Since when was motherhood reduced to a Facebook ad?

Holly Brockwell has certainly divided opinion. The aftermath of her declaration of victory over the NHS after a four-year battle to be sterilised continues to rumble on, the cooling embers reignited in the public eye by her appearance on television to share her happiness over the decision that would mean she could finally get what she had been asking for for so long.

Brockwell’s not alone. While she has had to suffer a barrage of abuse online from people unable to comprehend her lack of desire for a child, she has also - in her own words - been inundated by supporters describing their own difficulties, either with their decision not to become mothers, or problems they suffered due to the contraceptive pill.

I’m one of them. I may not have begged my GP to refer me for sterilisation, but I suffer not only from the same negative reaction to hormonal contraceptives but from the same lack of desire or need to hold a baby in my arms, as so many women do.

Let me make it clear from the outset, while I may not understand how it feels to desperately crave motherhood, I completely respect it. I’m 33. I’ve passed the age where friends got pregnant slightly younger than they’d planned but accepted it as part of the rich tapestry of life. I’ve passed, too, the planners who wed then had their first, second, some of them third, children.

I’m now coming to the age where some friends have wanted a child for quite some time, and it hasn’t happened. I’ve witnessed firsthand the distress of someone I care about who, by some cruel stroke of biology, can’t do something they see so many people doing, and desperately want for themselves.

In short, I know this is a big deal, as is Brockwell’s request for sterilisation and, indeed, every decision made by people to have, or not to have, a child. The size of such an issue is made ever clearer by the reaction I get every time I mention my antipathy to the idea of becoming a mum.

I won’t go over each and every response, every argument I’ve been presented with for why having children RIGHT NOW would be a good idea for me, or every time I’ve been asked to justify my decision thus far not to procreate. I also won’t go into the looks of pity, confusion, and downright horror from people - often women, I’m sad to say - at the idea that motherhood might just not be something that appeals to me.

Brockwell has outlined all of these, and rather eloquently too, in her explanations behind her decision. Unlike her, I’m not saying never, I’m just saying not now. Of course, I have to accept that the longer I wait, the greater the chances will be that that decision is taken out of mine and my husband's hands. We’re okay with that. We’ve thought about it, we've talked about, and we've made the decision together. Like I say, it’s a big deal for us.

What’s worrying me is that the weight of the decision to have or not to have children  is starting to seem a bit one way. Like other women who don't have, or don't want, a child, I've been offered myriad reasons for why I'm wrong.

From “someone to love you unconditionally” to “someone to look after me in old age”, through to justifications as woolly as “well, what would you do otherwise” and “you may as well do it now, it’s what all women want eventually so it's only a matter of time”, a lot of them seem to be rather lightweight when it comes to such a permanent decision that won’t just affect us, but will affect the very person we create by our decision. I’ll ask the same question Holly Brockwell asked - why did she have to fight so hard for her choice not to have a child compared to if she had decided to have one?

An example of this imbalance when it comes to the gravity of parenthood was,and is regularly, shown to me boldly, crassly and cynically on my own Facebook feed. Last year I found my timeline becoming populated by adverts relating to pregnancy. They'd pop up seemingly innocuously, an ad here, an ad there, sneaking in between status updates and pictures of food.

But for someone who isn't pregnant, and doesn't have any plans to be anytime soon, they were noticeable. The final straw was a "suggested post" urging me to "maximise the chances of getting pregnant" with a Clearblue ovulation test. Having never shown a desire, on social media or otherwise, to "maximise" my chances of being with child - far from it in fact - I was perplexed as to why I was being targeted in this way.

Don't get me wrong, I get targeted advertising. You look for tickets to Ellie Goulding, they or other similar artists will pop up wherever your digital footprint takes you. You google a particular brand of makeup and that, or similar products, will stalk you around the internet tempting you to part with your pennies for them. That’s advertising. That’s capitalism. That’s the world we live in. But when did parenthood fall into that world? When did it become something else to be profited from?

As for the secondary issue at play here - what does this say about the society that’s creating these algorithms based on its own view? Who’s deciding who should be thinking about parenthood, and when they should be doing it? Cuz it sure as hell wasn’t me. I looked into why I was suddenly seeing these ads. Seems because I’d been married a certain period of time and was a certain age, whatever algorithm was operating in the background decided I was ready to become a mum. Blame the computers hey? No. Somebody - a real person - writes those algorithms that help target products to a certain audience.

So, for women who are of a certain age and have been married for a certain amount of time, it’s obvious isn’t it? They must want a baby. We can laugh, we can say, 'yes but most women DO'. But what about those who don't? To me, these adverts are a symptom of exactly the attitude I, Holly Brockwell, and god knows how many other women have experienced - our society’s one-sided attitude to motherhood. In her own words, said more succinctly that I could probably write: “Yes, sterilisation is drastic: a big, irreversible, serious decision. But so is having a child. And I'd like to see the day when both choices are respected equally.”

Me too. And I’d also like to see the day when it’s treated as the big deal I believe it to be. I’ll say it one more time, for anyone who missed it earlier or chooses to ignore it. I’m not criticising all the people who choose parenthood. I'm definitely not dismissing it as a trifling matter. Quite the opposite. It’s such a big deal that I’m just not ready for it and am doubting that I ever will be.

But how big a deal is it for a society that reduces it to just another automatic step that happens at a certain age, or certain stage, in your life, regardless of whether you feel ready or willing? How big a deal is it for a world that reduces what is supposed to be one of the most precious, most monumental decisions of your life to an automatic advert designed to earn a few pennies?

I'm back....

Yes, you read it right. I'm back! Mrs Manning's musings has been neglected for a fair while now. What can I say? Life got in the way, I launched my food blog www.eatwithellen.com, I changed jobs, did other stuff. Blah blah blah. Amidst all that, where's the time for another blog? After all, a blog takes effort. It needs looking after and nurturing, especially if you have a grand plan to make it 'successful'.

But in the middle of all that chaos, I've been missing something. The blog that's my friend. The blog I can pour my heart out to, have a rant to, and try and make sense through. Not about every little thing (don't get worried), but about some of the stuff that it might help to share. Help me, and help other people who might struggle with the same things. It's not designed to be 'successful' in any way other than to help me, and maybe help someone else.

Remember when you were a kid and you wrote in your diary? When you had all those jumbled feelings about stuff that you need to splurge onto a page? Turns out it doesn't change. Even as an adult, most of us still need that. It's cathartic, a way of organising your thoughts and feelings and putting them in some semblance of order that makes them possible to deal with. 

So, Mrs Manning's Musings is back. Don't expect loads of posts, and don't expect a particular subject matter. I don't even know if anyone will read it. Ask a load of bloggers why they blog and a lot will say it's a bit of self-therapy and I guess that's what this is for me. Life is busy, and confusing, and scary, no matter how old you are, and sometimes it's handy to have somewhere to go. This is mine. My little space of the internet where I can say how I feel and what I think. And who knows, someone out there might agree, or be feeling or thinking the same.

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The perfect honeymoon

Planning a honeymoon is a huge decision. It's not just a holiday, it's got to be THE BEST holiday you've ever been on.
For six months before your wedding, it's one of the questions you find yourself answering over and over again; on the wedding day you answer it ad infinitum, and then for the six months after the wonderful day you're still answering it!
So the pressure is on. Jamie and I sure felt it. We toyed with tonnes of opportunities - safari followed by a luxury beach break, maybe a hut on stilts on an exclusive desert island, or a far flung adventure to somewhere tucked far away on the other side of the world!
So after conversation after conversation after conversation, we found ourselves deciding not on an exotic location, but somewhere we'd been before - Croatia!
We'd been to the Dalmatian Coast on holiday a few years before and fell in love with it. We even considered tying the knot there, at a beautiful restaurant on the island of Brac, off the coast of Split. So if we couldn't do that (didn't quite fit the budget!), where better than to go for our honeymoon.
Of course, it wasn't exotic, it wasn't a deserted island, it wasn't luxurious. In fact, it was a bit more like the backpacking we never did on the gap year we never had.
But neither of us would never deny that it was utterly perfect. Stunning scenery, hidden coves, sparkling clear sea, restaurants offering perfectly-executed food, and definitely a honeymoon to remember.
The islands off the coast of Split are a hidden gem. Forget the south of France, this is where the millionaires come to play.
Our first stop was Vis - furthest from the harbour of Split and well worth the trip. The island was only opened to tourists in 1989 and it definitely shows. Winding deserted streets mark Vis Town, the capital, while a short stroll led us to a secluded cove for long afternoons of basking in the blissfully hot sun.
A stunning array of restaurants introduced us to Croatian cuisine including fresh seafood caught that day, and the nation's own, beautiful wine. Many a long evening was spent working our way through a bottle or two.
We explored the island on the back of a shiny moped, checking out the deserted paradise, with trips towards the coast leading to rocky inlets, quiet beaches, and perfect places to relax.
The evenings saw yachts lined up as wealthy sea-goers looked for somewhere to moor up for the night.
It's mainly apartments on offer in Vis, including our own special little bolthole overlooking the stunning vista.
It was from the quietude of Vis that we moved to party island Hvar.
If it's gourmet cuisine, upmarket restaurants and bars, cocktails to-die-for and mixing with celebrities, you certainly get a taste of the high-life here.
We arrived the night after Tom Cruise was spotted in Carpe Diem, the island's well-known restaurant and bar - after sailing in on his superyacht. And there's plenty more bars and restaurants to choose from to provide the perfect romantic honeymoon meal. Imagine tucking into a luscious three-course meal in an outdoor piazza enjoying fine wine, fine food and he company of your new spouse.
Fresh seafood meets Italian influences of gnocchi and pasta dishes, while the nightlife will give you plenty of opportunity to wind down after a stressful wedding.
It is from Hvar that you take a tour to the Pakleni Island, a collection of dozens of tiny islands.
We hired a tiny boat and spent the day at sea - just the two of us - for the day. Snorkelling at little coves, lazing in the sun in hidden coves and lunch in a tiny restaurant. We could even have had our first jaunt onto a nudist beach but chickened out!
After the excitement of Hvar, we travelled to a third island, Brac - the home of our virtual wedding. A happy mix of Vis and Hvar, it's quieter than the latter, with more life than the former.
Again, it's all about days of exploring, resting, enjoying the Croatian weather, the warm welcome from its locals, and the vast array of activities, whether action-packed or relaxing, that the diverse island has to offer.
Harbour town Supetar has plenty to offer, including "the" restaurant, but a small jaunt further afield on the back of a feisty quad bike took us to tiny fishing villages boasting villas and luxury apartments perfect for a honeymoon, as well as the obligatory beautiful restaurants.
For a more cosmopolitan feel, Split itself is a stunning city packed with culture in the form of the historic Diocletian's palace, upmarket restaurants and bars, and a revamped promenade. A perfect evening was spent at the city's newest cheese and wine bar - local cheeses and chutneys paired with the country's best wines. Entertainers light up the ruins of Diocletian's Palace in the evenings and nothing was complete in Croatia without the obligatory "slastikarna" - that's ice cream to us Brits!
So, after a blissful two weeks, we returned refreshed, relaxed, happy newlyweds, already talking about the future holidays we'll have.
One day we'll do that safari, we'll travel across the world to far-flung places on amazing adventures.
But we didn't regret for one second choosing a honeymoon that was perfect for us.
Because when six months has passed - which it just has - and the questions have stopped, now it's just us, that's all that counts. The perfect honeymoon for us.

The tougher side of friendship

Friends are great - they bring us joy, love, support, fun and happiness when things are great, and tears, tea and sympathy when things are bad.
They're like a comfort blanket - they're there no matter what. They have to be. It's in the job description. We see it all the time - it's there in the soaps. Denise and Zainab always make up in Eastenders, as do Blair and Serena in Gossip Girl. There's countless films based on enduring friendship against all the odds. And where do we start with literature - how many novels have been written about this wonderful thing.
It's such a strong, great thing, that people marvel at it, want to re-tell it, want to show how fabulous it can be.
But when we love our friends, when we want to protect them, keep them safe, and stop any harm from coming to them, it's not always as easy a task as it sounds.
What do we do when they make decisions we think are wrong? When they go for that person we think is a mistake? When they do things we think are below them?
They say honesty is the best policy, but is it always? Maybe there's a time to hold your tongue, to take a step back. Almost like a parent has to (so I'm told!) when they know their child is about to do something they will regret.
At the ripe old age of 30, I've heard more than one person espouse?? the benefits of "saying what they think". According to some it's acceptable - courageous even - to say what you like, to tell people the "truth" about themselves, their loved ones, they lives, regardless of the consequences. It's the right thing to do.
Well, perhaps it is. What I'm not saying is that people should never have an opinion, that they should never observe, judge, even criticise. We all need that - some of the toughest, and most beneficial conversations I have had with my dearest friends have involved difficult moments of home truths, criticisms, and observations I perhaps didn't want to hear.
But is that license for someone to say what they want? To glibly steamroller through our sensibilities because they want to give their opinion. I don't think so.
Part of friendship is finding ways to say something that you think could help someone, whether they want it or not, but part of it is knowing when they just need to find out for themselves. Of watching what would be a bad move, and being there to pick up the pieces if it all goes wrong, with nothing but support and love.
As a child it was simplified to: "If you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all," but perhaps as an adult it's not quite so black and white.
One useful piece of advice is this: "A person is master to those words they don't say, and slave to the ones they do".
Put even more simply in another quotable quote: "Be careful with your words. Once they're said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten."
A salutary lesson to all of us, methinks....

The Harpy

So, as we look back on the early observations of the daily commute, you will recall we met the "Harpy" - the woman who launched a verbal attack of epic proportions on a man who had run over her sandalled foot with his suitcase in the rush to get to the train.
I asked the question: "who was at fault?", and at the time it was hard to call.
In fact, it seems, appearances can indeed be deceiving - at first glance one might think us women should "stick together", members of the "sisterhood".
But continued close observation reveals a more sinister being behind the businesswoman.
For she is no normal commuter. With supernatural skills, the Harpy is the wicked witch of the 1733, disguised as a simple worker on her daily travels. Capable of mind-boggling speed, uncanny strength, and the ability to beat a man down with just a look, she is as Voldemort is to Harry Potter, Darth Vader to Luke Skywalker, or Blofeld to Bond.
An "aisle-only" to the core (see previous entry!), the Harpy has secret powers that ensure she ALWAYS gets what she wants.
She may appear a typical businesswoman, sporting a smart black dress and bleach blonde hair. But her trainers bely another purpose - the need for speed to beat any adversary.
Faster than a fatty to a pie-munching contest, with superhuman strength and a shoulder barge to rival any rugby player, she rarely loses the battle for her seat.
Swooping down the platform, unwitting rivals are knocked like skittles from her wake. As she explodes through the door, her eagle-eyes on the seat closest to it, she claims her throne.
It may be marked "available", but it is most definitely not. It is the Harpy's perch, and woe betide anyone who tries to snatch that coveted spot.
A worse fate awaits those foolhardy travellers who dare disturb her to get to the window seat that she cunningly leaves free to avoid sharing her space. For those unlucky enough to try to get to that spot, as politely as they ask, she will huff, and she will puff, and she will blow their house down.
A few escape unscathed, and for most, the look is enough, forced into submission by the withering glare as they search for another seat. A few seconds longer and they could turn to stone, so instead they retreat to the safe haven of another carriage.
The Harpy is a force to be reckoned with - a mystical opponent battled at one's peril.
But the mere mortals among us share the hope that one day, maybe not so far in the distant future, a saviour will come, a fellow commuter capable of taking her on - a David to her Goliath - who will one day bring peace and harmony to the Westcoast Mainline.

The great train race

The observations continue......
We all know us Brits love a queue. But commuters clearly love them more than anyone else.
I've monitored this for several weeks now and noticed a new subspecies. Not sure if there's an inventive name, other than those who like to queue.
I have to say, I don't get it. The aisle-onlys I understand. They want space, they need space, they will do anything to get that spaced.
But the queuers' actions seem nonsensical. At least five minutes, probably closer to ten, they gather up their belongings, speedily stowing away the coffee, phone, laptop., newspaper and coats. The urgent, hushed whisper comes: "can you move please, I need to get out", "excuse me, excuse me", as they hustle down the carriage. The race is on, who can get to the vestibule first, to be the person in poll position at the door, waiting to leap onto the platform the minute it opens? Who can be first?
And the rest of the queuers take their place, lining up one by one on the starting grid. Pawing the ground like keen racehorses, revving their engines like F1 drivers, they're all ready to go.
There's just one problem, the train isn't there yet. It won't be for several minutes. And in fact, for most of them, their queuing hasn't got them any further down the line. The true spirit of British manners means that when those in the seats near the front of the queue stand up, they are allowed in. Of course, it will only be the most churlish of travellers that block one of their fellow commuters out. Nobody wants to be that selfish in such an obvious way - if they're going to do it they'd rather do it on the sly.
So here they are, queuing up, dutifully waiting, to save how much time? Hours? No. Minutes? Not really. Possibly seconds, if they're lucky. So that queuing, that scrabbling and scrambling and standing in the aisle is pretty much unnecessary.
And, irony of all ironies, a brief survey carried out by yours truly suggests that seven out of ten of these people who consistently queue are in fact so slow that it only takes the length of two carriages walk down the platform to overtake them!
Take some advice guys, save yourselves the trouble...