Nineteen75

I may regret this blog. I talk to a lot of women about breastfeeding. I hear a lot of negative stories about misinformation, bad advice, even from health professionals. I am usually fairly calm in these situations. I can usually hold it together. I can be diplomatic and see both sides. I can have tolerance for someone ‘just doing their job’ and even being ignorant but trying to help. But for goodness sake, this time I am fuming. What the heck is wrong with a doctor who looks at a mother who has gone to him with breastfeeding problems and tells her that ‘maybe she can’t do it’. What scientist (surely a doctor is a scientist) in their right mind looks at a human woman, who has incubated and supported life from conception to birth, grown organs and tissue and a brain that can reason and a body that can develop and grow and heal itself; a woman who has produced all the hormones to create and support life for 9 months, then with the amazing process that is birth completely fl

My home is once again a thrumming organism of boys, girls, cats, lego, and voices. The oven is full of tasty morsels and music is playing in the background from one of the bedrooms just in case there was a silent moment that needed filling. Han Solo and Luke Skywalker are zooming around the living room, followed by storm troopers and there is some amiable discussion on the hop, as to the further structure of this game of good guys and bad guys. The friend accompanying Zoe is her guitar lesson buddy so I am expecting that the guitars will come out shortly. A glass of wine will be required earlier than usual I think, not in escapism but in quiet appreciation of the moment. I may even get twenty minutes undisturbed with my nose in a book.

What a day. I wonder about the prime minister, not this one, the previous one, the one with oestrogen. I don’t know why I think about her every time I have ‘hormonal’ days, but I do. Maybe she has good B vitamins or something - apparently they help. Maybe it’s a good boost; like a power surge. I needed a bit of tenacity today alongside the people-pleasing diplomacy that comes much more naturally. There were a few difficult work conversations on my ‘to-do’ list, ironing out a new contract and its rocky procedures. I decided to challenge an email sent to one of our employees in regards to the outworking of this contract, and did not relish the task. However, I outlined my argument, my displeasure and my requests directly and without emotion. I managed to get people moving and give me answers. I am a power pack of oestrogen and self-importance. I may take on the country.

Thousands of exam entrants, a few hundred distinction students, 100 scholarship nominations, 16 finalists. One of them - my daughter. It’s a fantastic achievement. I arrived at the end of the day to my beautiful daughter in tears, in the midst of a crisis of confidence and adamant that she would not be participating any further. The occassion demands of her attributes that, at present are way out of her comfort zone; performing on stage in front of a public audience with minimal practise of a routine they have learnt that day, taught by no other than the international dancer who choreographed the exam syllabus. The enormity of the occasion was a little overwhelming. This is it, this is what a dancing career feels like. It's make or break baby. It took me a minute to adjust to the situation, as generally I am supportive, but only because dancing is what she wants. My determined daughter is usually striving for the goals herself. A dancing life is not what I would chose for my bab