Awareness

«In 2005, author David Foster Wallace was asked to give the commencement address to the 2005 graduating class of Kenyon College. However, the resulting speech didn't become widely known until 3 years later, after his tragic death. It is, without a doubt, some of the best life advice we've ever come across, and perhaps the most simple and elegant explanation of the real value of education.
We made this video, built around an abridged version of the original audio recording, with the hopes that the core message of the speech could reach a wider audience who might not have otherwise been interested. However, we encourage everyone to seek out the full speech (because, in this case, the book is definitely better than the movie).
-The Glossary»

Things motherhood taught me no. 4: friends with no kids will forget you exist

They don't mean to hurt you, really they don’t. I did the same thing before I was a mother and I can tell you it’s not something you do consciously. Just like we forget about that friend who hates sushi when we’re planning to go to the Japanese, we forget about our friends with kids when we’re planning to go to a club until six in the morning. It’s perfectly reasonable behaviour.

But there are other reasons too. The first is that people who don’t have kids don't have routines. They can either have dinner at eight or eleven, go to the beach at midday or midnight, walk in the sun or in the rain: and they’ve no time for organizing their life around the routines of parents of young children.

Second reason is that, since they no longer see us in the usual places (favourite restaurant, café, rock concerts), they assume we’ll never accept any invitation. I’ve had conversations of this kind myself. ‘We should invite so-and-so.’ – ‘Forget it, she’s got the baby, no way she’ll be able to come.’ And the truth is that eight out of ten invites will be refused, especially for unexpected reasons such as not finding a babysitter in time, the baby having a fever since it woke up that morning or the baby having kept parents up all night and not even five coffees will give them the energy they need. But there are all those other times when the new parents not only can come out, but actually crave an evening without watching BabyFirst Channel.

And then there are “the Lamer Mums” and the bad reputation they’ve earned for us all. Lamer Mums are a very common species of women who used to be normal until they had a kid and now they think life should revolve around said kid. Every conversation with them is dominated by nappies and tips on how to find the perfect school. Now, for someone with no kids neither of these subjects could be less interesting. And even people who do have kids usually appreciate a night out with friends where they don't have to talk about children. So, friends with no kids have already endured so many boring conversations just because they asked a Lamer Mum how the little one was doing, that they took fright and now they run a mile from any couple that announces a pregnancy.

So, to all of you mothers or fathers who are feeling neglected by your friends: don't be sad or offended. Your friends still love you very much and they’ll call you again in a few years’ time. Even if it’s only to know what’s the best stroller brand in the market. And then it’s going to be just like in old days (but now with heaps of little people across the table).

And to you, my young and unattached friends: make the most of it. Sleep till midday whenever you can, go out to dinner at eleven at night, take off on last-minute weekends away, above all be spontaneous. In a few months or a few years, going out for a drink at ten o’clock at night will no longer be an option. Unless it’s a glass of milk. 

 

this post was originally published on Mum's Lounge 

Thirty Something in Paperback

Great news for all of you who aren't fond of e-books and e-readers: Thirty Something is now available in paperback too!
Just follow the links and order yours :)

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Createspace

Things motherhood taught me no. 3: the importance of a wardrobe makeover

When I was pregnant, and especially towards the end when the back pain made it impossible for me to wear my beloved high heels, the thing I missed most was wearing my smartest clothes: the long skirt with high waistline, the tight dresses, the silky fabrics. In my innocence as a first-time mother-to-be, I thought I’d be able to wear everything just like before, as soon as I got back in shape. Nothing further from the truth.

         It’s not ‘just’ a question of getting your figure back. It’s a whole new lifestyle. It’s not about mothers having to dress ‘like mothers’. It’s just that all of a sudden our choice of the day’s outfit is influenced by various factors that meant nothing to us before.

     1) Walking around with a baby is not compatible with 4-inch heels. Especially not on Portuguese cobbled pavements. Which leaves us with two options: either we use flats or we keep the baby in the pushchair (my choice). And a pushchair actually helps when it comes to the arduous task of walking down the street.

      2) Keep your fingernails colour neutral. Because with all the endless rinsing of bottles, baths, nappy changes and fiddling with tiny buttons and clasps on baby’s clothes, the Rouge Noir is wrecked after two days, believe me. So my option is to keep my fingernails pretty with clear gloss and save the colour for my toenails.

      3) Some clothes should be kept well out of the way of babies. Drool, milk, baby food, fruit and puke are just some of the fluids that can ruin a silk blouse or satin dress. Take my word for it: wear all the aprons you want, your little one will find a way through your defences. Usually in such an affectionate way that it lessens the pain of seeing your dress or blouse ruined. For a while. Later, when you’re trying to get to sleep, it comes back to haunt you. What to do? Before I put anything on, I ask myself ‘Will I be really upset if this is ruined?’ If the answer is yes, it goes back to the wardrobe until I wear it to an adults-only dinner.

      4) Earrings and accessories are great toys. And dangerous too. While they’re useful for keeping the baby entertained when you’re in a restaurant and a tantrum is impending, they can also be an enormous headache, like when he breaks a necklace and puts the tiny pieces in his mouth, or tears your earlobe when he tugs at your earring. The alternative? Clip-on earrings, stuff that doesn’t break. Or buying belts and handbags instead of bracelets and necklaces.

      So the bottom line is: there’s no need to renounce the latest trends; we just have to adapt our style and remember we aren’t unaccompanied any more. And that’s the way we want it.

YSL Rocks!

     The most recent ad campaign for Saint Laurent is an anthem to 90's rock.
     The affair between the brand and cultural vanguards goes back the sixties, when Yves Saint Laurent himself  wondered amongst artists like Nureyev, Warhol or Catherine Deneuve. In fact, one of the most famous weddings of the early seventies was Mick and Bianca Jagger's, where the iconic tuxedo (in white) was the star.
     Today, after some drifting moments, the brand brings it's rebel spirit back, showing a dark chic side that contrasts against the colourful palettes of every other fashion house this season. Besides, it's a fantastic photographic series from Hedi Slimane, the Creative Director of this French maison.

     Check it out here http://www.dazeddigital.com/fashion/article/15951/1/saint-laurent-music-project

Guest Post by Nick Bilton

The Child, the Tablet and the Developing Mind

I recently watched my sister perform an act of magic.

We were sitting in a restaurant, trying to have a conversation, but her children, 4-year-old Willow and 7-year-old Luca, would not stop fighting. The arguments — over a fork, or who had more water in a glass — were unrelenting.

Like a magician quieting a group of children by pulling a rabbit out of a hat, my sister reached into her purse and produced two shiny Apple iPads, handing one to each child. Suddenly, the two were quiet. Eerily so. They sat playing games and watching videos, and we continued with our conversation.

After our meal, as we stuffed the iPads back into their magic storage bag, my sister felt slightly guilty.

“I don’t want to give them the iPads at the dinner table, but if it keeps them occupied for an hour so we can eat in peace, and more importantly not disturb other people in the restaurant, I often just hand it over,” she told me. Then she asked: “Do you think it’s bad for them? I do worry that it is setting them up to think it’s O.K. to use electronics at the dinner table in the future.”

I did not have an answer, and although some people might have opinions, no one has a true scientific understanding of what the future might hold for a generation raised on portable screens.

“We really don’t know the full neurological effects of these technologies yet,” said Dr. Gary Small, director of the Longevity Center at the University of California, Los Angeles, and author of “iBrain: Surviving the Technological Alteration of the Modern Mind.” “Children, like adults, vary quite a lot, and some are more sensitive than others to an abundance of screen time.”

But Dr. Small says we do know that the brain is highly sensitive to stimuli, like iPads and smartphone screens, and if people spend too much time with one technology, and less time interacting with people like parents at the dinner table, that could hinder the development of certain communications skills.

So will a child who plays with crayons at dinner rather than a coloring application on an iPad be a more socialized person?

Ozlem Ayduk, an associate professor in the Relationships and Social Cognition Lab at the University of California, Berkeley, said children sitting at the dinner table with a print book or crayons were not as engaged with the people around them, either. “There are value-based lessons for children to talk to the people during a meal,” she said. “It’s not so much about the iPad versus nonelectronics.”

Parents who have little choice but to hand over their iPad can at least control what a child does on those devices.

A report published last week by the Millennium Cohort Study, a long-term study group in Britain that has been following 19,000 children born in 2000 and 2001, found that those who watched more than three hours of television, videos or DVDs a day had a higher chance of conduct problems, emotional symptoms and relationship problems by the time they were 7 than children who did not. The study, of a sample of 11,000 children, found that children who played video games — often age-appropriate games — for the same amount of time did not show any signs of negative behavioral changes by the same age.

Which brings us back to the dinner table with my niece and nephew. While they sat happily staring into those shiny screens, they were not engaged in any type of conversation, or staring off into space thinking, as my sister and I did as children when our parents were talking. And that is where the risks are apparent.

“Conversations with each other are the way children learn to have conversations with themselves, and learn how to be alone,” said Sherry Turkle, a professor of science, technology and society at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and author of the book “Alone Together: Why We Expect More From Technology and Less From Each Other.” “Learning about solitude and being alone is the bedrock of early development, and you don’t want your kids to miss out on that because you’re pacifying them with a device.”

Ms. Turkle has interviewed parents, teenagers and children about the use of gadgets during early development, and says she fears that children who do not learn real interactions, which often have flaws and imperfections, will come to know a world where perfect, shiny screens give them a false sense of intimacy without risk.

And they need to be able to think independently of a device. “They need to be able to explore their imagination. To be able to gather themselves and know who they are. So someday they can form a relationship with another person without a panic of being alone,” she said. “If you don’t teach your children to be alone, they’ll only know how to be lonely.”

posted by Nick Bilton on the NYT 03/31 

Concerts 2.0

     When I was young going to a concert was something very special. First, because there weren’t that many concerts in Portugal at the time and second, because it made me feel like taking part of something unique.

     When I was young people attending concerts were there to live the experience, even if they weren’t absolutely thrilled by the band. They would listen, clap and respect the artists and those around them who were really digging the show.

     When I was young there were small flames coming from lighters, which would enrapture the venue at the very the first chords of a ballad.

      Years went by, I’m no longer that young, and now a concert is just another thing to put in a monthly to do list. It’s no longer unique because bands come here all the time and mainly because a concert is now a social event. Few go to see a band for what it is while more and more go because it’s supposed to; more and more don’t respect the artists or those who really want to see the concert and simply stand there talking to their friends and grabbing a beer; more and more watch the concert through the screen of their cell phones, because better than being there is showing others where they are, thereby gaining virtual recognition.

     It saddens me as I’m confronted by the evidence that we are building a society based on things that don’t exist beyond an electronic device. A society that doesn’t know how to enjoy a moment for what that moment is, rather living the moment for what it can project before an illusory audience.

     I stopped going to the movies because I couldn’t stand the noise of people eating popcorn and chatting like they were in a coffee shop the whole time. Maybe I must stop going to concerts too and thus avoid the sad show of thousand of people updating their virtual status with pictures and videos captured seconds before. A show where I can’t catch a glimpse of a single flame twinkling in the dark, except for brief moments when someone is lighting a cigarette.

A man in a pink tutu

Those who don't believe that laughing is the best remedy, don't know this story.
Bob Carey began photographing himself in the most unexpected places wearing nothing but a pink tutu. It was just for fun, until the day he found out his wife had breast cancer. Their fight with the disease (which stroke twice in three years) showed that "sometimes the very best thing—no, the only thing—we can do to face another day is to laugh at ourselves, and share a laugh with others".

That's when Bob decided to share his photographs and help several breast cancer organizations. The Tutu Project promotes exhibitions, an events and now it also turned into a book. The best part is that you can also buy the pictures.
Already on my wish list :)

©Bob Carey

After the storm

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair

Mumford & Sons

Spring Giveaway

Today you can download my book for FREE!
Just follow the link and do it with one click. You don't need to have a Kindle device.
Enjoy!


http://www.amazon.com/Thirty-Something-Nothings-Dreamed-ebook/dp/B008WNPXZE/ref=la_B008X2O526_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363866083&sr=1-1

Things motherhood taught me no.2: breastfeeding isn’t for everyone

I don't care what people say or who says it: the World Health Organization, the Association of Mothers Who Breastfeed Until the Kids Start School, fundamentalist paediatricians, Father Christmas. Let them say what they want about the benefits of mother’s milk, my message to all of them is the same: breastfeeding is a bore. And I bet a lot of women only persist in it because they’re afraid of the reproachful looks they’d get when they say they’re thinking of feeding their babies with formula.

Of the countless reasons for not breastfeeding that all of a sudden come to mind, I’ll stick to the ones nobody mentions when we’re pregnant, and that I only discovered from experience: 

1. Sore nipples. I’m not talking about the more serious problems like cuts and infections. Even when all goes well, there’s always that time of day when your nipples are sore and hypersensitive from so much sucking.

2. Lack of proper sex. Yes, girls, the day will come when you feel like making love. But breastfeeding depletes our natural lubrication and beside that, our boobs are no longer part of the equation when it comes to sex. Why? Well, if a hot shower brings the milk out, imagine what an eager pair of hands will do. And that’s not to mention the aforementioned sore nipples. (It’s frustrating for the child’s father too: a huge, firm pair of breasts in his face all day, and he can’t touch them.) 

3. It takes hours! Yes, I know us mothers are supposed to dedicate ourselves 100% to baby in the first few months. That’s why we have things like maternity leave. But spending eight hours a day breastfeeding is enough to drive you mad. Why eight hours? Because babies feed at least 7 times a day and the ritual is: one breast for about 15 minutes (or more; some people say we should give baby all the time it wants – but they’re obviously people with a lot of time on their hands); 5 or 10 minutes to wind him; another 5 or 10 minutes on the other breast; wind him again; change the nappy, which sometimes means a full change of clothes; and then there’s the chance that baby might need to be winded a little more. All that takes at least an hour. In the middle of the night that means when we get back to bed and we’re finally ready to get back to sleep, there are only two hours left before the baby wakes up again. Great, isn’t it?

4. We feel like cows. Especially when we have to pump milk out, either for baby to drink later or because our breasts are too full and there’s a risk of engorgement. That’s when we get the confirmation we’re nothing more than mammals whose function is to be milked. Every squeeze makes the milk spurt out, just like a milking cow. Very sexy. 

5. We don’t know if the baby’s eating too much or not enough. What if he’s crying after half an hour at the breast? We’re helpless and don’t know what the matter is. He’s fed, his nappy’s clean, we’ve picked him up and held him to us, what can it be? He’s hungry. That’s what it is.

To sum up: there are big advantages for baby (although like millions of other people I was fed on formula milk and I’m still here, thank you very much), but for the mother it comes down to convenience and helping lose weight after the pregnancy.

There. I said it. Now go ahead and insult me.

(Note: I fed my son on my breast milk and nothing else for 2 months. I meant to do it for 3 months, but couldn’t take it any more. Today he’s bouncing with health and happy. And so am I.)

if you like my blog check out my book Thirty Something

World's Best Dad

Today we celebrate Father's Day in Portugal. I couldn't find a more appropriate date to share the hilarious work of photographer Dave Engledow and his adorable daughter Alice Bee, "World's Best Dad"
To all dad's, the present and the absent, the good and the bad, the loving and the serious, the ones who stand as an example and those who forget their children are always looking up to them.

©Dave Engledow

Make sure to visit this page and see the whole collection. Totally worth it!

if you like my blog, check out my book Thirty Something

Things motherhood taught me no.1: it’s pointless making plans

Until my baby was born, I used to get bad-tempered if I slept for less than eight hours a night or missed a meal. I’d go mad just seeing the living room untidy, with cushions on the floor and the table strewn with glasses, or the laundry basket overflowing. It was unthinkable to have my nails anything short of impeccable, with nail polish in the season’s most fashionable colour; or to spend the day without wearing one of the forty pairs of high heels in my closet.

But then along came this little being who turned my world upside down and now I find myself never getting more than three straight hours of sleep, looking at the watch and realizing I haven’t eaten anything for hours or even finding clothes scattered all over the house along with glasses, packets of milk, bibs and pacifiers and simply ignoring them. Also my nails are a mess because every time I go to paint them I remember I’ll be changing nappies before they’re dry and – get this – I’ve noticed there’s dust on my stilettos, it’s so long since they’ve seen the light of day (or evening).

Telling myself ‘tomorrow I’ll get my hair cut’ or ‘tonight I’ll finally watch that film’ is beginning to sound like those last-gasp promises in an election campaign. So the first lesson this little being who’s moved in beside me has taught me is: it’s pointless making plans. Better to take one day at a time and make the most of moments like these, when I happen to take a look at my blog and get an enormous urge to write – at the exact moment he’s fast asleep. If I’d planned it, no way would it have happened.

if you like my blog check out my book Thirty Something

For a day like any other

     I’ll be happy when people stop celebrating this day.

     In my point of view, the need to dedicate a day to women in the 21st century is both insulting and sad. Insulting because it puts women in the same level as all the undefended, such as children, the starveling, the sick or the trees. Sad because we still have to remind the world that we are far from being equal to men.

     We still earn less and work more, we still are disadvantaged in our careers for having children; we still are the largest group of victims of violence, we still do all the house chores, we still are criticized for wanting a certain type of job and for having any kind of manly behaviour; we still are discriminated for the smallest things.

     Therefore, I can’t celebrate this day. I won’t accept even a flower. For the most I can see it as a tribute to all women who fought for equality through history. And those who are still fighting to make this day a day like any other.

New Facebook Page

Just created a new Facebook page where I gather all news about my book, future books and myself as well as blog posts, pictures and other stuff.
Hope to see you there! :)

First chapter of my new novel

Here’s the first chapter of my new novel, which will be published soon. If you’d like to be notified when it’s out, just send me an email and I’ll let you know.

1.

‘Tedium: a weight that invades my soul and devours my willpower. With every minutes that passes, it’s turning into impatience. A gnawing anxiety that constricts my breath in direct proportion to my racing heartbeat. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Why are you sighing then?’ ‘Because I feel like it. Why? Can’t I do that either?’ Just as well he doesn’t answer. After fifteen years of living together, he’s finally understood there are times when it’s better to keep quiet. Why are you sighing, he asks. He’s got a nerve. He must be completely oblivious of everything that’s going on around him. He must be very self-centred. Maybe it’s because he’s a man. Is life really that much easier for men? Obviously they don’t have to worry about cellulite, broken fingernails, their hair. As if they weren’t lucky enough already, being able to take a piss wherever they want to, they also don’t have to worry about eyebrows, creams, makeup, laddered stockings, hiding their breasts so they don’t look flighty, but not so much as to look a prude. As long as he’s got that fresh-out-of-the-shower smell about him, a man with dishevelled hair and unshaven chin is still sexy. A woman with dishevelled hair and no time to wax her legs is a slattern who ought to be ashamed to show her face in public; even if she has that fresh-out-of-the-shower smell about her. So why can’t women start work an hour later than men, for example? That’s what I feel like asking my boss when he gives me that reproachful look whenever I arrive after nine thirty, with his ironic “Good afternoon! Thanks for coming.’ What’s the matter with me, he asks. Where do you want me start, doctor?’

The psychiatrist looked at his wristwatch and all he said was:

‘Sorry, Vanessa, you’ll have to start at the next session. Our time’s up.’

‘But… I...’

‘Now, Vanessa, you know the rules. Write down everything you were going to tell me, arrange everything by topic and we’ll talk in our next session.’

Furious, she grabbed her handbag and coat and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. After almost two months of therapy, she still didn’t understand why they always had to break off the sessions like this, just when she was beginning to open up. Because the first twenty minutes hardly counted. Does anyone manage to pick up a conversation exactly where they’d left it at the last session? What she felt last week and what she felt now were two different things. She had to think, organize her ideas, pick up her notepad and try to remember everything she’d said. And then she had to try and forget the bad appearance of her analyst. Sweat on his upper lip, fingernails that needed trimming, threadbare check blazer, yellow teeth. It wasn’t easy.

Some help, he was. Over two hundred euros a month. Just thinking about all she could do with that money made her feel ill. If only they gave her the amount directly... She could chose a different doctor, a cheaper one, and spend the rest of the money as she pleased. But they didn’t. The judge had been very clear: forty psychotherapy sessions with a psychiatrist selected by the social services, after which she was to undergo a test – administered by an independent body – to determine whether she was fit to live in society again. And she’d only done eight sessions so far. There were days when Vanessa wondered whether the alternative wouldn’t have been better: four months behind bars. Four months is nothing, after all. The tedium would be the same, but with one advantage: she’d be alone. No one to pester her, no domestic chores, no need to wonder what to make for dinner, no need to look for other peoples’ spectacles, none of the bruteness of everyday life.

Outside it was raining with a vengeance. Great, she thought. ‘So much for my shoes.’ She pressed close to the door of the building to avoid getting wet as she looked for her car key. Which would have been a good idea if it weren’t for the people coming and going through the door all the time. Shoving and elbowing, saying sorry, her hand rummaging in her bag, groping every object in the hope of feeling the metal of the key or the suede of the key fob. Mirror, purse, lipstick, tweezers, spectacle case, sunglasses, wallet, mobile phone, pills. The rain soaking through the chamois of her shoes. Not just a few splashes. Big, dark blotches she’d never be able to cover up. Another shove, another elbow in her ribs and it turns out the key was in her coat pocket.

It’s funny how there aren’t more road accidents. In cities at least, our cars are becoming outlets for all the rage and anguish we accumulate over the course of the day. Our eyes glaze over as we accelerate away from traffic lights we thought would never change. We stamp on the brake with the same fury we’d like to stamp on the people who annoy us. We honk as if the noise that fills the street was the shout we have to suppress. We think we’re untouchable, invincible in our metal fortresses, where we don’t hear the insults or feel the smell of other people; where the urban grime can’t infect us.

Vanessa gripped the steering wheel with the same strength she’d have liked to use on her psychiatrist’s neck. Or her husband’s. Or that stuck-up blonde who didn’t even say sorry when the bag she was carrying hit Vanessa’s leg at the entrance to the psychiatrist’s. As if she didn’t exist. Bitch! She was startled out of her anger by a knocking on her window. A homeless man. His filthy, bony hands outstretched. The joints of his fingers scarred. That was all she needed. She hated giving money to these people. It was much more convenient to give money to the institutions that give them a place to sleep or hand out blankets and food. But just then, she remembered her shoes. If the rain did so much damage to a piece of chamois, what would it do to the soul of a man who lived in the streets? She saw a black stain spreading over the man’s body. His coat drenched, rain dripping from his beard. Like her shoes, this guy was beyond repair. She gave him a euro and didn’t care when the car behind her started honking. The traffic light had been green for more than three seconds.

She drove, not knowing where she was going. On and on, avoiding all familiar exits. After two hours she was running low on petrol and only then did she realize it wasn’t raining any more. She could turn the windscreen wipers off now. She stopped at the first service station she found, without wondering where she was. It wasn’t even a service station. It was just a petrol pump on a deserted back road. She had thirty-seven missed calls on her mobile phone. From her daughter, her daughter’s school, her husband, her psychiatrist, her lawyer, her mother; from Diana.

What the hell, she thought. What’s so bad about being out of reach for a couple of hours? What if she was just in the cinema? Somewhere with no signal or with her phone in silent mode? Was there no way for her just to disappear? Or make other people disappear? Her daughter, her husband… or Diana: especially Diana. As if they’d never existed. Not that she hated them, but sometimes just thinking about them and the routines they stood for left her feeling suffocated. She often thought about what life would be like as an orphan, single, with no kids. Being able to do what she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whomever she wanted. Like going to bed with that guy at the end of the bar. Or even with the ugly guy from the petrol pump. No family lunches, enormous Christmas gatherings, summer holidays with the whole house in the back of the car. Spending the money for her daughter’s brace on a holiday in Thailand. Staying in pyjamas all day, without even taking a shower. Eating chocolate biscuits on the sofa and not giving a shit about the crumbs. Dinner alone. No conversation. Just staring at the wall for minutes on end without someone saying ‘What’s the matter?’ What would it be like to be free? Absolutely free?

The Strange Year of Vanessa M.  by Filipa Fonseca Silva

 Driving Rain by Tim Nichols