never had, right? I told them that I’m happy as a pig in poop. I write, I live by the sea and live a peaceful and uncomplicated life. This has continued to be my mantra. It’s not selfish to do what makes you happy and it’s certainly not selfish to tell the truth.

The pandemic and the last year and a half has opened my eyes to many things, and I realise that life really is too short to kid yourself and others, for the sake of not rocking the boat.

Take care, Eva x

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Listening to kids, particularly over the last ten years, I’ve noted that they are growing too quickly for their own good. As parents we all announce our shock about how time has flown and here stands a child we don’t recognise. We don’t recognise them as children, because although in body they are, in mind, they are mature beyond their years.

I don’t mean that they’re mature in wisdom- this comes with experience and time. I mean the things they know. Kids from the age of eight/nine have heard of sexual activities that I, as a kid of the 80s didn’t know about until I was a teenager. We were too busy giggling and having crushes, sending love notes surreptitiously through friends and stealing kisses by the oak tree or around the corner.

Children have access to so much and as a result, don’t need to ask us any questions about intimacy, looking good or how to apply make-up. That awkward privilege has been taken away from us. ‘NOT MY CHILD, I MONITOR EVERYTHING!!!’ I hear you claim in righteous indignation. Well, suck it up buttercup, because these little humans know more than they’re letting on.

Yes, you can restrict screen time and police their search history, but the fact is, they can get that information from a friend who has access to it.

Sadly, they know way too much, too early. It’s a sign of the time. When I, a near fifty year old woman, who’s pretty un-shockable, is shocked by what kids come out with, it’s a day I never thought I’d see. My compromise? To have fun family time together and dinners at the table where I let the kids be who they are, laugh and argue. (It’s par for the course of growing up). In return, they can talk to me about anything and everything and are grateful for my open mindedness and treating them like young humans and not expecting perfect robots for kids.

Take care, Eva x

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Being a writer, you spend your days, well, writing. Which means you inevitably spend your days (and nights) seated. The thing with me- as I’m sure many can relate to, I get so engrossed in being within the utopian bubble that is my own little world, that I forget to stand/move unless nature calls. In fact, it gets to the point where nature screams at me. That’s how absorbed I get. I need an alert on my watch to remind me to stand and breathe…which I ignore like an insubordinate teen. However, I have had to make myself stop and stretch/exercise because when I rise from my seat or get out of bed, I’m stiff. Think the tin man. (I swear I can hear my bones creaking!)

Aaaaanyway, due to a couple of health complications, I had to stop my beloved Pilates classes. I LOVE Pilates. I LOVE my instructors. Admittedly, they are so meticulous, they can spot a core that’s not engaged, from a mile off. That’s for my own good, and although it’s tough at the time, I’m forever grateful to them.

I completed my first full class (online due to lockdown restrictions and distance). It was a little hard, but completely worth it. My muscle memory has been re-ignited and spurred into a ball of excitement and positivity.

I’ve relocated. Far far away from them. Online classes are great for lockdown, but what happens after?

My question and concern was posed to my instructor. Tim has reassured me that one way or another I can continue my journey of regaining strength and mobility. Asking if I’d tried anywhere locally, I admitted that I had, but honestly? The rapport wasn’t there. Ive been with Nuyoupilates.co.uk for three and a half years and the quality of the classes and the instructors is second to none. I can personally vouch for the amazing things that change and happen to your body.

I’m feeling righteous. I write, I exercise every hour (my mat and equipment is laid out, so there’s no excuse!) and look forward to my clssses. My body? Well, it’s jumping for joy at the goodness I’m giving it. In return, it responds with allowing me the privilege of getting out of bed/rising from my chair without feeling like an old battleship that has been laying on the seabed for centuries. Ok, maybe a slight exaggeration, but you catch my drift (no pun intended!).

So, with this in mind, I thank Pilates, I thank my classes and my body thanks us all.

I’m off for some coffee and a few squares of chocolate.

Take care, Eva x

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