The Mumpreneur Diaries: Business, Babies or Bust - One Mother of a Year. Mosey Jones
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usually meant sitting in a little booth at Western House in central London, listening to a DJ in a far-off land via a pair of headphones and having a surreally pally conversation with the wall. One of the interviews, however, was with my local station, BBC Radio Berkshire, so it was just as easy to pop down the road and grace them with my presence. We had such a hoot that they invited me back again, and again, and again. What was a one-off puff for a book has now turned into a regular Friday slot doing the papers with Henry Kelly, the avuncular Irish broadcaster of Classic FM, Game for a Laugh and Going for Gold fame.
Though all of my stints are unpaid, I enjoy my weekly banter over the airwaves. Every now and again I entertain thoughts of sliding effortlessly into a job as a presenter but mostly I stick to the reality, which is that it’s a bit of a laugh and handy if I ever need somewhere to plug anything. In fact, I don’t fancy the thought of being replaced, which is why I go back less than a month after Boy Two’s birth.
Throughout last year, my growing bump had been the sole topic of conversation on Henry’s show. He delighted in telling me that ‘boys make a disgrace of ye’. When I occasionally turned up on the Saturday show too, the DJ looked petrified that I’d pop on his studio floor while he was inadequately stocked with towels. Henry also kept threatening to send the radio car round to the Royal Berks maternity ward for a live outside broadcast of the happy event. I had to subtly inform him that of the emergency numbers pinned to the fridge, the outside broadcast unit at BBC Radio Berkshire was not one.
They probably think it’s mad that a woman with a three-week-old baby is so keen to get back on air. But, now that I have some possible projects in the pipeline and there is still a rabid PR girl lurking inside, I’m damned if I’m going to let free airtime pass me by.
The bonus is that Henry’s Producer Man is quite happy to look after Boy Two while I’m on air. Breastfeeding, burping and nappy changing aren’t quite compatible with companionable banter on-air about the state of Reading Football Club’s relegation prospects. I’m not at all worried about how Boy Two will react to a bosomless stranger for an hour or so, but how is poor old Producer Man to cope? Since the episode in the hairdresser’s, Boy Two has been affectionately renamed ‘the vomit comet’.
Sunday 17 February 2008
On a visit to worship at the chubby feet of Boy Two, Middle Sister suggests I get into child modelling. Well, not me, obviously, but the offspring. Once I’ve recovered from the laughing fit I have to concede that she has a point. My children aren’t astoundingly beautiful by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, Boy Two’s passport photo is back and in it he is doing a fine impression of a Hungarian shot-putter – male or female, take your pick. Now, naturally I think that the kids are stunning, but that’s a mother’s prerogative, along with believing that everyone else’s children have appalling manners and are borderline ADHD.
However, Boy One certainly fits the wholesome, outdoorsy image favoured by kiddie catalogues – Boden and their ilk. Boy Two’s bottom is just crying out for a Johnson’s Baby Wipe to be artfully draped across it. Middle Sister says that a friend of her boyfriend’s is a talent scout for this sort of thing and that she’ll send over some pictures. It isn’t really morally wrong to send a three-year-old out to work to support his parents’ Merlot habit, is it?
After Middle Sister has left I crank up the internet and look into this modelling malarkey. Children don’t have to be ‘overly beautiful’ (good), just ‘clear-skinned and bright-eyed’ (would chocolate-smeared with unidentifiable foodstuffs in the hair count?). They also have to be ‘sociable, good at listening to instructions and carrying them out with the minimum of fuss’. This is all right for Boy Two who, having just discovered his smile, flirts with anything that moves, making for a very slow journey round the supermarket. Smiling babies are an absolute granny magnet.
Boy One, however, may prove a little trickier. Massively photogenic (like his mother, natch), he does have a tendency to try to crawl inside my clothes when he meets new people. It doesn’t take long for him to get over himself and start showing off like a pro, but probably long enough for ad men to get bored and move on to the next angel-faced urchin. Equally: ‘Bad manners or sulkiness will not be tolerated.’ Boy One’s manners are fine but I’m a little sceptical about his Tourettelike penchant for bellowing ‘POO!’ for no good reason. He also does a nice line in teenage sulks if things aren’t going his way. (What will he do when he’s a teenager – behave like a toddler? It’s not beyond the realms of imagination.)
Nor does it bode well that shoots can take ‘two to three hours, but factor in lots more time as they often overrun’. Bored children, shyness followed by obstreperousness – it doesn’t sound like a recipe for an easy life. And then there is the pay, which initially sounds great until you realise all the ‘extras’ you need to accommodate. Babies can coin in about £50 an hour, and older children even more. But, and it’s a big ‘but’, the agencies take a quarter of that and you have to be willing to leave everything at the drop of a hat, plus pay for your own transport costs. Sure, one day they’re grinning over a bowl of peas and the next they’re Patsy Kensit, married to a rock star and doing a nice line in soap operas. But twenty-odd years is a long time to wait to hit pay dirt. I’ve given Middle Sister the go-ahead just in case something comes of it, but I’m not sure that I’m suited to the role of Mother of Supermodel.
Monday 18 February 2008
The good news is that the doula course stuff came through so I’m moments away from my new career as fanny monitor/urchin burper. However the bad news is that the course isn’t until June, unless I want to attend the one in Manchester. It’d be fine for fitting into the grand scheme of using twelve months’ maternity leave to set up an alternative to going back to the office, but leaving it that late doesn’t cover me for the more immediate crisis posed by the Husband’s lack of career prospects.
But, every cloud – silver lining and all that. Mr Book Man is champing at the bit for some more meat on the bones of this book idea we are tossing about. He reckons if he can get a full chapter breakdown, his editorial team will bite and we’ll get the green light. I can’t escape the irony that, after having decided writing isn’t going to provide the bread and butter after having Boy Two, suddenly it’s all taking off. I have even managed to use the delay in the doula course to pitch related stories to old freelance contacts. The Times blows me out as usual but my baby mag contacts seem really keen. I get roughly 350 smackers for every article I send them. It’s not much but it keeps Boy One in Hula Hoops.
As I send off the chapter ideas to Mr Book Man, I reflect that I ought to get on with starting a business for myself, practising what I preach. But I still don’t have a clue where to start. In a flagrant example of ‘do as I say, not as I do’, I’ve written in one of the sample chapters: ‘You can always find time to squeeze in a phone call, meeting or web update – you just have to be creative! Use the crèche in the gym, the local playbarn or even beg a favour off a mate.’ My latest business phone calls have been punctuated by hysterical screaming (Boy Two), chants of ‘wipe my bottom, I did a poo’ (Boy One), and several muffled moments as I dropped the phone that had been cradled between jaw and shoulder, both hands being occupied in wrestling a baby onto a boob.
Tuesday 19 February 2008
Finally, the Husband has finished his grant proposals. Instead of being swathed in a black cloud of despondency, he now carries an air of quiet resignation, born equally of not having much hope but being able to do bugger all about it. On the positive side this means he’s a bit more available for bathing duty but it also means that his career – and our financial security – is in the hands of the gods, or charity accountants, which is practically the same thing.
Wednesday 20 February 2008
It seems I’m not the only one struggling with finding a new direction, post baby. Academic Mother brings her three-year-old daughter over for a playdate with Boy One