Ain't nowt wrong with dialect...

Except there is, a little bit. I accept that there is irony in me writing about correct English (feel free to point out my mistakes). This article has prompted much media discussion today: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/primaryeducation/9851236/Middlesbrough-primary-school-issues-list-of-incorrect-words.html

A headteacher in Middlesbrough has issued a list of “incorrect” words and phrases that she wants her students to avoid, including “yous”, “I done that” and “nowt”. I have to say that I agree with her.

I love different accents and dialects – the variety in vocabulary, the sing song Geordie accent, the fact that if you are familiar with the accent it is easy to distinguish between someone born and raised in Leeds between someone from Bradford, a city just a couple of miles away. It amuses me when a Northern word unthinkingly escapes my mouth as if to purposefully confuse a bemused Southerner who has no idea what I have just communicated. For example when I direct them to the park via the snicket (or ginnel) or say that the kids have been in the clarts or “could you hoy me that tea towel please?”. Our new house has a toilet in an outside porch area and after numerous occasions referring to the fact we had a netty it finally dawned on me that nobody had a clue what I was on about until my Geordie friend pointed out that it wasn't a word used in Royal Berkshire.

As a student working in pubs in West Yorkshire I was berated by the locals for being posh and stuck up because my Yorkshire accent was so mild. My first teaching job in Tooting, London left me feeling equally conspicuous – it was impossible to hide my short “a”s when saying graph or safety glasses, despite my protestations that “there is no R in glass”. Mind you I had no idea what the kids were actually saying in their youthful patois: “he jacked my pen Miss innit”.

Now that I have my own children I am particularly sensitive to how they speak. One of the most rewarding aspects of parenting is to follow the development of their language – how amazing the human brain is that it can learn vocabulary and grammar at such a fast rate. Every addition to their vocabulary is to be rejoiced, a wonderful gift. So it REALLY pisses me off when they speak poorly. This is because, if I am truly honest, I am a big fat snob. I had never really noticed the Berkshire accent before – it just sounded Southern to me. It is quite pleasant, with a slight West Country twang but sometimes people (i.e. those caring for my children at nursery) speak, how can I put this without causing offense...carelessly. Consequently my children (who are only 3 I hasten to add) say phrases such as: “I done it”, “let's go park” and “don't it”. It is like hearing nails down a blackboard. I am the epitome of the pushy middle class mum and I am perpetually correcting them. After all, they won't get into medical school if they do not speak correctly (JOKE, partly). These sayings are not examples of a dialect or accent they are just lazy English. As a result it is so easy to place someone into their social class simply by the way they talk. This may be wrong, but it just reflects the society in which we live. My Geordie family can speak pure Tyneside when they choose to but you can rest assured that when they need to speak to someone important on the phone they speak the Queen's English.

So, am I a big fat snob? Your opinions are always welcome!

Gemma

PS I have to admit that my husband keeps picking me up on my acquired Berkshireisms...nobody is perfect.

The agony and the ecstasy

It seems appropriate at Yuletide that my last post of 2012 is a birth story. There is something I need to put to rest, some vivid images sometimes seem to be stuck on a perpetual loop in my brain. And for the sake of my long suffering friends I need to ditch the angst and the envy and the sheer and unadulterated resentment I can irrationally and unkindly (still!) feel toward the parents of full term singletons with easy births and babies that feed every four hours, sleep well and aren't violently sick for a year. Here are some memories albeit probably incorrect, incoherent and incomplete.

33 weeks and 3 cm dilated – they are on their way. The Flood – quick, someone bring a mop! I am the last one in before the maternity unit is closed. A junior doctor pleads with me to write to my MP to complain of staff shortages. Puking – why oh why did I have fish and chips for tea? Contractions through the night. Arctic conditions – dressing gown quick, it's freezing. Uncontrollable full body shivers. Saharan Summer – too hot, fan, fan! Midwife, is this normal? “Oxytocin my dear”. Finally the sunrise brings news of Barak Obama winning a Nobel Peace Prize. Hey this Entonox is great, am I hallucinating?

A gorgeous Spanish midwife (to be later rewarded with a bottle of Cava and my eternal gratitude) takes over. Eventually an examination shows me 8cm dilated, but with meconium to keep us on our toes – the babies are not as happy as they could be. Action stations, not long before we rock and roll. She preps me with the aid of a kind anaesthetist who reminds me of an old school friend. I am trundled into theatre – an appropriate moniker as the birth is to be aided by a team of 12* (good job I am an exhibitionist by nature).

Legs in stirrups, pushing is hard with an epidural. Am I actually doing anything useful? But laughing and joking we all get on with the job in hand. Suddenly the atmosphere changes. Tense. Brachycardia. Controlled panic? Prolapsed umbilical cord (was I even aware of this at the time?). Ventouse. Fail. PLEASE. DON'T. LET. THEM. DIE. Forceps. Confusion: one consultant says “push” as the other screams “don't push”. Unbeknownst to be me the anaesthetists have been prepping me for a general anaesthetic and an emergency C section. But then out she comes and is spirited off to SCBU. And then we have to do it all again...

With all that newly found intrauterine space he has the freedom to swim. More panic as his heart rate is lost but the midwife, having monitored them for hours, knows where he is. I block out the noise and listen solely to her guidance and the calm and encouraging words from my husband. 13 minutes later out he comes to a chorus of applause. Euphoria. Relief. Gratitude. A long awaited cuddle.

A few hours later I am wheeled to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. The intensity of emotion emitted from its walls is tangible. Unimaginably tiny babies (some born as early as 24 weeks) lie in the Hot Room. A blue haze from those undergoing photo-therapy for jaundice. The perpetual noise of machines beeping. Mums and Dads with babies stuffed down their jumpers (kangaroo care). The nurses seem superhuman: angels sent to calm, support and care for the sickest of babies and their exhausted, fragile parents.

Our children are in their little presentation boxes adorned with wires, cannulas and naso-gastric tubes. Cpap covers C's face to aid her breathing. It takes us three days to name her – how can you name a child when you have never properly seen their face? And so begins a two week roller-coaster of anguish, joy, fear, confusion and the kindness of strangers.

The Instrument of Extreme Torture AKA the double breast pump. My promise to turn vegan (as soon as I stop being anaemic) in solidarity with those poor dairy cattle. My milk coming in. And not coming out. Engorged takes on a whole new painful meaning. Excruciating mastitis. Will Reading be found by the archaeologists of the next Millennium having been buried in an explosion of colostrum? Milk fever – waking up in the night drenched and holding nonsenical, febrile conversations with confused midwives. An infection that confers a John Wayne walk. The Fear: the post episiotomy poo. The compassion of the midwife who took the time to run me a lavender bath.

Cannulas frequently become blocked. Changing them seems an onerous and super-dexterous task when blood vessels are so small. How can such a minuscule being produce so much blood? One morning a paediatrician states concern that R is not very responsive. He won't wake up. There is talk of infections “hiding” and the need for a lumbar puncture. He is held down, a paediatrician per limb, like a rat being pinned for dissection. How can someone so diminutive scream so loudly? No infection, but blood in the CFS. A later head scan shows there has not been an inter-cranial bleed as suspected. No brain damage then. Did I actually process any of this information at the time?

The preeclampsia that refuses to leave. The cruel irony of a hospital radio that plays Please Release Me. Blood pressure elevated every time I hear the machine trundling down the corridor to measure it. Care assistants stop telling me the reading: “we will come back later when you have had a cup of tea”. At this rate my kids will be home before me. After a week I lose the will and run off to the local gastro pub for a rare steak and a glass of red wine. On return my blood pressure is 100/70. Result!

Their progress in not linear. Ups and downs are normal but difficult to deal with. Sometimes it feels like they are taking turns. It can be hard to parent your children when they are in need of nursing care. Syringing milk into a tube is not the same as an impromptu cuddle. Incubators can act as physical and emotional barriers. It is easy to feel like a spare part. Irrational feelings of failure constantly simmer quietly in the background. Desperation to have them home: to be on our own as a family without the constant scrutiny of medics. To walk by the river with our double buggy and our double babies. But the advantage of one-to-one lessons in how to bathe, feed, wind, resuscitate our children is invaluable. Our time comes. We “room in”, on our wedding anniversary, for a night, alone with our babies. Surprisingly we pass and so begins the long haul of parenting our two cheeky chappies and that, as they say, is another story...

The agony of the alternative outcome: the acknowledgement of other families' realities. Why us? Why were we the lucky ones? A survivor's guilt of sorts.

The ecstasy that, in the end, everything and everyone was OK. I will forever be in awe of the staff at the Royal Berkshire Hospital that kept us safe.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,

Gems xx

For sources of information, advice or support regarding twins, premature babies, special care, still births, neonatal death and bereavement the following organisations are well regarded:

TAMBA: improving the lives of parents with twins, triplets or more http://www.tamba.org.uk/

Bliss: for babies born too soon, too small, too sick http://www.bliss.org.uk/

Sands: supporting anyone affected by the death of a baby and the promoting research to reduce the loss of babies' lives http://www.uk-sands.org/

* the midwife, 2 scrub nurses, 2 paediatricians, 2 obstetricians, 1 senior registrar, 2 anaesthetists, one anaesthetist's assistant and my husband.

The (pseudo) science of desperation

This is probably a foolish thing to blog about as it is serious and emotive but this ongoing story of the mother who “abducted” her son rather than allow him radiotherapy has caught my attention due to it involving a) twins b) brain cancer: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthnews/9738778/Sally-Roberts-runaway-mother-in-despair-as-boys-cancer-returns.html

Now I am not going to pretend to imagine what it must be like to have one of your children diagnosed with an aggressive stage 4 cancer. It must tear a family apart. And the choices that a parent in this situation faces on behalf of their child hardly seem like choices at all. Rocks and a hard places spring to mind. But this story, along with another from my local area, have made me want to both weep and scream. It is not my place to comment on this poor family’s plight or to judge their actions – I truly think the parents are doing what they believe to be best. But in articles I have read there have been mention of the use of alternative therapies such as homeopathy and special diets instead of conventional radiotherapy. To me this epitomises why pseudoscience can be a dark and dangerous thing.

While flicking through my local paper a few months ago I came across an article about a fund raising campaign for a 4 year old girl with brain cancer ^[1]. Her family has so far raised an incredible £200,000 for her alternative cancer treatment at the Burzynski Clinic in Houston, Texas. I now need to add some context: my gorgeous, vivacious Mum was diagnosed last year, at the age of 55, with grade 4 glioblastoma multiforme (in layman's terms a f*cker of a brain cancer with a median life expectancy of 12-18 months and a 5 year survival rate of less than 10% ^[2]). So have I spent the last year jumping out of planes, scaling mountains and shaking a tin to raise money for her treatment in America? Or did she forgo “brain frying” radiotherapy in favour of crystal healing, a naturopath's diet and a foot massage? No, for the simple reason that the NHS has (so far) thrown all the resources they can at her and she has been doing better than can be expected considering her prognosis.

So it made me question why, with a local hospitable which has been publicly praised for its care of cancer patients and the pioneering, world leading Great Ormond Sreet Hospital just down the road, was this little girl sent to be part of a drug trial in Texas? I googled the Burzynski Clinic and soon my hackles were well and truly raised. It became apparent that I have been very slow to jump on this particular band wagon: the Burzynski Clinic is extremely controversial. I will try not to go into too much detail as there is a wealth of information (see links below) for you to peruse at your leisure. Many of our best contemporary science writers and bloggers (Simon Singh for example) have written about Dr Burzynski's methods and they have convinced me that at best this doctor is desperately trying to help but is sadly misguided.

Dr Burzynszki discovered the peptides he named “antineoplastons” in 1967 ^[3]. The Burzynski Patient Group refers to their use as “non toxic” and a “break through” treatment^[4]...so why hasn't it broken through yet? If it is “non toxic” why are some of the reported side effects (such as seriously elevated sodium) so dangerous? Why are the interactions of antineoplastins with other traditional chemotherapeutic agents (some of which Dr Burzynski also administers to his patients) unknown? If these antineoplastons are so brilliant why has the medical profession not been using them for 43 years? Why has he published so little in peer reviewed journals? Why do both the American Cancer society and Cancer Research UK advise against this treatment^[5]? Why have other scientists struggled to replicate his results? Why has he not conducted randomised, controlled clinical trials (considered the gold standard in clinical research)? Why hasn't he got a bloody Nobel Prize?! Could it be because, just maybe, antineoplastons aren’t actually very effective? Houston, you may have a problem.

Oh but I can hear it now....like thunder in the distance are the cries of the conspiracy theorists “it is the sole, brave maverick against the evil Big Pharma and the FDA”. Yes, the marverick who tries to use libel laws to prevent the freedom of speech of bloggers. And yes, there is a lot wrong with conventional medicine (I could probably discuss it with you when I put down my chick lit and finally get round to finishing Ben Goldacre's Bad Pharma). And yes, sometimes doctors do not explain risk and benefits clearly in layman's terms to terrified families. And yes, informed consent is a nice idea in principle but in reality can be difficult to achieve. And yes, cancer treatments (although better than they were) are still bloody scary with seriously shitty side effects.

Now I don't have a problem with patients using complementary methods in addition to their conventional ones. Some reflexology or reiki may be an enjoyable way to relax and feel better. But if they are used instead of, or interact negatively with, conventional treatment surely they must be considered dangerous. As hard as it is when a loved one may not celebrate another birthday it is important to remember that a patient testimonial is not the same as hard clinic data, however heartfelt it may be. Unproven remedies are just that, unproven: that means they may not work and could cause harm (either directly or because other treatments, with known efficacy and levels of risk, are ditched). Sometimes life deals a curve ball and the choices we are forced to make are not black and white between hope or non hope but the grey area between quality of life and longevity.

Science and technology defines us as a species. It is the questions “how”, “why”, “what if...?” that allow us to increase our knowledge and understanding of the universe and in turn manipulate our own environment and destinies. When done well it epitomises the best of humanity: observant, empirical, creative and solution-focussed. It is the sharing of resources and data, openness to new ideas, international collaboration and well designed and well conducted research that allow us to make evidence based decisions for the benefit of both individuals and society. The alternative medicine industry appears to be directly at odds with this, giving false hope to people at their most vulnerable.

References:

[1]http://www.getreading.co.uk/news/special_features/pride_of_reading/s/2119318_pride_of_reading_nomination_for_amelia_saunders

[2] http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/283252-overview#a0199

[3] http://www.burzynskiresearch.com/research-development.html

[4] http://www.burzynskipatientgroup.org/

[5]“http://www.cancer.org/Treatment/TreatmentsandSideEffects/ComplementaryandAlternativeMedicine/PharmacologicalandBiologicalTreatment/antineoplaston-therapy?sitearea=ETO

Further reading:

http://scienceblog.cancerresearchuk.org/2011/11/25/hope-or-false-hope/

http://www.guardian.co.uk/theobserver/2011/nov/20/a-family-gripped-by-cancer

http://www.quackwatch.org/01QuackeryRelatedTopics/Cancer/burzynski1.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cifamerica/2011/nov/30/burzynski-clinic-cancer-libel-laws

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/nov/29/schoolboy-blogger-us-clinic?intcmp=239

http://www.sciencebasedmedicine.org/index.php/stanislaw-burzynski-bad-medicine-a-bad-movie/

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/children_shealth/9734914/Why-I-understand-Sally-Robertss-torment.html

Too Intelligent for Iggle Piggle?

This blog is in response to an article in the Daily Mail entitled “The women who think they're too clever to have babies”
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2236467/The-women-think-theyre-clever-babies-Theyre-educated-dynamic-careers--believe-motherhood-beneath-them.html#ixzz2CxOT7z6o

Actually (considering it is from the Daily Fail) it isn't a bad article. But I am afraid I came at it with my Feminist Hat on and, as often is the case, the issues that leaped out for me in the “child free versus child” debate were those that were omitted.

I completely understand why some women chose not to have kids *. The fact that women in the late 20^th and early 21^st century are in a position to even make this choice is something that we must never take for granted (in much of the world women still do not have the economic, educational and reproductive health freedoms that we have). It is slightly incredible that a sane, successful, solvent person would give up a good disposable income, sex and weekend lie-ins for years of sleepless nights, turbulent relationships, toddler tantrums, snot, sick and sh*t (oh my word, there is just so much sh*t) and a monthly expenditure that try as you may always exceeds income.

One woman stated “Having children alters a woman’s personality. It makes them boring to me”. I hold my hands up to this completely – baby talk is very dull. Even as a mother there gets to a point where you do not wish to know any further detail about little Charlie's bowl habits, how frequently Elizabeth woke in the night or the new additions to Alfie's vocabulary. But I am equally driven to pull out my own eye lashes by intricate office politics explained ad infinitum by the utterly tedious people who have nothing else in their lives other than work and who believe themselves to be indispensable. And I won't be held responsible for what happens to the next person that puts 300 photos on Facebook of this year's 7^th exotic holiday whale watching/ice diving/Himalayan trekking. Having small children doesn't automatically make you intrinsically dull, some people are like that anyway.

Is saying Motherhood is the “hardest job” simply "a smart way to satiate unappreciated women" as one commentator suggested? Yes, it is very difficult if you define “hard” as 24/7, physically and emotionally exhausting with no clocking off time and no toilet breaks (well unless you call having to end a fight between 2 two year olds while changing a tampon a “break”). Challenging and demanding it is, mentally stimulating it is most certainly not. So yes, it occasionally pains me when I know at the end of a long day my husband has designed a telephone network that keeps the London Stock Exchange running yet the most important decision I have made all day is which nozzle to use in my piping bag (not a euphemism). I do at times feel frustrated – there are days where I wonder of what further use a science degree and a masters will be. Although I suppose my PGCE does come in useful (once I have relocated that star chart and reminded myself that extreme shouting and locking children in the under stairs cupboard are no longer deemed appropriate sanctions for misbehaviour).

But this statement worried me:

‘You can be too intelligent to have children. To reach your full intellectual potential you need to be childless. If you are a thinking woman it’s more sensible not to become a parent.’

It depresses me to think that in the 21^st century there still has to be a choice between being educated and successful or being a mother. After all this is not a choice that most men have to make. Why is it that people forget that children have fathers too? I fully respect a woman or a man for choosing to not have children. But I question what proportion of those women who “put their careers first” would actually, in a perfect world, not like to have the opportunity to have both a fulfilling career and a family life? I suppose it could be argued that biology is against us: often the critical stage in a woman's career coincides with declining fertility (late 30s early 40s). But is this not just a social construct? How many men make a serious decision to sacrifice their careers in order to have kids? Until it becomes socially acceptable (and practical) for the the whole child rearing business to divided equally between both parents then this debate will just keep on going. Let's hope my daughter truly has all the opportunities of her brother born 13 minutes after her.

Gemma x

* I am not in anyway trying to belittle the experiences of those who for whatever reason are unable to have children when they desperately want to. And yes I am truly grateful for the healthy existence of my two little brats.

A letter to Morrisons - releasing my inner snob

Dear Morrisons,

I am very concerned about the outcome of the recent refurbishment of your Whitley store in Reading. I appreciate that it takes a while for a consumer to learn how to navigate a new store layout but I had particular difficultly today. Every isle had been reorganised making it incredibly hard to locate salt and sugar laden children's snacks. While desperately searching for a week's worth of “ready meals” I staggered upon a sight to behold: a verdant array of foliage complete with a metallic sculpture releasing dry ice. Was it a Halloween promotion? The set from Gorillas in The Mist? I was waiting for Sigorny Weaver to pop out with a silverback when suddenly it dawned on me – this is the new salad section. The fancy metal contraption surrounding the mini rainforest was not pumping out solid carbod dioxide, as I had first assumed, but WATER VAPOUR to keep the produce fresh. The biodiversity was quite bewildering. It contained fresh herbs, salad leaves and dark leafy green vegetables (with magnesium, iron, vitamins and antioxidants) that could be used for preparing a healthy meal. With all due respect I believe you have misunderstood your clientèle. I doubt that the residents of South Reading require raw ingredients with which to cook and it tests my credence to think that they would know what to do with samphire (yes, samphire!). If I had wanted a stripy spherical aubergine I would have chosen to shop at Waitrose in Caversham.

Yours disappointedly,

Gemma

PS I was, however, impressed with the Wines, Beers and Spirits section which now seems to take up the majority of the store and is filled with a wide enough selection of alcopops to keep the local school kids happy. And I eagerly await a Christmas Buy One Get Two Free promotion for Tanqueray.

Are You A Nutter? My musings for Mental Health Awareness Week...

There is no doubting that at its worst psychiatric illness is distressing, debilitating and mentally, emotionally and physically disabling. It can even be life threatening. I will never forget a radio interview with a father of small children whose wife suffered from such severe postnatal depression that one morning she walked onto the motor way in her dressing gown.

The Downs of Depression

I have a hunch that some people are just more prone to mental illness than others – it is the way our brains are wired. We can probably put it down to our neurophysiology or lack or serotonin or something. Some people are more likely than others to find themselves on the event horizon of a giant black hole of despair. And it can be a dark and lonely place. It's not always that great for the people around them either.

Many people are functioning depressives. They get up every morning and usher the kids to school. They may have a quick cry in the shower (this hides the tears and the red face) but they then “pull themselves together” and get on with it. They have successful jobs, they form strong and loving relationships. Hey, they are even good fun at parties. They are not the Marvin the Paranoid Android stereotype. Yes, sometimes they are paranoid, “over sensitive”, insecure, sad and vulnerable but they are so good at hiding any evidence of mental illness that you are shocked and surprised when they “come out”. You probably sit next to one at work. Or maybe they are your boss, your kid's teacher or your son in law.

Why we need nutters

But what is brilliant and inspiring about these people is that they are great to have around. They truly enhance your life. My friends and acquaintances include depressives, obsessive compulsives, self harmers, people with anxiety issues, phobias and eating disorders and biopolar bears (sorry, I couldn’t help that one!). I am not in any way trying to belittle them or underestimate the severity of the challenges they face. Quite the opposite: it takes strength and courage to find yourself at the bottom of a psychological slurry pit and to single handedly drag yourself out. If you have felt pain and anguish you are more likely to recognise it in others. The nutters are often the sensitive, emotionally switched on ones who ooze empathy for others. They are often kind and extremely compassionate. They give good hugs. Being a nutter can make you a better friend, lover and parent.

Are you a nutter? I am, proudly

Mullered Mums - the real reason why Mummy's on the Wine

Dear Jenny,

Your blog post “Mummies (and Daddies) who drink” touched a bit of an raw (intoxicated?) nerve because I am one of those boozy mummies you are aiming it at:

http://hitchyourwagon.wordpress.com/2012/07/24/mommies-and-daddies-who-drink/

I liked it. I think I agree and disagree in equal measure (make mine a double...). So here is my considered response to it, as promised.

Is booziness part of our cultural heritage or a worrying upward trend?

Us Brits pride ourselves (rightly or wrongly) as a nation of beeraholics. But is our very high alcohol consumption not a relatively modern phenomenon? My parents love to drink, but when I was a kid it was reserved for Friday nights and celebrations simply because they couldn’t afford to over imbibe. The government is increasingly worried about the societal effects of binge drinking and the health consequences of the affluent middle class's love of Malbec. Is this interference of the Nanny State or should we all sit back and take stock a little? When I was a barmaid in the late 1990s a large glass of wine was 175ml and a small was 125ml. Fifteen years later it is 250ml and 175ml respectively. A single shot has risen from 25ml to 35ml and the average pint of bitter is 4.5-5% compared to the 3.2% kinds I used to serve. Despite inflation it is still possible to buy a bottle of wine for £4.50, the same price we paid for the bottles we sneaked into formal dinners at Uni in 1996. So it is easy for just a couple of drinks to tip you into the “binge” category. The quaffing habits once reserved for the upper class connoisseurs of Claret are available to us all. The average mum's shopping list now contains milk, bread and Merlot. Compared to our grandparents we have higher disposable incomes, more restaurant meals, post work socials and girly nights out. We drink because we can.

But as your blog pointed out there is a far darker side to our drinking culture. We live in a society of double standards: we are correctly appalled by the alleged abuse of young girls at the hands of a TV star (you know who I mean) yet young women are objectified on Page 3. Within just a few years of the smoking ban nicotine addicts have become pariahs yet the effects of alcohol consumption cost the NHS dearly – just ask an A and E nurse or a liver specialist. It would be a serious disciplinary offence/dismissal to turn up to work coked up (unless you work for the London Stock Exchange) or to shoot up in the loos at the office. Yet functional alcoholics are ubiquitous. We all know one. I have never worked anywhere where there wasn't one.

My confessions...

But alcohol is our national drug of choice. And bloody gorgeous it is too. I love a good bottle of red wine or strong G and T on a hot day and I have a particular penchant for Real Ale (the Northern kind with a decent head). I am not over weight, I am active, I eat above my quota of fruit and veg, I never cook with salt, I don't smoke, do drugs or practice extreme sports. But I do drink too much. I often consume above my measly 14 units week. My gorgeous book club friends (or as it has now been renamed: Wine Club) have to witness the verbal carnage that is me after a bottle of wine. I am outspoken at the best of times but my ethanol induced loquaciousness (OK, ranting) sometimes gets me into trouble. But I have never put my kids in harm's way because of alcohol, I do not drink and drive and they do not witness me "drunk" - I would like to think I have grown out that anyway. But I do think that I was a danger to myself and others when in charge of a car in the fugg of severe sleep deprivation and post natal depression that was associated with the first months of their lives.

Lighten up?

I do think that, even as a self confessed Anglophile, maybe you need to develop a better understanding of our British sense of humour and take the ramblings and twitterings of some of us mums with a bucket full of salt (and maybe a stiff gin). Tweeting “I.NEED.A.GIN.ALREADY.” at 9am, as I did this morning, does not actually mean I would ever drink at this time (not least because midday hangovers are killers. Joke!). And if you follow tweeters with profiles that include #gin then what do you expect?! I really doubt that many mums are doing the school run half cut.

The real reason Mummy is On the Wine

Maybe the “pass me the bottle” or “is it Wine O' Clock yet?” type posts are just amusing. Or maybe they reflect some deeper issues. The parents posting them are often well educated, successful, well traveled, well read and affluent. But are we products of our own success? Yes, we have it easy compared to our grandparents and our choices and opportunities are vast compared to theirs. We spent our carefree twenties traveling, skiing, crossing the Zambezi on an elephant, being perpetual students etc, etc. We then hit our 30s and traded in mini trips to Rome for stressful jobs, crippling mortgage payments, juggling childcare with work, ill parents, relationship breakdowns and the relentlessness, sleep deprivation and exhaustion that is family life. We are extremely lucky to live in our modern era but it does also provide some new and different challenges. So don't mind us if we occasionally lose ourselves in the oblivion found at the bottom of a Hendrick's bottle.

In addition to this, motherhood seems to be fetishised – we are lead to believe that it will be the most fulfilling, rewarding and amazing thing we will ever do. Which it is. On Saturdays. For all the other days of the week we are bored, tired, stressed, pissed off and frustrated at having relinquished our careers, financial independence, sanity and status in society for a couple of ectoparasites that will shove us in a care home as soon as we stop being useful to them. So sodding hell, pass me that bloody bottle of Bordeaux.

By admitting to “needing a glass of wine” to strangers on a social networking site maybe what we are actually saying is “I am having a tough time, I feel isolated, I feel judged, I would really like my partner to acknowledge that rearing kids is the toughest thing I will ever do and actually I would quite like some performance management...and some targets... and a reward for meeting them. Oh f*ck it just get me a drink”.

Hope some of this makes sense,

Love Gems xx

PS If you ever want to buy me a pint sometime...