It’s been ten weeks so far. Ten weeks since Sam brightened our days and joined our happy family. It’s been ten weeks of learning and ten weeks of coping. I’m learning that I’m not coping all that well, to be honest. I have learned that I am not strong. I’m pretty weak when it comes right down to it and I’m pretty quiet about that weakness as well.

We want everyone to think that we are fine? Why shouldn’t I be fine? I have a healthy, growing, lovely baby boy who is precious and wonderful. I have a fantastically independent, clever and vocal daughter who makes me smile and my heart swell with pride every day. I have a lovely husband for whom I crossed an ocean to find and who makes me happier than I ever thought possible. I should be fine.

In many ways I am fine but I’m lonely. As much as I adore Sam, I’m finding the 24/7 draining yet the idea of separating from him is difficult as well. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays Ella is in preschool for 6 hours. I am grateful for that time. Ella is stimulated, educated and entertained by someone other than me, I get six hours to spend with Sam and try to get my work done. I love those 6 hours BUT I also find them very lonely. The house is quiet (except for This Morning on the telly from 10:30-12:30) which seems to emphasize the loneliness. I could get out of the house but when you have no one to go out with, that prospect isn’t very inspiring. I also let things get to me. I seem to blow small things out of proportion and let them affect me more than they should, particularly with regard to my work.

I know I need to get out more. I know I need to exercise more and do things for me to make me feel good. But when you have a ten week old baby, that’s easier said than done. I thought this would be so easy. Everyone else seems to just roll with it and get on. Why shouldn’t I? The other day my inlaws stopped by for a visit. I was dressed in my usual uniform these days…leggings, loose t-shirt, hair scraped back with a headband because I desperately need a haircut but can’t take the time to make an appointment and no makeup. Sam was just about to go to sleep after an early evening bottle but with the arrival of Nanny & Grandad that went out the window and he quickly got overtired and irritable. I was short-tempered and frustrated with Ella who was whirling and twirling about because Nanny and Grandad were there. My mother-in-law asked me “What have you done today?” (in a very nice & making small talk kind of way) and I thought about it and stared at her. I had no idea what I had done all day.

Ella had been at school for her usual shift, I had managed to get the kids dressed and fed and the kitchen was clean with the dishwasher unloaded. I had done a couple of blog posts and done my freelance social media work. I had eaten lunch. But what had I ACCOMPLISHED??? In the eyes of my mother-in-law, probably not much! The shelves needed to be dusted, the carpet needed to be vacuumed, there was a pile of laundry on the table that needed to be folded. The bed linens really could have stood to be changed and the bathroom could have used a good scrub. Sam’s room was still in a state of disarray and there were a million other little projects that I could have done. But I couldn’t find anything to say to my mother-in-law. I just looked at her and said “Um, well, not much”. I didn’t even have dinner started. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be making for dinner.

I’m not really sure what I need to do. I think I maybe have the “baby blues” and could use some help. Unfortunately, I have very little faith in the GP’s and Health Visitors at my surgery so I don’t really have a medical person to confide in. Perhaps I just need to go in and speak to someone, regardless? Maybe I just need a happy pill to take some of the “blah” out of me because that’s what I feel like right now. Blah. Are there happy pills to take the blah away?

This motherhood thing? Not so easy after all!

So in the previous installment of “It Started Seven Years Ago…”, Mark had picked me out of the crowd at Luton Airport and we were about to spend our first weekend together. It was a bit of a weird prospect, actually. Crossing a channel and flying to a country I’d only seen on television to spend the weekend with a man I had only spoken to over the telephone. We were both nervous and unsure of what to do. Well, I know I was!

The drive from Luton to Mark ‘s home took about an hour. I babbled incessantly about my first few days in France including the tale of the toilets without seats. Mark laughed in all of the right places and I felt quite comfortable with him even though he didn’t have a ton of things to say. This is the way our relationship continues to this day. I am the talker, he is the listener. Here is an exerpt from my journal from our first evening together. Mark made us chilli con carne and we drank a bit of wine…

It’s at this time (with only slightly wine tinted eyes) that I decide that I could very easily fall in love with this man. I have no idea on the planet what he’s thinking though and I am not about to push it. I decide then that I am going to wait for him to make the first move.

On the Saturday, I wake up mid-morning thanks to my jet lag and then begin to feel entirely unwell. The jet lag and exceptionally curvy roads are a bit too much for me and I find myself in a perpetual state of nausea and wooziness. I don’t make the best company in the world but I don’t say a thing and do my best to play along. I am taken on a tour of Stamford where I eat my first fish, chips and mushy peas. We also go to Peterborough where I get a tour of the mall and Peterborough Cathedral. Little did I know that I would eventually call all of these places home.

Eventually, riding in the car totally gets to me and we return home where I take up residence on the couch for the remainder of the evening, watching the first round of the Rugby Six Nations and eating tortellini. We have less than 12 hours together but neither of us know what to do. We’re both attracted to each other but me living in France and ultimately America is obviously the “Elephant in the room.” My incessant nausea doesn’t help my mood and both of us are left feeling a bit out of sorts.

Our journey back to Luton the next morning is painfully quiet. When we arrive at Luton, I am expecting that Mark will just say, “Thanks for coming” and drop me off at Departures but he parks and escorts me into the airport. It’s time to say goodbye after only 2 days together. After all of the phone conversations and a slightly awkward weekend together, the rest of our future lies in the next few moments. What to do, what to do? I begin to babble and say thank you and blah, blah, blah like I can do so well. I say that I had better be going and walk closer to Mark. He steps in a gives me a light kiss on the lips and then I wrap my arms around him and hug him tightly. He puts his arms around me and rests his chin on the top of my head and we both sort of sigh. He kisses me on the top of my head and I look up at him. We kiss again briefly and he mentions that he really needs to come to Paris so I can show him what a wonderful place it really is. I say “Really??” and he says yes. A flicker of hope…there very well could be something there.

I grab my bright pink suitcase and say thank you and goodbye and again and we both go our separate ways. Both wondering, hoping and just a bit happier after a pretty lovely start to something…but what would come next?

Paris!

We’ve been waiting for PROPER snow all winter. On Thursday morning, approximately 18 flakes fell from the sky. Ella was so excited! And then so disappointed when it stopped after all of 5 minutes. She wanted snow, wanted to make Frosty the Snowman, wanted to play! Is that so much to ask for?

The UK has been threatened with forecasts for snow. Parts of the UK have had quite a bit but our wee corner of the East Midlands has had Jack Squat. Until last night, that is! Finally, the snow that is torturing the rest of Europe arrived in our neck of the woods. Big fluffy snow flakes adding up onto our cars and the ground. I showed Ella the snow last night and was sure that we’d only end up with a light covering in the end.

Imagine my surprise and Ella’s pleasure to find around 6 inches of snow EVERYWHERE! It was a lovely winter wonderland and Ella was ready. Kitted out in layer upon layer, her waterproofs, hat, mittens and wellies…she was ready. Snow 2012…here’s Ella!

Dressed and ready for the snow…wearing a hat from Wisconsin, USA where they REALLY know what snow is!

How much fun can one three year old and one 45 year old have? Three hours worth in the end!

A fine Frosty I must say complete with a carrot from our vegetable drawer, stones for eyes, a Caterpillar hat and Mummy’s fleecy scarf. Now where’s that magic???

I love this picture because it shows just how much snow we got AND how important Ella’s trampoline is to her. She’s got a teeny, red, plastic shovel from her sand box to clear the trampoline. She didn’t get very far!

After 3 hours, a proper snowman, a cleared driveway, a trip to the park and sledging around the village powered by Daddy, Ella finally came in with cold red cheeks and rather wet layers. She didn’t want to come in! As she started to thaw, her feet began to hurt…she was that cold! Ella has definitely inherited her Daddy’s resistance to pain.

The snow has already begun to melt. I would imagine that it will be gone within a day or two. Ella’s quite devastated to know that her Frosty will melt soon. Such is life in England. Snow comes and goes pretty darn fast but at least we’ve finally had some. Too bad it took until 4 February for it to arrive!

Edit (6/2/12): The original title of this post was “Shame on you Amanda Holden” however after receiving several comments on Twitter about this post, I have changed the title and issued this editorial. Provided she is given medical clearance and serves her government mandated two weeks maternity leave, obviously Amanda Holden is free to do what she likes. I am sure she will have her baby and helpers with her when she attends Britain’s Got Talent auditions and obviously, sitting in a chair isn’t hard work. However, I still stand by my point that it isn’t advisable to return to work so soon following such a serious delivery. I hope Amanda Holden will have a positive and smooth recovery. What is a shame is that perhaps Ms Holden feels the need to return to work so soon. Whether for financial reasons or contractual obligations, it is a shame that she can’t take more time to focus on own recovery and her family’s new bit of happiness.

This morning, while feeding Sam his morning bottle I was watching BBC Breakfast. While reviewing the day’s newspaper headlines, they announced one of the headlines reporting that Amanda Holden plans to return to work as a judge on Britain’s Got Talent as early as next weekend. Less than two weeks ago, Amanda Holden went into labour 1 week early and had her daughter Hollie delivered by Emergency Caesarian Section. Following the safe delivery of her daughter, apparently Amanda lost a considerable amount of blood, had to have several pints of blood in a transfusion and remained in Intensive Care for three days. She was not allowed to see her daughter for three days due to the severity of her emergency delivery, so say the reports.

The recovery time for a caesarian section is recommended to be six weeks. Obviously every patient is different. Some recover quicker than others. However, when you’ve had, what seems to be as traumatic a delivery as Amanda Holden has had, received a blood transfusion and been in intensive care, do you think heading back to work after two weeks would be sensible? I doubt it!

It’s one thing to reply to emails, take phone calls, handle simple business from home but to schelp yourself (albeit by a driver) into a location hours from your home (next weekend’s auditions are in Edinburgh, Scotland), dress up in some flashy numbers probably including high heels, sit for hours watching insane acts attempt to win a chance to perform for the Royal Family seems quite daft. Why on Earth would anyone want to be away from their gorgeous, squidgy newborn for a few hours much less a day? It’s not like Britain’s Got Talent is THAT important after all. Maybe if she was Prime Minister or President of the United States but a JUDGE on Britain’s Got Talent?? I think Amanda Holden’s newborn daughter, older daughter and husband are FAR more important, don’t you?

I thought I could just bounce back from my caesarian section following Sam’s birth. Granted, every day after delivery I felt better. However, I was tired, sore and didn’t have the same amount of energy and stamina as before. I pushed it too hard in the first two weeks following Sam’s birth. Walking to Ella’s school left me drained for hours and increased my blood loss. My body was telling me that it wasn’t ready. That was a 5 minute walk down the road! Just attempting routine household tasks ended up setting me back a day or two. My abdominal discomfort continued well beyond what it should have and one day my knee suddenly swelled up dramatically. I went to the GP where it was determined that I had a Kidney Infection to go along with my c-section recovery. I was placed on a week’s course of anti-biotics and began to feel much better but that was two weeks post delivery! I returned to my freelance work around 4 weeks post-delivery with the odd bit of work here and there prior to that. I also continued to post on this blog in the days following Sam’s birth. I’m not perfect at “taking it easy” either however I paid a price in the end by slowing my own recovery.

Of course, provided she has medical clearance to do so, Amanda Holden is free to do what she likes. I just think that it’s daft! Taking yourself away from your familly and what should be your primary focus, pushing yourself physically when your body needs plenty of time, rest and support to recover is not sensible for anyone. When a celebrity does something so inadvisable it sets a precendent that none of us “normal people” can live up to. There’s already enough pressure on mothers to be able to fit back into their pre-pregnancy jeans within weeks following the delivery of their babies thanks to celebrities like Katie Price, Victoria Beckham and Heidi Klum. Shouldn’t we allow mothers the time to be mothers and recover on their own terms instead of setting unrealistic expectations as a society? The work can wait. Britain can wait. Babies are far more precious and the health and well-being of their mothers should be what we’re concerned about, shouldn’t it? I really hope that Amanda Holden’s physicians feel the same because they certainly should not be signing her off to return to work at two weeks post delivery.

So my advice, Amanda Holden? Keep your comfy clothes on, scrape your hair back in a ponytail, skip the makeup and snuggle up with your so-longed-for Hollie Rose. That’s where Britain wants to see you…not on our televisions, just yet anyway.

If you hadn’t been keeping up on Twitter, I went into hospital on Monday 21 November after noticing some light spotting bleeding. I had placenta praevia and our elective c-section had been scheduled for Friday 2 December. I was adamant, in the meeting with the consultant, that I wanted an elective c-section. Ella’s emergency c-section after failure to progress in labour was traumatic and terrifically unpleasant. I wanted to have a controlled, semi-peaceful birth and was confident that an elective c-section, while stil MAJOR abdominal surgery, would be the best for all of us. I was also adamant that if I went into labour early, I still wanted an elective c-section. Thankfully, the placenta praevia necessitated that.

On Monday 21 November, one week after turning 41, I went to the toilet around noon for a routine wee and noticed some spotting. My heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t bright red bleeding but it definitely was spotting. I waited for a bit, checked again and was assured that it was continuing. I phoned Mark first to tell him and told him that I would be ringing the hospital labour ward. After I rang the maternity unit, they told me that I definitely needed to come in. Panic stations!

I wasn’t packed and the hospital bag that I had started for the baby was only partially ready. I rang Mark back to tell him to come home, had a quick bath & got dressed, packed the baby’s bag, packed my bag and waited for Mark to come home. We had Ella with us as it was a non-school day. We didn’t want to ring Mark’s parents to worry them nor did we really have time to drop Ella off at their house. All three of us journeyed the 15 minutes or so to Peterborough City Hospital. We had been instructed to go to the Maternity Triage area where they would handle us. We arrived in the waiting area at 1:45pm and thus began my stay in hospital. I wouldn’t leave, in the end, for 5 more days. I hadn’t packed for that! I thought, silly my, that I might be having our baby on Monday 21 November. Everyone else had different plans.

Eventually I was taken through to be examined. We had rung Mark’s parents and asked them to come to the hospital to collect Ella as we weren’t sure how long we’d be there. Ella was bored and wiggly so Mark took her down to the lobby get some treats and shortly after they left I was called back to the exam room. After checking me, they determined that it seemed to be an “old” bleed but they were still concerned enough to admit me. At that point I was given the first of two steroid injections to help Bebe’s lungs to mature should he or she decide to be born early. At this point I was 37 weeks + 5 with a scheduled elective c-section for the following Friday at 39 weeks + 2. It was during my time in triage that Mark brought Ella back up to say goodbye to me which made me cry. I didn’t know what was happening and my daughter was leaving me…it really was hard for me.

I was then tranferred onto the Maternity Services Ward. This is the place where women being induced or checked for ante-natal problems are sent. Also, this is the post-delivery ward in Peterborough City Hospital. Thankfully, the hospital being just a year old meant that everything was nice and shiny and clean. The wards were HUGE with 4 beds and plenty of room around each bed. We were even afforded the luxury of a television, albeit, without freeview or satellite! There was one large toilet/shower room for the 4 berths to share which was far better than when I had to schlep myself down the hallway to a communal toilet when I was in the old hospital for Ella’s labour and delivery.

I shared the ward with a slightly chavvy girl who was being monitored (and later turfed), a diabetic woman at 34 weeks pregnant who was refusing to eat and/or take her medication and a woman being induced and beginning to labour across from me. When I was admitted, no one really explained anything to me. The midwife on shift told me that I would be seen by the consultant in the morning. That was it. No explanation of how long I might be staying or what I could expect. Mark stayed with me for a short while but I felt it was more important that he collect Ella and take her home so she could have a normal night in our house. He went to his parents to collect her and then brought Ella back to see me. We had a nice but short visit and then when it came time to say goodbye, Ella grabbed onto me and sobbed. Poor thing, she didn’t understand why her Mummy couldn’t come home with her. We’d really never been separated with the exception of 2 nights apart in her whole life. We both cried and then Mark peeled Ella off of me and bundled her into the car to go home. Bless her, she fell asleep in the car on the way home.

Thankfully, there were no restrictions on mobile phone usage and I had had the presence of mind to pack my BlackBerry charger so I was able to Tweet and email everyone to give updates. I also managed to write, over the next 3 days, 3 blog posts with my two little thumbs tippy-tapping away. A miracle! The next morning (Tuesday) a rather horrid and totally unfeeling, thoughtless Consultant rolled up, reviewed my chart, said I would be staying at least another day and night and that was it. No discussion about anything. No questions. No niceties or anything. I was left staring open-mouthed as he turned on his heel and went to the next bed. Thus began the pattern for the next 3 days. The consultant would roll up in the morning at some point, look at my chart, tell me I was staying and leave. Each day I wondered when I would be allowed to go home. Each day, no one filled in that answer. Finally, one afternoon, I think Wednesday, one of the midwives finally said, “More than likely they’ll keep you here until your scheduled elective c-section.”

Thanks to the placenta praevia and the fact that I had had a light bleed, there was no telling if or when a proper bleed might start. The danger, with placenta praevia, is that if a major bleed starts, it happens FAST with very little time to get help and the result could be death. The doctors at PCH didn’t want to risk me leaving hospital and having a major bleed. Totally understandable. But it really didn’t help that this wasn’t properly communicated to me until I was in hospital for 3 days. I also wanted to discuss moving up the date of the elective c-section. It seemed to me that keeping me in hospital for 11 days was far more expensive and pointless than moving up the date of the c-section, especially considering that by the Wednesday I was 38 weeks pregnant and had had my 2 steroid injections as well. The consultants wouldn’t even discuss it. They gave me answers like “statistics”, “reports”, “studies” and said it was best to wait as long as possible and get to 39 weeks. I argued that if I went into labour and/or had a bleed then the elective c-section which was scheduled for 2 December would then become an emergency and/or crash c-section, potentially under general anaesthetic which could be far worse for myself and the baby. They didn’t listen. They were aiming for 39 weeks. I was stuck. I was depressed.

Mark and Ella were having to fend for themselves, I was lonely and depressed and all I wanted was to hold my baby. The lunatic in the bed next to me was driving me to distraction and I had nothing to do. It was not a good thing. I honestly don’t know how women who have to be in for much longer manage. Part of my difficulty was that no one was telling me anything until Thursday. Finally on Thursday, the same humourless consultant who I had seen on Tuesday told me that there was no chance I was getting out and that I would just have to wait until the following Friday for my scheduled elective c-section. I sobbed. He stared at me. He said nothing but just stood there and stared at me. Finally he backed out of the bay and left me sobbing. The midwife came over to me and wrapped her arms around me and just patted my back while I sobbed. I just wanted to go home. She brought me some tissues and left me in peace. I curled up in a ball on my bed and was miserable.

I spent the rest of the day sitting up in a chair, watching telly, pouting miserably and checking Twitter. Then, around 3:30pm my comfort midwife came in and asked if I had been put on the monitor yet that day. I hadn’t so she wheeled in the machine, strapped me up and started monitoring me. As the minutes ticked on, I began to feel “tightenings” in my belly. I started looking at the monitor each time they started and watched the numbers go up and up. They started to be more than “discomfort” and became properly uncomfortable. My spotting had picked up a bit that afternoon and now with the “tightenings” starting, I began to wonder if Bebe was planning on an earlier entrance. It was Thanksgiving in America after all. It seemed fitting!

The midwife came around to check the tape and was shocked to see all the spikes and dips in my feed. She asked me if I could feel the contractions. I said yes. She said, “Well, we’ll keep you on the monitor for a while longer then.” About 30 minutes later, after continued tightenings and definite “discomfort”, the midwife came back. She didn’t like the frequency of the “tightenings” and called in one of the junior consultants to look at the tape. They decided that it was time to bring in the consultant to have a look. Then, after a few more minutes, they decided to transfer me to the labour ward. It was about 5:30 by this time. I rang Mark and told him to get to the hospital as I was being moved to the labour ward which scared the bejesus out of him. The midwife and junior consultant brought a wheelchair around and started packing up my things to transfer me to the labour ward. It seemed that Bebe indeed wanted to be a Thanksgiving baby.

Next installment: Labour ward, Arterial Bleeding and the C-Section…

Carrying on from yesterday’s introduction to “It Started Seven Years Ago…”, I arrived in Paris on 1 February and began my journey toward the rest of my life. The following are exerpts from my journal/diary as I made my way across Paris, across Normandy and made myself familiar with the town that would be my home for 3 months, Caen.

I miraculously find Baggage Claim and lo and behold, both of my suitcases are there! Now to find the shuttle to the train station. After doing a half circle aroud the airport, I finally find it and get my large-ass luggage on it. Sweating just a bit now. Oh, approximately 8000 Asians are standing at Arrivals awaiting someone. I fight my way through the throng and bump, bump, bump my suitcases to the shuttle bus. My arms are pretty tired at this point and I am exhausted, sweaty and generally unkempt. My kingdom for a brush!

I had to transport 2 LARGE rolling suitcases full of clothes, etc, 1 carry-on bag full of BOOKS and 1 briefcase with my EXCEPTIONALLY HEAVY ancient laptop and power cords. My total luggage weight had to be well over 100lbs. I believe that I ended up losing about 5 lbs in body weight by the time I arrived at my dormitory in Caen. I had tingling in my hands from lack of circulation and a huge blister on one hand where my ring had been rubbing the palm of my hand. I had to have been quite a picture with my haul, trundling across Paris, on the underground, on the train, on the cobblestone streets! I nearly gave up several times but I refused to let the weight of my belongings stop me! I landed at CDG airport at 10:00am and arrived in my dorm room in Caen at 3:30pm. Here are the Haiku poems I wrote in my journal after this epic journey.

• I have a blister. It is on my palm and hurts. Pack light means TWO BAGS!
• I slept until one. I could not open my eyes. France makes you tired.
• Seven euro gone. Found some internet, oh yay! Money well spent, yes!
• Speaking French is hard. Oh how I long for English. So much easier!
• Bought a pretty plant. Hope it grows along with me. Kind of lonely now.

I was shocked to find out how primitive life in the dormitories was at the University of Caen. The dorm was co-ed which meant that boys and girls occupied the same floors even! There were two extremely shady characters who lived across the hall from me. I eventually named one of them Breadstick Jesus because he was as scrawny as a breadstick and looked a bit like Jesus. We eventually discovered that he and his roommate had dropped out of University ages before but where still “squatting” in their dorm room.

The toilets on our floor (all 3 of them) had NO TOILET SEATS! There was a toilet stool in each one but no SEAT. So, if you were a girl and needed to sit for any particular reason you either had to put toilet paper around the rim or squat. Not ideal really. The showers were rather disgusting and I did my best to never let any part of my body touch any part of the shower stall. It mostly worked. This was quite a change for me…age 34, used to creature comforts, having to share toilets and showers with characters like Breadstick Jesus! I wrote a few more Haiku poems after the next few days:

• My body won’t sleep. What time is it anyway? Switch to France time NOW!
• Complet thon is YUM! It is my sandwich for France. Let’s eat something else. (I ate a tuna baguette for several days!)
• My phone is ringing! It’s is my friend Steve from Spain. Let’s speak ENGLISH, YAY!

My three days in Caen, before returning to Paris to fly to England were muddled and lonely. I didn’t know anyone, was jet lagged and feeling wretched and was struggling to do even the simplest things. However, when I did manage to accomplish something I was so proud of myself. Back in 2005, in Caen, WiFi was virtually non-existent and one needed to get one’s internet from Internet Cafes. I spent about 10 hours in one place over three days time and probably 20€ in fees. I was desperate to make contact with anyone. I bought a funny little mobile phone and got to grips with it as I’d never really had a mobile prior to that.

Mark and I had made arrangements for him to collect me at Luton Airport on Friday 4 February (2005). We hadn’t actually seen pictures of each other except for the one Julie sent to him of me and his niece (which was HORRID actually…I didn’t know it would be my “introduction” photo). I had seen a few milliseconds of Mark on video from a family ski trip. Wearing a helmet, goggles and snood doesn’t quite give you a picture of the person you’re meant to be meeting! I assumed Mark had blonde hair as his sister had blonde hair…he didn’t though, I learned.

When we last spoke before I left the US, Mark knew my flight number and arrival time, that I would be pulling a BRIGHT PINK suitcase and vaguely what I looked like. I knew that someone tall and with (I thought) blonde hair would be waiting for me. I was staying for the weekend and returning to Paris on Sunday 6 February. There were no specific plans other than to meet and spend time together. I don’t think either of us knew what to expect.

So finally we board the plane. It is so wonderful to be back in the land of English speakers! The flight lasted about 50 minutes which blows my mind a bit! To be able to fly to another COUNTRY in only 50 minutes is a bit shocking. I got off the plane and went through Passport Control, collected my pretty BRIGHT PINK suitcase, took a deep breath and…went to the toilet! A quick wee, primpt and brush of the hair and I am ready. Holy shit! I walk out of the door and start looking around…this is like a movie! And then, there’s this guy coming toward me, looking at me sort of quizically and he says, “Karin?” as I am saying “Mark?” And it was him! I was so happy. I hugged him and he hugged back. He’s TALL and has short, dark hair. And he has good teeth!

Tomorrow, the rest of the weekend…and no, it’s not what you’re thinking! Get your mind out of the gutter! I’m a good girl from Wisconsin!

Life as I know it? It started seven years ago! I left the United States on 31 January, 2005 to begin a study-abroad term in Caen, France. You see, I was back at University in my hometown to complete a 2nd degree to become a French teacher. One of the requirements for the degree was to spend a semester (3 months) abroad in an exchange programme. My University was “twinned” with the University of Caen in Normandy, France. I packed up far too many things in 2 massive suitcases and 2 massive carry-ons and flew across an ocean to begin my adventure.

I had begun talking to my now-husband Mark in November of the previous year. I had been good friends with his twin sister when she and her family were based in the same town as me. When I told her about my study abroad programme she insisted that I give her my contact details so she could pass them on to her brother. He lived in England and as I was going to be in France, she figured that having a person to know on this side of the pond would be useful. I believe that she secretly knew that we would make a match made in heaven. Clever clogs!

I gave Julie my details and that’s the last I thought about it! Little did I know, Mark was sitting, an ocean away, trying to build up the courage to ring a woman he’d never spoken to before. Then, he lost the card that I had written my details down on! A few months went by. Mark decided to get rid of the 3-piece suite in his lounge. When he moved one of the couches, the card with my details on it appeared as if by magic. (Perhaps he should have cleaned more often??) Eventually he rang me. He got my mobile answering service:

Uh, hello, this is Mark Joyce, Julie’s brother, from England. I’ll try to ring you back another time. Cheers!

That was it! But imagine little old me, a simple gal in Wisconsin, USA, picking up messages off my mobile and hearing an English voice and wondering who the heck it was and OH MY GOD…how do you dial international??? Eventually Mark and I managed to connect through the phone wires. We talked for over an hour that first time and while I was training my ear to understand his accent, Mark was making a real impression on my heart. Those first steps toward each other happened through the phone lines and emails. Well, I say emails but really ME emailing HIM as Mark isn’t very fond of email or the internet.

We eventually made plans to meet. I was leaving the US on 31 January to arrive in France on 1 February. I decided, in my own pea brain, that if this was going to develop into something, I wanted to meet Mark in person sooner rather than later. I made arrangements to fly from Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris via easy Jet to Luton Airport in England on Friday 4 February, 2005. This required me to take a 2 hour train ride from Caen to Paris, a 45-minute plane ride from Paris to Luton and spend the weekend with a man I had never met! Oh and through poor planning, I realised that I needed to change my flight on the Sunday from Luton back to Paris which required me to pay 99€ on the spot for the luxury. I tell you what…it was worth it.

I’m going to share with you, over the course of a few days this week, some exerpts from my journal at the time. I decided to chart my path with paper and pen way back then…blogging wasn’t quite at the forefront of my plans then. I read back through those entries and can still laugh out loud at some of the experiences I had. I was such a different woman then and had no clue how much my life would change all thanks to a note card with some letters and numbers on it.

Tune in tomorrow to read about my first few days in France and my nervous anticipation for my weekend in England.

Inspired by a photo blog prompt from Tara Cain’s Sticky Fingers Gallery, I took a picture of “Me Right Now” last week Friday. I think it’s a pretty accurate photo of the REAL side of motherhood…the one we all go through from time to time!

This was taken on Friday night. We had had a LONG day, Daddy hadn’t arrived home yet. It was about 6:30pm, I was tired, worn out and slightly down. Sam, as you can well see, was not entirely pleased at that moment. Rest assured that I took this self-portrait and settled my son post haste. It’s real…it’s life…it’s motherhood. It was me, right then!

Just a reminder, for the month of February I am closing comments on Cafe Bebe. I’m getting back to the heart of why I blog. Because I enjoy sharing and writing. You are more than welcome to find me on Twitter (@cafebebe) to leave me a comment or to chat. You are welcome to find me on Facebook to do the same. And you can always contact me through my personal email or the contact form on my About page. Thank you for your patience this month. I hope you enjoy the writing and I’ll see you at the end of the month to report back on my experimental findings!

I’ve seen in the Daily Mail’s Weekend magazine, where “celebrities” list “5 Things You Didn’t Know About me”. Some bloggers have also been doing this but I must have missed my invitation as I’m not sure who started it in the blogosphere.

Following on from my recent About Me page re-do, inspired by Michelle Garrett and BritMums, I thought I would take this theme and tell you 5 things you didn’t know about Cafe Bebe as opposed to ME!

1. Advertising: I currently run ONE advertisement on my blog for which I am paid. I have only been approached to run an ad for payment by one brand. Ever. I do run “badges/widgets” for various causes, services, programmes for free as usually, I believe in promoting things that I enjoy and don’t feel the need to be paid for it. I suppose that makes me a giant IDIOT in the blogging  world. I effectively, give away, click-thru “advertising” for no payment whatsoever. I am probably a numpty. I would run appropriate advertising if I was approached to do so. The current ad which runs in my right side-bar is for the business/store, Kiddicare. I shop regularly at Kiddicare and wholeheartedly support their efforts so it’s a perfect fit for Cafe Bebe.
2. Income: I do not make an income from Cafe Bebe. I do not even make enough, annually, from my blog to afford the hosting of my blog. I do receive press releases and pitches from PR’s to review products and attend events. I used to receive far more, when I was more heavily involved in reviewing products. Now I am much more selective about review products as my time is far more limited. Thus, I don’t get as many review opportunities and I am invited to far fewer events than, say, a year ago. I also receive the occasional request to write sponsored posts and/or accept canned content to run as a sponsored post. I ran ONE sponsored post about a year ago. It was one of those where they give you all the specifics you have to write about, give you the links they want used and the keywords they should be attached to. They want to approve your post before they allow you to run it…one of those sort of sponsored posts. Then, your “payment” goes into an account where you have no right to claim it until you have written x-amount of posts totalling in x-amount of £. That was the only post I ran. I felt a bit dirty about it, to tell you the truth. It was only worth £40 and I felt like I had sold my soul to the devil. I didn’t like it one bit. Thus, I am not keen to accept sponsored posts. Again, many would say that I am a numpty but I am a bit precious about the content of Cafe Bebe.
3. Freelance Work: I am a self-employed freelance writer/blogger/social media consultant. I have accepted freelance work with several clients for whom I create original content, maintain their social media channels and advise them regarding blogging issues. I have been paid for that freelance work, however, no where near enough to even worry about the tax threshold. Of course, I file my taxes (thanks to an accounting service) and declare my income and expenses. I pay National Insurance. Cafe Bebe has integrity. I disclose relationships with brands and any compensation “in kind” for work. You could maybe argue that I, then, have made money, maybe even an income, from blogging. I would argue back that MY blog doesn’t make me that income. I have been able to secure freelance work as a result of the reputation that Cafe Bebe has achieved and thus, have been paid for work that has very little to do with Cafe Bebe. Thankfully, what little I have achieved has allowed me to remain a Stay-at-home-Mum and raise my children myself.
4. Time & Hard Work:  Cafe Bebe has not gotten to where it is today by accident. I have worked hard for the last 2 years 8 months and have put in a lot of blood, sweat and tears to this blog. I love Cafe Bebe. I like to look at it, from time to time, and admire it. I’m weird, I guess. I am not ranked on the Tots 100 because I chose not to register Cafe Bebe. I used to be included in the Tots 100 rankings but I found myself getting too wrapped up in the competition with MYSELF each month. I was trying to dissect what I was doing WRONG each month when either Cafe Bebe didn’t appear in the rankings or when I dropped. I think the highest I ever got was 48? I can’t remember! It became unhealthy for me. Was I happy with the content of my blog? Was I engaging with readers? Was I enjoying what I was doing? YES! So where I ranked on a list wasn’t the most important thing to me. I think, when you’re starting out in blogging, it is very helpful to be registered with things like the Tots 100. If you can remain impartial and not take it too seriously, then by all means, go for it. I do end up in the Wikio Parent Blog rankings however but I can take or leave that. I’ve spent a fair amount of time on social networking channels (Twitter in particular) creating the Cafe Bebe “brand” and establishing relationships with followers. Keeping yourself on followers radars requires that. I have discovered that since having Sam and spending far less time on Twitter, that my Twitter “klout” has dropped considerably. Basically, you’ve got to be “in it to win it”.
5. Expertise: Thanks to my time spent in the blogging community, I have been able to develop a fair bit of knowledge about the parent blogging world and the best way to work with parent bloggers. Several brands and PR agencies have hired me to come speak to their “people” about these topics. Isn’t it brilliant to be valued and respected for your knowledge and expertise. I LOVE talking. Anyone who has met me knows this. I love talking about blogging in particular. I enjoy helping out newer bloggers, meeting with veteran bloggers to learn from them and sharing in a positive community. Despite all of this supposed “expertise”, outside of the guise of “Cafe Bebe”, I am actually quite shy and reserved. I hang back and wait for others to approach me and have a very limited circle of “real life” friends. What you see in blogging events, on the blog and in presentations is a far more confident person than reality.

There are 5 things you didn’t know about Cafe Bebe! Do they surprise you?

I haven’t blogged since Tuesday of this week! Can you believe it? I decided to give your inbox/Google Reader/Twitter stream a break this week. You missed me…I’m sure!

I’ve had a week of mega-highs and lowly lows. I’ll blog about the mega-highs this next week but the lowly lows mainly centre around massive insecurities about my writing, where I need to go next and what sort of future there is for me with my writing/blogging/etc. Small stuff eh?

Ultimately I have a wonderful family, however, and every once in a while you get these “Mummy moments” that remind you what it’s all about…I had mine this morning. Here it is:

This is the kind of Mummy Moment that makes all of that insecurity, indecision and frustration go away. I’m going to try to celebrate these Mummy Moments a bit more often as they really are the most important thing aren’t they?