Procrastination Is My Middle Name

I spent most of my childhood procrastinating.  Cleaning my room. Doing my homework. Why spend ages doing it now when you could get it done later in only five minutes? This continued throughout my teenage years and into my 20s. And now, at the tender age of 39, I would like to say that I am a reformed procrastinator. But alas, that is not the case.

Even while writing this post so far, I have already paused so that I can order my daughter’s school meals for June and July (obviously very urgent as it’s barely April). I have also taken a break to browse online for shorts for my Florida trip in a few weeks’ time. For years I felt guilty. I should change. I should be different. But I have gained self-acceptance and self-appreciation in my 30s.

How did us procrastinators get such a bad name? Yes, we leave things to the last minute. But we get things done. Eventually. If quality is better than quantity, then shouldn’t the result be more important than the process or the timing? Do we know for sure that William Shakespeare did not pen ‘Romeo and Julie’ over a couple of long nights as he had spent the previous month getting pissed in the pub? Would his plays have been better if he had never procrastinated?*

While I am working hard on losing the baby weight, I know there are some things I cannot change. I will always be easy going when it comes to housework (not lazy, okay?). I will always make silly jokes (that mostly only I enjoy). And though I will always book a party venue 3-4 months ahead of time, I will organise everything else at the last minute. But things always get done. So what is the harm in procrastinating? It is just the way I am. And I’m okay with that.

 

* I have no idea how long it took Shakespeare to write any of his plays. It’s called creative licence. I’m just trying to make a point, okay people?!

 

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A Letter of Love

Having a long-distance relationship can be pretty agonising. Especially in the beginning of a relationship. You know, when things are hot and heavy and you want to spend every minute in their arms? And instead you are chatting on the phone and feeling heart-broken. Thirteen years ago, after six blissful weeks together, Husband/then-Boyfriend went back to London and I stayed in San Diego.

A letter of love

We then spent 10 months apart before I was able to move to London. Oh, those 10 months. We squeezed in three visits in that time. We spoke every day on the phone. We emailed. But it was tough. But Husband did something special in the beginning of our long-distance relationship. He wrote me a love letter. And not just any love letter. The mother of all love letters. I think it was that letter that kept me steadfast. It is quite a leap of faith to move across the world for someone. To give up your life, your friends, your job.

Husband still sometimes writes me sweet, silly poems. But nothing will compare to that first letter. Nor do they have to. Our life is more than words on a paper. Though they are nice. Our life is now the realisation of that letter.

This week’s theme for The Prompt is ‘a letter…’; pop on over to MumturnedMom for more posts on this theme.

 

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Truth Vs Modesty

Truth is more important than modesty. Roald Dahl.

This quote is this week’s Prompt over at Mum Turned Mom. Truth is more than the words we speak. Truth is also our actions. Everyone remembers those early days of the relationship. We would never burp or fart in front of our significant other. And if we needed the loo, I mean really needed it, we would go at our own flat or early in the morning when ‘he’ was still asleep. 

Then comes the day you go on a foreign holiday. Our first holiday was in Croatia. It must have been a dodgy octopus salad. I made ‘him’ stay on our little balcony when I used the loo. That’s the holiday that taught me to ALWAYS pack Immodium.

But then you move in together or get married. And there is no more hiding your modesty. You are naked, literally and figuratively, for the other person to see. You eventually burp, and fart, and announce that you need a poo. But it’s okay. It’s actually okay. Because you are in love, and you are building a life. And then you have a baby, and the second-to-last shreds of modesty are gone. Can you say perineal massage? I shudder just thinking about it.

I have so little modesty these days. But I am hanging on to a couple of things. I still keep my facial plucking regime to closed doors (damn you, pesky old lady chin).  And I go to the loo with the door closed. For now. But it’s only a matter of time before all modesty has gone.

Oh honey, I don’t know what that smell is. Teehee



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That Was Unexpected – The Prompt

This week’s theme for The Prompt is ‘that was unexpected’. I thought the news of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin’s split was quite unexpected. I won’t use the term ‘divorce’ as I don’t want to infuriate Gwyneth. It is not that I was so involved with their marriage that I felt shocked when they broke up. But I find it surprising when any relationship or marriage ends.

The surprise is how some relationships are able to last a lifetime and that some relationships cease after a random number of years. What is the secret of a long-lasting union? I may have written sarky things about my Husband in the past, on my blog, on Twitter, on Facebook, on text messages, on emails. But I am actually quite madly in love with him. Like more than the day I married him. *stops typing to barf in mouth*

But what happens to turn ‘true love’ to ‘indifferent’ or ‘just can’t work it out’? With all the advances in science, can no one give me a formula for lasting love? And not just a lasting relationship or friendship. Husband and I have been together for almost 13 years (married for almost 10), and in 20 years’ time I still want to feel hot when we kiss. We try to have dates, but they are not as frequent as they used to be. So what do we do? Because I do not want to be surprised with the end of my marriage.


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The Prompt…Pink is for Girls

The Prompt for week six, from Mum Turned Mom, is ‘Pink is for Girls’. I had an outline in my head as to how I would write this post. I have a son and a daughter, and thought I could write on how the way you treat them is more important than the colour of their toys and clothes. Then something happened on Saturday. I went to my first blogger event. At the end, there were several spare wands and tiaras that we were being offered. My daughter and I didn’t take any, apart from the one she received on our arrival. I didn’t think we had anyone to give them too.

Then we got home. And we were greeted by my 21-month old son, who was very excited to see that his sister had a new tiara and wand. Luckily, Moozles is good at sharing and gave her brother the tiara and she kept the wand. I realised that if I had had a younger daughter at home, I would have automatically picked up a spare wand and tiara for her. But since my other child is a boy, I did not even think about it. This is silly since he loves playing with his sister’s dolls and doll buggy. And he has a great fondness for hats and hair bands. But when we buy my son clothes or toys, they normally are quite boyish. Dinosaurs and cars and darker colours (though we are quite fond of the colour yellow in this house).

So my post has changed and I have to now admit that I am more sexist than I thought. But this will be something I will be working on. My daughter already knows she can be anything she wants (she currently wants to be a builder, waitress and an ear doctor). I have to ensure my son knows that as well.
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