Flo and Archie are nearly nine months old. It’s an age since I last wrote my blog and in
the few months since I last posted, my whole world has changed. Archie is crawling, standing up, knocking
things over, eating paper, climbing out of his moses basket when he’s meant to
be sleeping, smearing cauliflower cheese in his eye, choking on rice cakes and generally
making mischief. He has also developed a
tickly spot and has a Terry Thomas-esque gap between his two front teeth. I gather this (the tooth gap not the tickly spot)
is a marker of good luck so I shall be rubbing his lovely teeth on my Euromillions
ticket every Friday. Flo is determinedly
sitting still, not crawling and not being a pudding kind of girl (which must be
some kind of rogue gene).
Evie is settled and
happy at school although it appears she was forced to sign the Official Secrets
Act on her first day as she seems pathologically unable to share with us a
single detail of what she does there all day every day. While I rack myself with guilt about sending
her to after school club at four years old so I can selfishly earn a living,
she berates me for coming to pick her up too early. And so I relax - guilt assuaged. Homework has entered our world – homework,
for four year olds, who knew? I begin
with intentions of gentle, liberal encouragement , only to morph accidentally
just days in into an Amy Chua-style Tiger Mother, yelling that her ‘H’ isn’t straight enough and that the only
way to get good at something is to practice it over and over as she writes Jones
for the 100th time - so motivating and inspiring for the young mind. Captain Von Trapp would be so proud, I really
must polish my whistle and shine those jackboots.
So just a month or so ago, my fledgling wee solo PR outfit stumbled
and blinked into the daylight, coughing and spluttering with fear and
trepidation. I invented a name, wrote a business
plan, built a little website, printed some jazzy business cards, got an
accountant, and sent out a flurry of emails to people who knew me before my
brain fell out or who met me since and were still prepared to talk to me. Then in a very quiet voice, I practised saying:
“I’ve got three children and I run my
own business”, just to see how it felt.
Next I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers and hoped that a
little bit of business might trickle my way, easing me gently back into the world
of work. But the trickle didn’t happen -
because I won the first few things I pitched for and KA-BOOM, suddenly I feel
like I might just have a one woman empire-in-the-making, with clients,
campaigns and work coming out of my ears.
It’s all happened so quickly that I’m still catching my breath but it
feels good to be chasing deadlines and talking to journalists again. Of course the biggest shock to the system working
for and by myself rather than in the comforting bosom of a big London PR agency
is that I no longer have lots of lovely people to do what I ask. As I build my own media lists for the first
time in about a hundred years, I hear the distant strains of account execs past
saying: “I told you it took two hours, not ten minutes, now stop bloody nagging”.
Mornings and evenings are frantic getting everyone up,
dressed, changed, fed, watered and transported to their various destinations
but when I’m back sitting at my desk, planning my working day, and the house is
quiet, I take a minute to sit back and think: “Well here I am - mother of three
and running my own business”. I think it
in a loud voice this time. And it does
feel good, and quite grown up and RIDICULOUSLY exciting.