De V van...

Op de thuiswerkmamas-site worden in de rubriek 'Werken' tal van V's genoemd waar je als ondernemer mee te maken krijgt volgens Karen Romme en Astrid Jansen:
De V van vrijheid. De V van voldoening. De V van verantwoordelijkheid. De V van variatie. De V van de villa in Frankrijk. De V van voelen. De v van vertrouwen.

Op die villa in Frankrijk na (allicht voorbehouden aan financieel wat succesvollere ondernemers) herken ik daar veel in. Jammer genoeg kamp ik in mijn privé-leven met een andere, tamelijk hardnekkige V, de V van verslaving. Jaren geleden kon ik geen maat houden met drank (one is too many, a thousand are not enough..). Gelukkig wist ik van die verslaving af te komen, gemotiveerd door de zorg voor mijn zoon Thomas. Hij heeft het recht op een moeder die zichzelf in de hand kan houden of op zn minst op een moeder zonder kater. Nu ben ik verslaafd aan ...zonnebloempitten. Vrienden glimlachen hier dikwijls om en zeggen vergoeilijkend 'ach, hoeveel kwaad kan dat?'. Lief natuurlijk maar ze hebben, vrees ik, ongelijk. Wat Martin Bril over alcohol zei beaam ik volledig: 'de alcohol is niet erg, het is de verslaving die erg is.'
Wel is verslaving een onderwerp dat me intrigeert. Niet alleen bij mezelf uiteraard, maar ook bij anderen. Het maakt onvoorstelbaar veel stuk. En waar komt het vandaan? Is het, zoals men wel leest, iets dat in je genen zit en waarvoor de een veel meer aanleg heeft dan de ander? Of is het gebrek aan eigenliefde, gebrek aan een gezonde identiteit? De ene uitleg lijkt me weinig compatibel met de andere (of zou gebrek aan eigenliefde ook al biologisch bepaald zijn? Dat kan ik me nauwelijks voorstellen...) maar toch lijken ze me allebei even plausibel. Ingewikkeld. De Amerikaanse schrijver Scott Fitzgerald meent dat echt intelligente mensen in staat zijn om twee aan elkaar tegen gestelde gedachten tegelijkertijd ruimte te geven. Oei, een echt intelligent mens ben ik dus ook al niet. Een mens zou van minder een identiteitsstoornis krijgen.

Mom of the month

There is a new mom of the month on the www.businessanddiapers.com site.
Her name is Marja Kluivers, she is a single mom, her daughter Jada is five years old. Marja combines work as a bank employee and her own web-based fashion business.

Ana Johnson on motherhood

Writing about motherhood is a tricky business. It's important to avoid preaching, hurting other mothers' feelings or boring readers to death.

Ana Johnson writes about motherhood wonderfully well. I have her book, the Yummy Mummy Manifesto, and highly recomnmend it. It's also a great gift for pregnant friends. In the latest post on her site she writes about the contrast between the mother she hoped to be before she had her son and the mother she actually is. I can certainly relate to her tale of dreams and aspirations on the one hand, and being late for school and burning the food, time and again, on the other. "Mediocrity is not something we aspire to, but sometimes we are forced to capitulate to its force", Johnson states. Have a look at:

We are indeed! I often find the most basic household routines (the shopping, the cooking and the dishes) rather exhausting, keeping track of my son's schedule (breakdance classes, birthday parties, school exams) takes up quite a bit of my energy and makes me admire moms who have more than one child and my dream of being the perfect mum has vanished long ago. On the up side, I have turned my working life around completely years ago making me available for my son a lot of the time, I feel true affection for many of his friends, enjoy cookings his favourite dishes and there have always been many tender gestures which, hopefully, provide balance for my impatience and bouts of temper. As my friend Lind aptly put it: "I can't give more than I have." Neither can I. And somehow, I believe, Thomas understands.

March

'April is the cruelest month'.

That might be so, but now it's March, and I am sure as heck enjoying it!

I always forget how much joy spring brings. The rays of sun, the flowers, the sheer vibrancy of energy in the air, the prospect of the summer that lies ahead. In spring I particularly enjoy being a work-at-home mom. In between deadlines I potter about on the balcony which, slowly, day by day, is changing from gloomy to pretty. I am already wearing summer dresses when making my translations, in an excess of optimism and I start buying plenty of fresh fruit and veggies at the market. More than at any other time of year I feel like celebrating life. And..strange but true, this has a good impact on my work. I am much more productive and get better results whilst spending less time at my desk.

What about you out there? I'd like to know about the impact of seasons on productivity of parents with their own business!

To-day's quote

"If you want one year of prosperity, grow grain. If you want ten years of prosperity, grow trees. If you want one hundred years of prosperity, grow people."

Harvey Mackay

To wash a child

The following is, in a sense, a double theft. Indeed, I will be using a poem by Pablo Neruda. A poem I recently found on Ana Johnson's great website: www.yummymummymanifesto.com.
I can't resist, however, it's such a beautiful poem. Last Friday I saw my friend and colleague Madeleine who works as a conference interpreter and translator and who recently became a mother. She showed me wonderful pictures of her son Xavier, one of them in a bath. It triggered powerful memories of the slippery body of my son Thomas when I bathed him, quite a long while ago now. As another friend and colleague, Karin, said 'bathing a child appeals to something very primitive and meaningful within a woman's heart'. Anyhow, there is no chance in hell I will ever be able to express these things the way Pablo Neruda did, so I will let him do the 'talking' for now:

TO WASH A CHILD
by Pablo Neruda
Only the most ancient love on earth
will wash and comb the statue of the children,
straighten the feet and knees.
The water rises, the soap slithers,
and the pure body comes up to breathe
the air of flowers and motherhood.
Oh, the sharp watchfulness,
the sweet deception,
the lukewarm struggle!
Now the hair is a tangled
pelt criscrossed by charcoal,
by sawdust and oil,
soot, wiring, crabs,
until love, in its patience,
sets up buckets and sponges,
combs and towels,
and, out of scrubbing and combing, amber,
primal scrupulousness, jasmines,
has emerged the child, newer still,
running from the mother’s arms
to clamber again on its cyclone,
go looking for mud, oil, urine and ink,
hurt itself, roll about on the stones.
Thurs, newly washed, the child springs into life,
for later, it will have time for nothing more
than keeping clean, but with the life lacking.