More Than Just a Mother

Best friends

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 10:40:00 +0000

My five-year-old son has a best friend. Forged in the very first week of his first term at school, their friendship has remained steadfast over the last few months, despite the ups and downs of classroom life. Towards the end of last year my son was ill for a full week, staying home from school to recover. By lunchtime on the first day he was missing his best friend.

"What do you think R is doing right now?" I asked, trying to jolly him out of his gloom.

He sighed and thought for a while. "Probably just sitting in the corner looking sad," he said sorrowfully. "That's what I'd be doing if I was at school and he wasn't there."

On day three, round about six in the evening, he suddenly and unaccountably burst into tears. "I miss him so much!" he wailed, great wracking sobs causing his little chest to heave. We reached for the telephone and called R, catching him just as he was being put to bed. I withdrew to a tactful distance to listen to J's half of the conversation, which went something like this;

"I miss you R [pause]. I can't come to school tomorrow [pause]. I really miss you too [pause]. I love you."

He put down the phone with a great sigh, but with his tears dried up and his brow unfurrowed.

The next day we ignored all risks of contagion and brought the boys together to play, where they happily slipped into silliness.

I'm awed by the intensity of their relationship at such a young age, and intrigued to watch it develop. I wonder if they'll still be the best of friends in five years' time, or whether they'll have moved onto other friendships. For the time being I'm simply glad my son has found someone whose company he loves, who is kind and gentle and whose parents I like. Long may it last.

A Misunderstanding at the Pharmacy

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 15:54:00 +0000

Over the last few years I have accumulated quite a cache of drugs. Nothing wildly out of the ordinary, just an array of prescription painkillers with a sprinkling of sleeping tablets thrown in for good measure. Most of the packets were out of date and several were untouched so I thought it wise to get them out of the house before the children found them. Aware that Boots the Chemist will take unwanted drugs I bundled them up into a carrier bag and headed for the High Street.

I spoke to a cashier and explained that I had some drugs to dispose of.

"Are there any controlled drugs in there?" she asked.

And that is where the misunderstanding arose. Perhaps I wasn't listening properly, perhaps I'm simply rather dense, but for whatever reason I thought she meant prescription drugs.

"Oh yes," I confirmed, "lots. In fact almost all of them are."

Her expression changed. "Are they all yours?" she asked, head cocked and one eyebrow raised.

I wondered if this was on a par with airport staff verifying that you've packed your bags yourself, so I nodded firmly. "Absolutely. All mine. Every last one."

"I see," she said, looking me up and down. "Would you just wait here a moment?"

She retreated to the other side of the store to consult with a man in a white coat I took to be the pharmacist. They eyed me with quizzical expressions and whispered furtively to each other, while I waited politely with my carrier bag of drugs.

It was then that I realised I'd made a bit of a mistake. My bag was full of prescription drugs, generously dished out by GPs to anyone presenting with a bit of an ache. Controlled drugs are something else entirely. Controlled drugs are those designated as such under the Misuse of Drugs act. The heroin substitute Methadone, for example.How foolish of me to have misunderstood. No wonder they were looking at me with interest. I was quite sure I didn't look like a smack-head, but head-to-toe Boden is fitting camouflage for a barbiturates habit.

No big problem, of course. A minor misunderstanding which, whilst demonstrating my lack of intelligence, would be easily rectified. A few strides over to where the pharmacist and cashier were talking, a swift smile and a "gosh how silly of me - of course I meant these are merely prescription drugs. See?"

So of course that's what I did, isn't it?

No.

I ran away.

Even as I write this I'm at a loss to explain what on earth was going through my head, as I legged it down the personal hygiene aisle, sashayed past the nappy section and burst out through the automatic doors, my carrier bag of perfectly legal drugs banging against my legs. I can only tell you that what I felt standing there in the store with my bag of drugs was akin to the way I feel when I spot a police car in my rear-view mirror. Instantly and irrationally guilty.

I have no idea what the pharmacist thought and I am unlikely to find out, as my chances of ever setting foot in Boots again without a heavy disguise are extremely slim.

I sloped home with my heart pounding, in need of a Valium. Fortunately, I had several at hand.

The Annual Round Robin Letter

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 21:07:00 +0000

The people we bought our house from were rather slapdash in their change of address cards. Every now and then a letter drops through the door addressed to the previous occupants and I love nothing more than to settle down with a cup of tea to read their latest correspondence. I know it's faintly illegal, but I like to live on the edge. Anyway, nobody writes to me nowadays except the Inland Revenue so I live vicariously through my house's previous occupants.

Yesterday I opened a satisfyingly fat card from America, quivering in anticipation (me, not the card) of the annual round robin letter from Bill and Jenny, and their exceptionally talented children Ned, Ashley and Brianna. The Spackmans have been writing to us - sorry, I mean to the previous owners of our house - for five years and there's no question about it, they're going from strength to strength. What with Bill's promotion ("it's a shame he's on the road so much, but we sure love that paycheck!") and Jenny's graduation as a Naturopath ("the energy passing through my hands is just awesome" blimey, lucky old Bill...) it's as though nothing can go wrong for them. Granted, poor Ned missed out on his grades last year, but he's made the soccer team this year and certainly seems happy in the obligatory cheesy photo, which shows poor Ashley (or it might be Brianna) with an unfortunate eighties-inspired hairdo she'd do well to move on from. Still, bad hair or not, the Spackman daughters are finding their way in the world ("both girls have the guys running around after them..." really, with that hair? "...and of course come home each weekend to see Mom. We're truly blessed with perfect kids" Vomit).

Tempted though I am to take the Spackman's up on their apparently unqualified offer to "drop in if you're ever in Texas," I'm not sure I could compete with such paragons of perfection. My own round robin newsletter - were I to produce one - would look something like this. Happy New Year.

Dear person I met once and regret exchanging addresses with,

2011 was a blast.

The Husband is well, I think. Married for nearly eight years and never a cross word - in fact, we hardly talk to each other at all nowadays.

J is now five, can you believe it?! He played a shepherd in the school nativity and he was absolutely shit.

The twins will be four next month and are still as badly behaved as ever. G has decided she wants to be a boy and keeps asking me to shave her head. She wears J's clothes and wants to grow a willy by planting a seed in her vagina. I knew I'd regret giving the sex talk so early. E's tantrums have reached epic proportions. The local police have an ASBO in draft form; the neighbours have only got to give the nod, especially since that incident with the cat.

I left work in the summer of 2011 to work from home and take on the childcare full-time. It's been hugely rewarding and really just one long party. At least, that's how I justify the litre of gin I get through each week. Obviously the three months of stress-related cystitis and the temporary alopecia was a challenge, but the doctors say the accompanying amnesia is really a blessing. I live for the holidays, when I get to be with the children every second of every single day. Such fun. Next week I'm being committed to a lunatic asylum for assessment. I'll miss the family but I'm looking forward to the break.

Yours till next year,

Emily

School's out: end of term report

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 10:26:00 +0000

Ah, the end of the school term. Traditionally a time to reflect on one's performance and consider areas for improvement.

So how did I do?

Let's compare my performance at the start of the term, a mere ten or so weeks ago, with the final week of term.

Then: packed lunches made the night before school, containing a variety of home-made delicacies such as pesto pinwheels and scotch eggs, two pieces of fruit and a pot of natural yoghurt, lovingly decanted into a miniature Tupperware and drizzled with honey.

Now: packed lunches hurled into boxes at 8.15 each morning whilst I scream randomly about who's eaten all the fruit, eventually defaulting to hyperactive fromage frais, a packet of crisps and a jam sandwich made with the end slices no-one wants to eat.

Then: a leisurely walk to the bus stop, pausing every now and then to comment on a snail-shell, the view or to greet elderly neighbours.

Now: a frantic race up the hill, bellowing at the children to KEEP MOVING!, inadvertently stepping on said snails and glaring at elderly neighbours who attempt conversation.

Then: clean white polo shirt every day, knife-creases ironed into shirt and trousers and school sweatshirt carefully pressed. Uniform laid out before bed each night, ready for the next day.

Now: shirts in varying shades of grey, nothing ironed and sweatshirt mishapen thanks to a run-in with the hottest setting of the tumble dryer. Uniform balled up and thrown on the floor each night, ready for the next day.

Then: no television until after all homework has been finished, supper has been eaten and children are ready for bed.

Now: CBeebies timed to switch on approximately thirty seconds after arrival home from school.

Have you done any better?

Naked Beans Night - the reprise

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 13:23:00 +0000

A while ago I wrote about Naked Beans Night - the family tradition I started by accident when my children were babies. Recently I was invited to share my tale with the listeners of CBC Radio, Canada's national public broadcaster, as a guest on a programme about the lessons children learn by accident.

I duly ensconced myself in a sound-proofed broom cupboard at BBC Oxford to record the segment, only slightly put off my stride by the BBC van which had reversed into my car just minutes earlier.

All DNTO episodes are available as podcasts on the station website, or as free podcast downloads from iTunes. The Accidental Parenting episode is packed with stories from parents and children, interspersed with a great play list. To hear my segment of the show, press play below.

Naked Beans Night: Emily Carlisle discusses accidental parenting on CBC Radio by EmilyCarlisle

Review and Giveaway: Samsung Eco Bubble - the mother of all washing machines.

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 19:21:00 +0000

It never ceases to amaze me just how much laundry is created by three small children and a husband with a cleanliness obsession. No sooner have I washed, ironed, folded and put away the Pisa-like pile of clothes, than they're back in the washing basket, taunting me with their newly acquired stains.

Samsung sent me a brand new Eco Bubble to review and naturally I asked if I could have a second one for one of my readers. I know, it's somewhat less sexy than the last product I offered you, but I promise you it'll still press your buttons. The selling point of the Eco Bubble is that it uses 30% of the energy of some other washing machines, and I'm really impressed by the effectiveness of the 'super eco' programme, which washes in cold water. There are tons of different cycles, including a handy 15 minute wash, and the dial selection is intuitive - handy for someone like me who never reads a manual if she can help it.

A family of five produces a lot of washing, and in the past I've been guilty of cramming as much as possible into the machine, just to get through it all. It's a false economy, of course - over-filling the drum just means the clothes won't wash properly and you're liable to damage the washing machine. My new Samsung Eco Bubble has a staggering 12kg capacity and will happily take a double duvet without groaning under the strain.

The 12 kg Samsung Eco Bubble retails at £899 but leave a comment on the blog to be in with a chance of winning one for yourself. Each comment gives you one entry - tweet the following for an additional entry;

"I want to win a 12kg Samsung Eco Bubble washing machine with @MTJAM http://tinyurl.com/ckf6xed #EcoBubbleMTJAM"

Closing date: Friday 9th December 2011

Terms and conditions:

One winner will be chosen from all comments and tweets left, using a random number generator, after midnight on Friday 9th December 2011. There is no cash alternative. I will contact the winner by Saturday 10th December 2011 to request a delivery address. If I don't receive a reply by Saturday 17th December 2011 I will select a new winner. The winner must provide a UK delivery address.

A Maths Question

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 10:08:00 +0000

Mother has three children. Two thirds of her children have bad coughs. One child with a cough wakes three times each night, the remaining child with a cough wakes twice as much. The third child has no cough but has eight tantrums between 7am and 7pm - twice as many as the other two children put together.

How much gin does Mother drink?

Overheard on Oxford Street

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 14:01:00 +0000

"Do you want to marry me?"

I caught the question, uttered in an accent I couldn't place, as I picked my way through Oxford Street last week. I turned my head but couldn't identify who had spoken - or to whom - and reluctantly I allowed myself to be carried along in the throng of people leaving the Underground.

Who was he asking? And why was it phrased in that way? Not will you marry me? but do you want to? More like a business proposal than a romantic declaration. Had she just broken the news of an unplanned pregnancy, and he was doing the honourable thing? Maybe she needed a visa, and his offer provided a practical solution to her dilemma. Was it the hundredth time of asking? Had she changed her mind more times than the wind? Was he despairing of yet another row? Do you want to marry me, or not?

I could write a dozen stories based on a single overheard conversation, and I love to eavesdrop. Snatches of arguments drifting from an open window, or the tail-end of bar chat. Hairdresser laughter, bus-stop banter, or the window-cleaners' hollered hecklings. All grist for the creative mill. Hearing accents, local expressions, vocal tics and curses adds so much colour, inspires so many ideas my fingers start to twitch, searching out a keyboard, a pen, a pencil.

When I lived in Paris I spent a lot of time alone. I'd go to the cinema and listen to the couple behind me make whispered plans. I'd sit in cafes stirring my espresso and smiling at the women discussing their husbands' sexual prowess. I'd listen to the English girls on their French exchange and the furious waiter slamming his tray down with an ever-varied range of expletives. Colour so rich and varied you could never be bored.

"Do you want to marry me?"

I hope she does. And I hope it's for all the right reasons.

Discreet Packages for the Discerning Lady: a review and giveaway

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 22:16:00 +0000

You all know I'm no prude when it comes to adult content. After all, when I realised I'd accidentally left a sex toy in a cupboard I was delivering to the locksmith, you were the first to know. And of course I came straight to you for advice when deciding how on earth I was going to dispose of a broken vibrator.

So I thought it was about time I revisited the topic, with a little something to reward you for reading. I got in touch with Vibrators.co.uk who invited me to choose a product from their vast selection of eye-opening toys. I have to confess that I wasn't entirely sure what most of them did, or even which bit you were supposed to use. But some of them were extremely pretty, so in the end I chose something I'd be happy to have on my mantle piece.

You're as confused as I was, aren't you? The Cone is a veritable work of art. I'm confident that even the most worldly-wise cleaner would merely flick her feather duster over it without batting an eyelid and it's really too lovely to be hidden away in a drawer. But The Cone is far more than an ornament. With sixteen - yes SIXTEEN - different programmes it promises 'hands-free pleasure' when used solo or with a partner. So does it work? Well, yes. It's a little unorthodox as far as seating options go, and I think I'll stick to a deckchair for the beach, but there's no doubt about it, The Cone presses all the right buttons.

Vibrators.co.uk threw in a SINFIVE Insignio as a little surprise for me, but frankly I'd had enough surprises for one day, so I passed it onto a friend to review on my behalf. This is what she said.

"Having been asked to review a sex toy for a friend, itself a strange enough occurrence, I found my curiosity piqued to the point where I was nodding vigorously and holding out my hands for the discreetly wrapped brown box, eager to discover the treat inside. And what a treat – 8” of waterproof, odour free, candy floss coloured fun! The first ‘ooh la la’ was the packaging – like an oversized iPhone4, the box is satin-smooth and bears a picture of the vibrator, with a lily in the background. Very arty and minimalist.
The toy itself is a beautiful shade of pink and covered in embossed fleur-de-lis, making it certainly the prettiest item of its nature that I have come across (ahem). Its various settings, 6 constant speeds and 3 vibration patterns, make it almost musical although its ‘music’ is discreet and low.

Deciding to give it a thorough reviewing, my husband and I clicked its buttons with almost gay abandon to whizz through the menu of settings, before settling on something that sounded like an asthmatic humming bird. The toy’s shape and fabric make it enjoyable as a stimulator of a number of bodily areas, although the top speed setting on tender parts made me gasp and decide to opt for a gear change.

All in all, this is a toy that will stay at the back of the top shelf of my cupboard, away from the prying eyes of my children. The adults however, will be back for regular visits."

Well quite. I'm not entirely sure I'll ever view her in the same light again.

If you'd like to win The Cone for yourself (RRP £59.99) just leave a comment below and I'll enter you into the draw. If you want to comment but not enter the draw, just say so. Vibrators.co.uk send all their products out with free batteries and in totally discreet packaging, as you can see from the video below, which I promise you contains nothing more risque than a bit of bubble wrap.

****THIS GIVEAWAY HAS NOW CLOSED. CONGRATULATIONS JESSIES_ONLINE****

Disclosure: I was provided with these products for the purposes of review, and paid for my time reviewing them and running this competition. Paid to try sex toys, that's right. It's just one step away from prostitution, really, isn't it?

Terms and conditions:

I will pick a winner at random from all those who have entered the draw by midnight on 17 November 2012. I will contact you via the email or Twitter account provided in your comment, and obtain delivery details. There is no cash alternative. UK delivery addresses only.

Imagine

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 23:52:00 +0000

Imagine you had a son who died. I know - you don't want to. Of course you don't. Why would you? But walk in my shoes, just for a moment.

Imagine your son died. Imagine that the days and weeks which followed were marked by rising panic which choked the words in your throat until they escaped as wails, without form or substance. Imagine that you stayed upright each day only because you knew the days to be easier than the nights. That at night-time grief and guilt joined forces, pulling the steel band around your chest so tight you had to stand to breathe. That sleep rarely came, and that when it did, it was punctuated by such horrific images that waking again was a relief.

Imagine that people were kind, in the main. Imagine they visited, and wrote, and sent flowers. That they said the right things - and the wrong things, in some cases - and they held your hand as you cried great racking sobs of despair. They were kind when you fell apart. They understood.

Imagine then, that you had to stop talking about your son. Because how would they feel, these people, if you were forever talking about a son who died? What could they say? So imagine you fell in with convention, and now instead of flinging yourself to the floor when your child is mentioned, you smile politely and agree it's so sad, but isn't it wonderful how time heals all? And your nails leave perfect crescents in the soft skin of your palms, because over the years you've realised time heals nothing. Time has taught you to hide your grief, to repeat by rote the story of your own personal tragedy, but time has healed nothing.

Imagine his birthday. A day when perhaps it would be acceptable to mourn more openly. When perhaps you could slip off the coat you wear to protect others as much as yourself, and grieve. When you could look at his photo, touch his hair, remember the smell of his head as you held him. A day when you could shut out the world and just grieve.

Imagine that instead of doing that, you bake a cake. You make a birthday cake with five candles. You wrap a present, write a card, host a party and smile fiercely all day. You give your surviving twin the best day he can imagine and you vow that not for a second will he resent the shadow you see so clearly by his side. You make the day about him, and you apologise silently to the other boy. The boy you love just as much as the one blowing out his candles.

Happy birthday, you imagine yourself saying. Happy birthday, boys.

Imagine.

Publishing your blog to Amazon Kindle – part three

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 18:00:00 +0000

This is the final part of a three-part-post about publishing blogs to Amazon Kindle. I have been asked to write it by various people on Twitter, so my apologies to those for whom it holds no interest. Normal service will resume tomorrow. For those who asked for the tutorial, I hope it’s useful.

In part one of this series I explained why I’d published More than Just a Mother on Amazon Kindle, and what the benefits were for bloggers considering doing the same. Yesterday I outlined step-by-step instructions for publishing a blog to Kindle. Today I’m going to share some thoughts on how to market your blog successfully on Kindle. I should point out that I haven’t done all of these yet, having promptly forgotten about my blog the moment I uploaded it to Kindle. However, since realising the potential of Kindle as an additional, if small, income stream, I intend to give it some more thought. This post, therefore, is as much an action plan for me, as it is a tutorial for others.

Best-selling doesn’t mean it’s any good

Take a look at the best-selling blogs on Amazon Kindle. Then read their reviews. Pretty damning, aren’t they? So why on earth are terrible blogs listed so highly on Amazon? Because they’ve done their marketing right. It’s a sad fact that ‘best-selling’ lists are self-perpetuating; buyers see the most popular blogs and subscribe without doing any more research into them, thereby propelling them further up the best-selling list. Early adopters to Kindle blog-publishing had an advantage and now it’s harder to cement one’s position at the top of the tree. But there are a few ways to make sure your Kindle blog is working well for you.

Write good content

It’s dull but true. If your blog is worth reading, people will read it, online, by email or on a Kindle. Concentrate on producing good quality copy which is either useful or entertaining, and make sure you post regularly.

Get the price right

This is a bit of a mystery to me, and Kindle’s help forums failed to shed any light on the issue. I mentioned yesterday that my blog price changed when I altered the frequency of my posts, but there appears to be no consistency across blogs in this respect. What I have noticed is that all the best-selling blogs are priced at 99p and not £1.99, and personally I’d strive to keep my blog at the lower price, by tweaking my settings if I noticed the price had been raised.

Use good images

Like the cover of a new paperback, your blog image is crucial in attracting the attention of a prospective buyer. I’ve chosen to use an avatar – a logo, essentially – instead of a screen shot, because I prefer the image and choose to reinforce my ‘brand’ in this way. If you use a screen capture, make sure your blog layout is attractive and eye-catching, with important information ‘above the fold’. Using a mast-head (the banner image which will appear above each post when it is delivered to a subscriber’s Kindle) will help foster loyalty among your subscribers, who will associate this image with your content.

Choose the right category

When you upload your blog to Kindle you can choose up to three categories in which to list it. Choose carefully. Decide whether you want to be a big fish in a small pond, or fight with the sharks in the big one. For example, there are only 16 blogs listed under Parenting, a sub-category of Lifestyle and Culture, so it would be relatively easy to reach the top of the Parenting best-seller list. But isn’t it more impressive to reach the top ten of all 7,000 blogs listed in Lifestyle and Culture? By taking a more generalist approach you broaden your audience reach and attract subscribers who might not have trawled through the specialist categories. If you’ve already published your blog to Kindle, it’s worth amending your categories if you’re not gaining subscribers.

Tag your blog

Look at your published listing on Amazon and scroll to the bottom, just above the reviews. Here you have the option of adding ‘tags’ or key words to your listing, to help readers find you more easily. You can see that on More than Just a Mother’s listing, several people have added tags to my listing, and reinforced ones already added.

Ask for reviews

Reviews are key to converting browsing to subscribing, so ask your readers to take a few minutes to write a few lines about your blog. Many people will search only for blogs with five star reviews, so don’t ask for reviews unless you’re confident about your content!

Promote your listing

Once your blog is on Kindle, you’ve chosen the right categories and tagged your listing, you need to tell people about it. Think about your market; the people most likely to subscribe to your blog via Kindle are your existing blog readers, and people who have Kindles (or use a Kindle app on an iPhone or iPad). There are limited opportunities for promoting your blog to wider Kindle users (although Amazon will do this for you once your blog becomes more popular, by suggesting it to browsers) but you do have control over your existing blog readers. Write a post to tell them they can now access your blog via Kindle, and add an easy-click button directly from your blog to your Amazon listing. Don’t just announce you’re on Kindle – sell the benefits. Subscribing via Kindle is great for people who commute or travel and want to read their favourite blogs without being online. Send a mail shot to your contacts, include an update in your newsletter, or add the news to your email signature. Buttons on your Amazon listing make it easy to share the link via Facebook, email or Twitter, so make sure your followers know that you are now on Kindle.

That’s your lot. A brief glimpse into the sensible side of what I do before I return to what this blog is really all about. Entertainment. Thanks for reading, and if you’re a Kindle subscriber, thank you for continuing to keep me in gin.

Publishing your blog to Amazon Kindle – part two

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 19:00:00 +0000

This is part two of a three-part-post about publishing blogs to Amazon Kindle. I have been asked to write it by various people on Twitter, so my apologies to those for whom it holds no interest. The remaining post will follow tomorrow, with normal service resuming after that. For those who asked for the tutorial, I hope it’s useful.

Yesterday I explained why I’d published More than Just aMother on Amazon Kindle, and what the benefits were for bloggers considering doing the same. If you’d like to publish your own blog on Kindle, this post will tell you how.

Step one: Sign up for a Kindle publishing account

You’ll be asked for your name and email address, and have the opportunity to select a password as well as three security questions.

Step two: Add your blog

When you log in, you’ll be taken to your ‘dashboard’. In the top right hand corner, click on ‘add blog’. You’ll see a form to fill out with all your blog details, starting with your RSS feed. In fact, you can just enter your blog’s web address here, as the ‘validate feed’ button will automatically find the right feed. Add your blog title and a tag line – something which sums up your blog – then write a short description of your blog. This is your sales pitch, so think of it like the blurb on the back of a book. Put your name in the ‘blog author/publisher’ field.

Next you’ll need some images. The form asks for a screenshot of your blog, which you can take easily by using the ‘print screen’ function on your keyboard and pasting it into whatever graphics package you have. I chose not to use a screen shot, and instead used my blog’s avatar. You also have the option of uploading a banner image, which could be your blog’s header. This will appear as a mast-head at the top of each post when it’s delivered via Kindle. You need to click on ‘choose image’ and then ‘upload file’ for each picture you want to use.

The next step is to select which language your blog uses, and choose up to three categories in which you’d like to list your blog. In tomorrow’s post, where I’ll be discussing how to market your Kindle blog, I’ll explain why these categories are particularly important, so don’t jump the gun just yet. The next field asks for suggested keywords which apply to your blog, and I’ll cover this aspect tomorrow too.

Finally, choose how frequently subscribers will receive posts. You can choose from ‘multiple times a day’, ‘2-5 times a week’ or ‘1-2 times a week’. Be realistic about what your usual posting regime is, and don’t over-promise. Interestingly, when I first published my blog to Kindle I was posting around four times a week, and selected the middle category accordingly. My blog was priced by Amazon at £1.99. Relatively soon afterwards I began posting less frequently, updating my Kindle listing to reflect the new schedule. My blog price was immediately changed to 99p, so clearly the frequency of posts is a factor in Amazon’s pricing strategy, exact details of which I’ve been unable to find out.

Step three: publish your blog

You can click the ‘preview’ button to see how your listing will look, and if you’re happy with it, click on ‘publish your blog’ to submit the listing to Amazon. Amazon say they’ll review your blog within 48-72 hours, and in reality most are live within 24 hours, which is a pretty impressive turnaround.

Step four: give payment details

You’ll be asked to confirm agreement to Amazon’s terms and conditions, and to enter your details for royalty payments. If you’re in the UK select ‘international’ and request payment by cheque (‘check’). One word of caution, do make sure your name is correctly spelt and as per your bank account. I’m currently trying to get a cheque re-issued which has been made out to my pen name. I suspect it would be simpler to change my name by deed poll.

And that’s it. It took me about half an hour and really is the simplest thing to do. Tomorrow’s post will cover how to position your blog effectively on Kindle, how to market it and why so many rubbish blogs appear in the best-selling list. Although not this one, naturally. Cough.

Publishing your blog on Amazon Kindle - part one.

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 22:24:00 +0000

This is part one of a three-part-post about publishing blogs to Amazon Kindle. I have been asked to write it by various people on Twitter, so my apologies to all my non-blogging readers, and to those for whom the topic holds no interest. The remaining two posts will follow on Tuesday and Wednesday, with normal service resuming after that. For those who asked for the tutorial, I hope it’s useful.

Earlier this year I published my blog on Amazon Kindle. I did it partly out of idle curiosity and mostly to help my search engine ranking when someone Googles the name of my blog. I forgot all about it until someone tweeted me to congratulate me on my ‘best seller’ status; at that time More than Just a Mother was #9 in the Amazon Kindle blog charts. All very nice, but I promptly put it out of my mind again until a cheque arrived in the post. Then it got my attention. I’ve since had a second cheque and at the time of writing (it changes daily) More than Just a Mother is #12 in the overall Kindle blog charts, and at #3 in the ‘Humour andSatire’ category.

What’s the bottom line?

Amazon sets the price of all blogs on the Kindle store, with most set at either 99p or £1.99 for a monthly subscription. They retain a mammoth 70% of this, while you receive the remaining 30%. Now, if I were to publish an ebook I would not for a second consider it a good business decision to allow a publisher to keep 70% of my earnings, but this is not an ebook, this is a blog. My blog is freely available on the internet, it’s content I write anyway and therefore any money earned from Kindle blog sales is a bonus. Since April this year I’ve earned an average of £50 per month from Kindle sales; not a fortune, but enough to keep me in gin. More or less.

Why publish a blog to Kindle?

Like I said, it’s free money – why wouldn’t you do it? But aside from the – admittedly small – income stream it provides, I think there are good reasons to publish your blog to Kindle. I mentioned earlier that I was motivated by SEO, and my Amazon listing now appears as the third entry when I Google my blog’s name (which, naturally, I do frequently). Secondly, any publicity is good publicity, so I figured that even if no-one subscribed to my blog via Kindle, at least I was raising the profile of my blog. Thirdly, I write for a living. I regularly use my blog as a vehicle to demonstrate my online influence and my ability to build an audience. Writing the third best-selling humorous blog in the world (hey, the stats don’t lie) helps persuade magazine editors to commission me and will, I hope, one day convince a publisher that my novels might be worth a punt. The final reason is, in my view, the most important. Making my blog available on Kindle is simply making my content more accessible to readers. It gives them more options. Just as some of my readers prefer to subscribe to posts via email, or via a RSS reader, so some prefer to read on a Kindle.

What’s the catch?

There isn’t one. Not really. It takes about half an hour to publish your blog to Kindle, and then you can sit back and forget about it. That said, if you carry advertising on your blog, you need to weigh up the stats for yourself, particularly if you have pay-per-click ads. I run adverts but my site traffic seems to satisfy my advertisers, so for the time being I’m not concerned that 500 readers (300 Kindle subscribers and 200 email subscribers) never actually click through to the blog.

How do you do it?

That’s tomorrow’s lesson, I’m afraid, as this post is far too long already. In part two I’ll take you through the very easy process of publishing a blog to Kindle, then part three will cover tips for marketing your blog on Kindle. Bet you can’t wait.

What do you buy a five year old for their birthday?

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 22:34:00 +0000

*contains sponsored content*

My son will be five in a couple of weeks. Like thousands of parents up and down the country I'm racking my brains to think of suitable presents for him. Yes - presents, plural. Because it's not just our gift we have to buy, is it? Oh no, we've had calls from the grandparents, from aunts, from Godparents and friends asking for suggestions. So, no sooner have I thought of the perfect present, than I've 'given the idea away' to someone and I'm back to square one.

I was contacted recently by the Le Toy Van who wanted me to look at their range of (funnily enough) wooden toys. It made me chuckle because when I was pregnant - the first time around - I swore to myself I would only ever have tasteful wooden toys in my house. None of that plastic crap for me, I vowed. Five years later and my house looks like the aftermath of a plastic toy factory explosion, multi-coloured synthetics oozing from every crevice. But nevertheless I still default to wooden toys when given the chance, and I particularly loved the selection of Le Toy Van Toys, which look like the sort of toys I had as a child.

On my wish list for the boy's fifth birthday is this wooden castle, which is suitably dramatic to hold his attention whilst being aesthetically pleasing enough for me to have in my sitting room (I know, it's his birthday. But it's my house). At the other end of the price scale, but still on a similar theme, is this castle playmat which is designed to fit the castle, but could easily be used with other models or play equipment. I love it all the more because it's washable - it's the little things which matter nowadays...

Five is a tricky age, I think. The hardest birthday so far, in fact. Too old for baby gifts and toddler toys and desperate to be grown-up, but not yet old enough (in my view) for computer games, DSs and other teenage treats.

What do you buy for a five-year-old? I'd love to hear your suggestions.

Not all Jam and Jerusalem

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 14:20:00 +0000

I've wanted to join the Women's Institute for years. I've always felt there's something remarkable about what women can achieve when they get together, and the WI's campaign record is impressive to say the least. Besides, I make a mean Victoria sponge and have always wanted to try my hand at quilting.

When I moved to the Cotswolds I made enquiries about joining my local WI. It was a charming group with twenty or so elderly ladies who made superb cakes and had no end of advice and stories to tell. But - oh how can I put this? - it just wasn't terribly me. The talks were dusty, the average age was somewhat senior, and meetings were held at 2pm in winter months, effectively ruling out anyone with a job or with young children. I regretfully shelved my plans to join the WI.

Earlier this year I was commissioned to write an article on social media for the Women's Institute magazine, WI Life. I interviewed dozens of bloggers from WIs all over the country and came across some amazing groups, such as Leeds' Buns and Roses WI,whose President, Gemma Rathbone, is still the bouncy side of 30. I was inspired by their verve and creativity and as soon as my feature was filed I rang WI Headquarters to gush about how exciting these new WIs sounded.

"Is there a WI like that near me?" I asked.

There was a pause, and I knew the answer before I was given it. No, there wasn't.

So what do you do when you want to join a new-wave WI and there isn't one near you? Well, you start one, of course, with help from the Women's Institute Federation, who are hugely supportive of new WIs. And so last week I opened up the church hall with some degree of trepidation, cake tins clanking in their carrier, hoping for a respectable turn-out. Armed with glasses of wine, my friend Anna and I greeted the early arrivals and wondered if that was the lot. But they kept coming, and we kept getting out more chairs, and before long the hall was buzzing with chatter. The evening was a great success and I'm excited about seeing this new WI evolve over the next few months.

Needless to say, the launch of a brand new WI alongside an existing one has not been without its issues. A delegation from an elderly neighbour nearly had me in tears, and I took to avoiding the Farmers' Market for fear of being pelted with fruit cake. The turf war had begun, and it wasn't pretty.

Yesterday as I was out walking with the children, a lady in her seventies approached me. "Are you the girl who's set up a new WI?" she said.

I nodded nervously, bracing myself for what was to come.

She glanced around and whispered furtively to me. "Is there room for any more? It sounds awfully fun."

Ginger hair and the three year old bully

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 13:25:00 +0000

My children adore Harry Potter. It's not the most age-appropriate films to watch with pre-school children, but it keeps them quiet while I'm looking for the gin*. Viewings are interspersed with fierce outbreaks of role-play; Josh (the oldest) bags the part of Harry, Evie takes on Hermione (she has the hair) and poor Georgie is left to be Ron Weasley. And so the trio play happily, casting spells and issuing whomping willow warnings whenever we leave the house.

On our way to school we fall into line with the dozens of children walking to class. Little ones clasping their parents' hands, older ones shrugging enormous bags on their shoulders, cool ones - coatless despite the weather - chatting to friends about their weekend. One morning we walked behind a young lad scuffing reluctant soles towards the secondary school, bright ginger hair saluting the sky.

"Ron Weasley!" cried three-year-old Georgie, her voice clear as a bell in the cold air.

The boy - no more than thirteen or fourteen - whipped round with a grimace to find the culprit, not giving a second glance to the mother and children behind him. He glared at a gaggle of school girls on the opposite side of the road before continuing on his way, resentment seeping from every thread of his blazer.

When sufficient distance had passed between us, I held a whispered yet furious conversation with Georgie about the perils of making personal remarks. "It simply isn't polite," I told her.
"But he looked just like Ron Weasley!" she insisted. And to be fair, he did.

That afternoon, as we made our way through town, I spotted the unfortunate boy standing at the pedestrian crossing. The children and I joined the throng of people waiting to cross, and I squeezed Georgie's hand in warning.

"Ron Weasley!" she hissed, in a strident whisper.

From the reddening of his ears it was obvious he had heard, and he stalked away, his neck tense and his fists clenched. What was I to do? Should I run after him? Introduce the children and apologise for their rudeness? I baulked at the thought, instead issuing a second lecture on manners and skulking home.

In the last fortnight we have bumped into Ron Weasley five times. On each occasion, despite rigorous attempts at censorship, Georgie has given into her Pavlovian Potter response, shouting out his moniker for all to hear. It might be my imagination, but Ron seems a little more dejected each time we see him. As if having red hair wasn't bad enough - now he's being bullied by a three-year-old.

*this is obviously not true. I never have to look for it - it's always right there on the draining board.

The MAD parenting blog awards: best writer

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 12:27:00 +0000

Earlier this year I was short-listed for the national parenting blog awards, the MADs (Mums and Dads), and asked you to consider voting for me. It seems that out of the 50,000 nominations and votes received throughout the awards, enough of them had my name on to push me into the top slot, and I'm absolutely over the moon to tell you that I won Best Writer.

The award ceremony was sponsored by TalkTalk and AOL's Parentdish.co.uk, and was a pretty impressive affair packed with glamorous frocks and whizzy technology. As it had not for a second occurred to me I might actually win, I didn't put much thought into what I might say if I did. And so when my name was called out, and I took the microphone thrust in my hands, I was for once in my life completely lost for words.

"Um... thanks," I managed.

"Wow," said Sally Whittle, founder of the MADs and presenter extraordinaire, when it became obvious I wasn't going to say anything else, "you've got a real way with words." Well, quite.

And so I shuffled back to my corner clutching in my sweaty hands a beautiful glass trophy which I managed to break shortly afterwards (I've mended it now - you'd never know). A few days later I am still completely shell-shocked that out of the thousands of parent bloggers in the UK, I'm the one with an award on my desk saying Best Writer.

Thank you so very much to everyone who took time to vote for me in the MADs, to everyone who reads my blog and comments or shares the posts with their friends. I truly appreciate it.

My dress for the award ceremony was provided for me by White Stuff.

Things I have realised since the nanny left

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 09:55:00 +0000

It's been a month since we said farewell to the nanny and I took over the reins of full-time motherhood once again. In this time I have realised the following;

I didn't pay the nanny nearly enough.

Thinking of creative and nutritious meals (and then cooking them) is quite a challenge.

Three children produce a remarkable amount of laundry.

No matter how often I tidy the play room, it is always, always messy.

Changing the sheets on a cabin bed is a pain in the neck.

Getting three children out of the house for 8.15 involves a significant amount of shouting and the occasional swear word.

The children are exhausting.

The children are amazing.

The children are clever, funny and interesting, and now I don't have to miss out on a single second of it.

The children are mine again.

Going, Going... Gone. Sold to the three year old at the front.

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 22:12:00 +0000

My elderly neighbours invited the children and I to accompany them to church for the harvest festival service. The promise of a buffet lunch clinched the deal for me, the cupboards being bare apart from this year's glut of runner beans. We packed a pound or so of said beans into a basket to present at the festival, and trotted into town in our best frocks. Well, it's not often I get to dress up.

Ever keen on the opportunity to do a little shopping, I was delighted to hear that the harvest produce would be auctioned off after lunch, and the proceeds donated to those in need. I positioned myself near the front of the hall and limbered up, arm poised for some serious bidding action. I lost the first few lots (home-made raspberry jam, a prize-winning marrow and eight cooking apples) thanks to a frustrating cap of three pounds on any one bid, and a trigger-happy octogenarian sitting behind me.

But then I discovered my secret weapon.

In an effort to interest three year old E, sitting on my lap in a bored stupor, I wondered if I could persuade her to act as my proxy. I whispered "sixty pence" in her ear and like a meercat on steroids, she sat bolt upright to deliver her bid.

"Thixty pence!" she lisped, hand raised firmly in the air.

"Ahh, the little love!" I heard, from somewhere on our right. "Let the little lamb have it, Derek." A man in a tweed jacket reluctantly abandoned his quest for a jar of tomato chutney, which was passed with due ceremony to the sweetly smiling girl on my lap.

And so we continued. "Theventy pence!" "One pounds!" "Ninety pee. Pleathe." On each occasion the competing bidder would bow out gracefully, oohs and ahhs echoing around the dusty hall, as little E's harvest mountain grew and grew.

"I love broccoli," she announced wistfully, as lot 30 was held aloft. I turned my incredulous snort into a sneeze. The girl was good.

"Then you shall have it," beamed the auctioneer, abandoning the bidding process entirely.

We struggled home and filled the kitchen cupboards with produce, little E basking in the glory of such unprecedented attention. "That was fun," she said, "can we do it again?"

"Of course," I told her. "How do you feel about antiques?"

The Big Surprise

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 19:45:00 +0000

My husband has been particularly spectacular recently, and I decided he deserved something a little bit special for his birthday. He's a keen golfer, so I eventually settled on a surprise break at The Belfry (spiritual home of the Ryder Cup, for those of you who find the sport as yawnsome as I do) and set about making arrangements.

The last time I planned a surprise trip we were cash-rich and child-free. It was oh-so-easy to snaffle his passport and whisk him away to the airport, buy a change of clothes and some toiletries and bask in the glory of wifely perfection. Unsurprisingly the introduction of three small children to the mix makes the whole thing somewhat more complicated.

The plan was to pack the kids off to school and pre-school as normal, then casually announce a game of golf at a secret location. I'd drive him up to North Warwickshire, he'd realise he was playing on a world-famous course, declare me the best wife in the world and promptly tee off. Meanwhile, I'd loaf about the spa for a few hours, find a sun-lounger and promptly nod off. Only when we'd met up at the nineteenth, would I casually lob a room key onto the table with a suggestive wink. Perfect.

The school pick-ups and overnight chaperoning were taken care of with a combination of fabulous friends and a long-suffering mother, armed with a sheaf of illustrated instructions I have no doubt she wisely ignored. The one remaining challenge was how I was going to smuggle an overnight bag into the car without being seen.

Our family-friendly car is fitted with a myriad of secret compartments. The week before our trip I began swiping clothes from the ironing pile and hiding them in the car. Underpants in the glove box, toothbrush in the CD changer, shoes under the spare tyre... Within a few days I had an entire wardrobe hiding within the very fabric of the car. Ha! I was invincible. I was the Uber Wife.

And then I came home the day before The Big Surprise to discover the car missing. My husband, ever the conscientious car-owner, had deposited the car at the garage for its annual service, where it would remain for twenty four hours.

"But we're going out tomorrow for your birthday surprise!" I wailed.

"So we'll take my car instead," he reasoned.

"But, but, but..." I flailed, spluttering my way through a pathetic excuse about leg room. It was to no avail; we would take the other car, and all my covert packing would go to waste. Unless...

I put in a call to the garage. I begged. I pleaded. I flirted mercilessly from my whispered position in the understairs cupboard. Would they lie for me?

Half an hour later my husband answered the phone and I held my breath, innocently flicking through a magazine.

"What do you mean you can't finish the service? Well can't you keep the car until you can finish it? Just park it on your forecourt... What subsidence problem? Really? Well that seems extraordinary... "

He sighed and put down the phone. "Looks like we can take your car tomorrow after all. Bloody garage. I've a good mind to book it in somewhere else. I certainly won't be recommending them to anyone. What a fiasco!" And he stomped off to collect the car and complain to anyone who would listen about the appalling customer service he'd received at the greasy hands of our local garage.

And so my position as Uber Wife was restored, and The Big Surprise concluded without a hitch. As for the garage, I just need to do a small repair job on their reputation...

Giveaway: Love From Australia Sheepskin Boots worth £169

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 20:35:00 +0000

I guess it's autumn, then? I've spent the last couple of weeks of summer tucked up with novel rewrites and various pieces of work which, as the nanny has now left us, had to be fitted in around the children. It's been fun, but I had to leave the blog to its own devices for a while and now that I come back to it I see that the autumnal weather has well and truly kicked in. So what better way to kick off the season than by giving away a fantastic pair of boots?

I have been sent this fantastic pair of sheepskin boots by Nature Shop, an online retailer which specialises in 'nature inspired' products and pledges 10% of all annual net profits on environmental and social initiatives. Having seen the weather forecast for the next few days I was delighted to trial the boots, just as long as they offered a second pair to one of my readers.

The Jezebel short caramel boots are made by Love From Australia and are worn by celebrities such as Kate Moss, Jessica Alba and Nicole Scherzinger. They retail at £169.00 but are available from Nature Shop for £118.00 with free shipping.

I've only had my Jezebel boots for a week but I'm in love with them already. They look fantastic with skinny jeans, keep my toes toasty warm and are just the thing for staying warm yet stylish this autumn. If you'd like to win a pair, simply leave a comment below telling me your shoe size and I'll enter you into the draw which will close at midnight on Tuesday 13th September 2011. Nature Shop is happy to ship overseas so this competition is open to anyone. Good luck!

For an extra entry, you can tweet "I've entered @MTJAM 's giveaway to win a £169 pair of Love From Australia sheepskin boots http://goo.gl/fb/mnvRM" but please do leave an additional comment here to let me know you've tweeted, just to help me keep track of entries.

*****THIS GIVEAWAY HAS NOW CLOSED. CONGRATULATIONS @MUMMYMATTERS****

Snobbery in the cutlery drawer

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 06:00:00 +0000

I have a very expensive tin opener. I bought it in one of those kitchenware shops which make you feel you have to speak in whispers and tell the children not to touch anything. It was an impulse buy some time ago; I was seduced by the sleek design and its promise of jagged-free edges, not to mention the lifetime guarantee.

The problem is, it has never bloody worked. Not once. Over the last year I have wrestled with every single can, eventually resorted to jabbing a hole in the side and wrenching open the metal with a rather vicious vegetable knife I keep for just such a purpose. Why haven't I just bought another tin opener? Because I already have one, of course. A Very Expensive One.

Eventually I headed back to the kitchenware shop, explaining to the frightening stylish French shop assistant that the tin opener had been faulty from the outset. She raised a single eyebrow in the way only a Parisienne can, and informed me coolly that this could not be the case.

"Theese teen-opener," she said with a Gallic shrug, "ee is the best in the world."

I begged to differ, but she wouldn't unbend. She offered to demonstrate my tin opener's world-class prowess, should I care to bring in a can. Not wanting to miss this opportunity to prove my point (and secretly hoping the resulting shredded metal would spill its contents on her white linen dress) I nipped next door to the M&S food hall, returning with a can of beans.

Mademoiselle took the can from me and opened it with a flourish, removing the smoothly cut lid without fuss or spillage. Tres bien.

"I don't understand," I blustered, "that's not at all what happens at home!"

She looked me up and down with a calculating air, a manicured finger tapping the counter.

"Ees thees the same brand of teen you buy at 'ome?" she queried.

Ah. A sense of foreboding washed over me. No, thees was not at all the same brand of teen I bought at home. M&S shopping in our household is reserved for pants and the occasional prawn and mayonnaise sandwich; a weekly shop would devastate our finances.

"No," I confessed, "our beans are normally Tesco value."

She gave a barely imperceptible shudder and pushed the tin opener back across the counter to me.

"Ee knows the difference," she said.

I sighed and drove home, returning the tin opener to the cutlery drawer, where it doubtless shrunk away from the inferior utensils around it. I think it's time to buy a new tin opener.

Disappearing: 1in4

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 08:30:00 +0000

I don't do a lot of campaigning on this blog. That's not to say that I don't feel strongly about a number of issues, just that I choose not to use More than just a Mother for political rants and social debates. I was contacted this week by someone seeking to raise awareness of domestic abuse, giving me the horrific information that one in four women will fall victim to domestic abuse in their lifetime. One in four. That's someone in your family, in your post-natal group, your staff room, your circle of friends. One in four. That's too many.

I happened to have written something a few days ago on the very same subject, which was really rather coincidental as I don't write very many short stories and when I do they are generally light-hearted, frothy, chick-litese offerings. So despite having never put any fiction on this blog it felt opportune to share my short story and raise awareness of domestic abuse at the same time. You can read more about the 1in4 campaign on their website.

Disappearing

I’ve found the best way is to make myself as small as I possibly can. So my knees are tucked into my chest and my arms are wrapped around my head like a bow around a gift. Curled up like that I can disappear. With my eyes screwed shut and each breath tasting only of my own warm fear, I can disappear into myself until it’s over.

I count the blows as they slam rhythmically into my back, the tops of my legs, my arms, my head. Five, six, seven, eight. I imagine I’m buried, deep in the ground, with the cool mud pressing against my aching limbs. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. I imagine the quiet; the silence surrounding me with each layer of earth heaped on top of me. The peace, the relief, the escape. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

The kicks don’t scare me. They used to, when they first came, when I didn’t know the routine. But now I just disappear until they finish, when I stay in my safe curled-up haven and wait. It’s the wait which scares me. This bit, right now; the weighty pause as he stands at my head, breath noisy and uneven. The pause could mean it’s over; that I’ll hear his heavy footsteps moving away, the static crackle of the television going on, the sigh of the chair as he sinks into it. But the pause could also mean this is just the beginning. That he’s bored with my inert, disappeared self. That he needs to see my face as he aims his next blow. That he’ll drag me upstanding and smash my head against the door, his left hand round my throat as he forces my eyes forward to watch as his fist drives into my stomach. The pause is when I start to pray.

I pray now, and I wonder how many more times I will have to say these prayers before God listens. I hear the clatter of keys snatched from the counter, the clunk of a phone taken from the table in the hall. I hear the self-satisfied grunt of a man who has accomplished some unpleasant but necessary task, and finally I hear the front door close and the crunch of tyres on gravel. I hear silence.

I move slowly, checking for broken bones before I rise. Standing at the hall mirror I lift my shirt, craning my neck to see tonight’s purple gashes on their green and yellow backdrop. I find a band in my pocket and pull my hair back into a ponytail, smoothing errant strands behind my ears. Despite his efforts to avoid it, a blow must have caught my face and my bloodied nose has run onto my clothes, a smear of scarlet staining my bruised lips. I walk upstairs to change my clothes.

Stretching into the wardrobe for a clean top, my fingers reach unbidden to the back of the cupboard, seeking out the grey sports bag stuffed beneath piles of unworn jumpers. It is half packed. I add an extra pair of jeans and pack my wash things, pyjamas, a towel. I’m moving faster now, despite the pain in my side, blood coursing through me like an electric charge. I kick off my heels and pull on trainers, find a warm top and zip up the bag so quickly I pinch the skin on my hand. Tonight. Tonight I’ll do it.

I can almost taste the feeling of safety, of security, of release. I laugh out loud, heady with the thought of waking up in the morning free from fear. I scorn my embryonic self, curled up on the carpet like a dog waiting for its next beating – why should I wait for more? Tonight I’ll do it. Tonight I’ll leave.

A sudden noise stops me in my tracks, my hands unwilling to release their grip on the bag, as though inside it is freedom itself. I hold my breath and stand frozen in the doorway as the footsteps come closer and finally reach me.

“Mummy, I had a bad dream.”

I sink to my knees and pull her into me, her warm body curling into a ball on my lap as she rubs her eyes, blinking in the light. I hush her, soothe her and return her to bed, smoothing the covers and kissing her damp forehead.

“I’m here, darling, Mummy’s here.”

Back in my bedroom I take out my jeans from the sports bag. I take out the wash bag and return my tooth brush to the china mug, where it stands to attention next to its twin. I carefully push the bag to the back of the wardrobe, covering it once again with its cache of winter wear.

Not yet. I can’t leave yet.

The nanny is leaving

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 07:00:00 +0000

The nanny is leaving. I've known this for weeks - after all, I was the one who gave her notice. I was the one who made the decision to work from home, to manage childcare and the school run around work, and to let our very own super-nanny know that there wouldn't be a job for her any more.

My guilt was somewhat alleviated by the news that the nanny had found a new position and would be starting almost right away, but it was instantly replaced by something just as uncomfortable. The more I heard about her new employers, with their live-in housekeeper, their heated swimming pool and the four-wheel-drive accompanying the job, the more jealous I became.

Oh I know I was the one to finish it, but however well relationships end you still secretly want the other party to wish they were still with you, don't you? However relieved you are to tell that doe-eyed student boyfriend of yours that it's over, you still want him to spend the rest of his life wondering what life would have been like if you'd stayed together. You want to be the best he ever had.

I feel like the sallow school girl who enjoys an innocent but happy romance with the boy next door, only to be tossed aside in favour of Suzie Harris from the Upper Sixth, who has a proper bosom and the keys to a Fiat Panda. Far from hankering after the simple pleasures of his former relationship, Colin jumps head first into all that his new romance has to offer (including the proper bosom) and now mildly embarrassed about the lanky girl he used to date. Colin has moved on. Now I must too.

I wish my nanny well in her new position, and hope that the heated swimming pool, enhanced salary and doubtless beautifully behaved children live up to her expectations. It does sound rather wonderful. I only wish I'd seen the advert first - I think I might have applied.

Giveaway: PacaPod baby changing bag worth £130

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 09:22:00 +0000

Although I'm delighted to be past the stage of nappies and bottles, I have three children under five and consequently still cart around an awful lot of stuff. Changes of clothes, snacks, water bottles - in fact I carry more than I ever did when the three of them were babies. So I was very happy to review the PacaPod changing bag, which has a design I've not encountered in any of the many bags I tried as a new mother.

PacaPod was founded in 2008 by Jacqueline Waggett, who has designed products based on a unique patented concept. Each changing bag comprises three separate bags; a large outer bag plus two detachable 'pods' which can be easily removed from the main bag and clipped onto a buggy. PacaPod offer several different models, starting from £65, but the one I was sent to review was the Sequoia, which retails at £130.

I'm not in the least surprised that Jacqueline won the 2010 Mumpreneur award for the most innovative product. I'm not at all surprised to hear that she has also won the Mumsnet Best award for the last two years running. The PacaPod Sequoia is an ingenious bag which I loved using. One of the internal 'pods' is perfect for spare pants, muslins and so on, and makes a great miniature change bag in its own right. It's ideal for when you don't want to lug the whole bag to the loo, or perhaps when you're travelling and prefer to leave the bigger bag in the overhead locker or on a luggage rack. The second 'pod' is an insulated bag to keep snacks cool, which is handy for any age child. This one has rucksack straps on it, so if your toddler's feeling helpful he can carry his own picnic.

The outer bag has straps of two different lengths, and an easy to clean surface. I don't think the design screams 'baby change bag', and in fact I used it recently as an overnight bag, with one pod as a wash bag. The insulated pod neatly fits two half bottles of wine - just so you know.

Obviously it didn't seem fair that I should receive one of these lovely bags without giving one away too, and fortunately PacaPod agreed with me. If you'd like to be entered into a draw to win a PacaPod Sequoia worth £130, simply leave a comment below and tell me whether you'd like the bag in mink (pictured) or in black.

For an extra entry you can tweet "I've entered @MTJAM 's giveaway to win a £130 PacaPod change bag http://tinyurl.com/3apfees"

PacaPod bags can be ordered online and are also available from John Lewis, Mothercare and independent nursery stores nationwide.

**THIS GIVEAWAY HAS NOW CLOSED. CONGRATULATIONS TO MULTIPLEMUMMY**