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Happily Imperfect
Stacey Solomon


Renowned and loved for her refreshing candour on everyday issues, social, domestic and intimate, Stacey Solomon reminds us how important it is to embrace ourselves; the good, bad and the ugly.Stacey’s authenticity and her courage to say what others daren’t opens discussions on sensitive but significant topics; her lack of sex drive after having kids, her battles with anxiety, the lows of motherhood and even the importance of hairy legs.In Happily Imperfect, be moved to tears and laughter by joining Stacey in her journey so far, as she reveals how to stay positive despite the everyday pressure to be and look perfect. Told through hilarious, sometimes moving, and always charming anecdotes, discover how to get the best out of life by being positive, not following the crowd, and trusting your gut instincts.Covering how to navigate motherhood, deal with anxiety and prejudice, as well as the experience of getting older, Stacey has plenty of words of wisdom to share. With tips and tricks on how to apply a positive mindset within your own day-to-day life, become emotionally freer and happier with Stacey by your side.










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Copyright (#u259755a7-56a4-5539-9a94-edd611c36404)


Thorsons

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by Thorsons 2019

FIRST EDITION

© Stacey Solomon 2019

Cover photograph © Jay Brooks 2019

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Stacey Solomon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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Source ISBN: 9780008321017

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008322908

Version: 2019-02-05




Dedication (#u259755a7-56a4-5539-9a94-edd611c36404)


Thank you to Joe and all of the incredible boys in our life.




Contents


Cover (#u88b00577-a70e-5f07-a407-224fadac7b6c)

Title Page (#u3e078be5-bbd6-5769-a95a-d235e1629e00)

Copyright (#u56c960db-222a-59e5-9cb6-72351442d079)

Dedication (#ube5b7d49-6d66-5eb0-85d6-5ec781674f2f)

Introduction: Labels (#ua4e08843-5737-5747-9b8a-7ec024e3a05f)

1 Letter to Me (aged fourteen) (#uab388230-6e9b-567e-8bbd-aafb2313c7b1)

2 The Big A (#u8a47581d-b8af-5d47-a062-ced2c9820cf0)

3 Ugly Duckling (#ucfe68193-7565-5394-b226-ae2c6b77b662)

4 My Tribe (My Big Jewish Family) (#u9b9ac1a7-413f-5cfe-a78c-20acb9094ff7)

5 Recipes That Say Love (Version 1) (#u083bef6f-6e63-5fcf-915c-2ede18c13ad1)

6 Mum Guilt! (#u2e6b2cf9-a928-5f50-8149-22632d8a33e3)

7 Recipes That Say Love (Version 2) (#litres_trial_promo)

8 Motherload (#litres_trial_promo)

9 Creating a Happy Family Vibe (#litres_trial_promo)

10 Perfectly Imperfect (#litres_trial_promo)

11 Hairy McLary (#litres_trial_promo)

12 Finding Your True Self (#litres_trial_promo)

13 The Hype (#litres_trial_promo)

14 Rose-tinted Goggles (#litres_trial_promo)

15 Blended Families (#litres_trial_promo)

16 Thankful (#litres_trial_promo)

17 My Happy Ever After (#litres_trial_promo)

18 Musings on Imperfection (#litres_trial_promo)

19 Forget the ‘How-tos’ (#litres_trial_promo)

20 Kindness (#litres_trial_promo)

21 Happily Imperfect Habits (#litres_trial_promo)

22 Being Happy (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)





INTRODUCTION:

Labels (#u259755a7-56a4-5539-9a94-edd611c36404)









Essex Girl: A type of young woman, supposedly to be found in and around Essex, and variously characterized as unintelligent, promiscuous and materialistic.

Oxford Living Dictionaries

Labels. We all have them, don’t we? They’re the reason I’m writing this book. I’m wildly, wonderfully imperfect, and my label as an Essex Girl proves it.

Am I an Essex Girl?

Absolutely!

Do I fit the stereotype?

Absolutely not! There’s so much more to people than the labels we’re given, and I want to share how I stay positive, how much I love my life, and how flawed yet happy I am, hence the title Happily Imperfect. This is how I am, and how I try to be, even when things feel less than ideal.

I’m far from perfect. I make mistakes, and that’s okay – in fact, it’s brilliant! This is the imperfect way I live my life: I love my work and revel in my family and community. I want to share how I stay positive, and show you how I deal with life’s ups and downs. I’ll be giving you completely imperfect advice, telling you what helps me in the hope that it helps you too. Your life doesn’t have to be perfect – far from it. You don’t need to be, look or even act a certain way to be happy.

I’m going to celebrate all of my imperfections, and there are plenty of them! I’m a ‘smother’ (Smothering Mummy, as my boys call me), a buffoon of a girlfriend, a fairly idiotic daughter, and I’m incredibly lucky to be a telly personality too. It all goes to show that there’s no right or wrong way to live wa-hoo!

Take from this book what you will. There is no single way to do things. I haven’t been through major trauma: I just want to share my journey with you, so that you know the real me, the unfiltered me, the far-from-perfect me. I want to pull open the curtain of celebrity because the people on your screens are just that: people – exactly like you. They’re no better or worse than anyone else. I’m passionate about breaking down barriers of all kinds – class, race, sexuality, whatever else holds people back or separates us. We’re all human. Let’s give ourselves a flippin’ break from judging others and – most importantly – ourselves.

Let’s go on annual leave from being told how to look, what to wear and who to be. Let’s say thanks but no thanks to the advertisers and social media telling us how to do or be anything. We don’t need to be thinner, richer, younger (!) or have a cut-glass accent. Those things don’t make you special to others. You being the only ‘you’ is the single most important thing that makes you stand out from the crowd. What a boring time we’d be having if everyone was the same.

Sometimes labels overshadow our talents. I was lucky enough that that wasn’t the case when I stepped onto the X Factor stage. I was last in the queue of thousands. I’d been waiting in an audition room packed with people until there was no one left except me, Zach and Mum. You can imagine what I looked like after spending sixteen hours in that space with my one-year-old. There was sick on my Converse trainers. My hair had been pulled every which way, and I wondered if I would ever actually get up there in front of the judges.

When they finally called my name, there was a rush of ‘Oh, my gosh, this is really happening!’ My heart was pounding and my mouth was as dry as if I’d eaten a bowl of sand. I felt my lips roll up like a blind – they literally curled up. I was so scared that the words of my song seemed to have vanished from my brain.

Standing there in front of the four people who would determine what happened next in my life, and the huge audience, I opened my mouth. Although the judges were surprised when they heard the girl from Dagenham’s singing voice, the stereotypes didn’t affect the opinions of Simon Cowell and the other panellists: Dannii Minogue, Louis Walsh and Cheryl Cole.

In the moment when all four gave me the thumbs-up, I realized I didn’t need to be perfect: I just needed to be me. Phew! I didn’t have to waste my energy trying to be someone I’m not. Just then it was truly amazing to be me: Stacey Solomon, X Factor contestant, ex fish-and-chip-shop worker, single teenage mum. Just me.

By being totally myself, I hope I can encourage others to be themselves. The prejudice I’ve faced in my life has often pushed me in the direction I’ve needed to go. When I was labelled a single mum, when people tutted at me breastfeeding Zach on the bus aged eighteen, I used that feeling to drive me forward, to make a success of myself, pay my taxes and be a good mum.

When people said I’d never make anything of myself because I had a baby, I wanted to prove them wrong. I have a rebellious side, which was often seen as negative when I was growing up, but it worked in my favour. It can work in yours too. If you feel like you don’t fit, like other people can’t see how incredible you are, choose who you want to be, and prove them all wrong.

We don’t have to be incredible, amazing or plain fabulous all the time. That would be draining. I try to look at the positive in each situation, and over time, I’ve found it the easiest way to be. I’ve discovered it’s much easier to let go (most of the time!). Getting angry or frustrated uses energy I could be channelling into making life better.

Happiness has become my ‘neutral’ state. When I smile, act in a friendly or kind way, I feel I’m owning my state of mind, regardless of what somebody wants to say or do to me. I’m more in control of how I react. When I’m confronted with a tricky situation, I try to ask myself, ‘Is it worth getting angry over this?’ It almost never is. But, of course, there are times when I need to stand up for myself, and certain situations in which anger and grief are necessary. Life isn’t always about smiling.

Every day I wake up alive and healthy, I feel I’m a winner. I feel privileged to be here on this amazing planet, but things don’t always go to plan. Stuff happens. Life throws a curveball. That’s when trying to see the glass as half full can help. It’s helped me through a few challenging times.

Choosing to see the positive isn’t always easy.

I find it extremely hard every time I go to Romford’s Queen’s Hospital children’s ward, where my sister works, where I act silly to entertain the children. While I’m with them, I’m thinking those kids shouldn’t have to be there: they should be outside playing, but life doesn’t always go that way. And it often strikes me that many of the children are the happiest, most positive humans I’ve ever met. There are some things you cannot change, so I try to focus on the amazing work the doctors and nurses do, the love and dedication of the parents and the resilience of the children. I walk out more aware of how extremely lucky I am to have healthy boys. It brings real perspective to everything.

My book is all about affecting the things you can change, like your state of mind, but if you want to see the ultimate act of positivity, then visit people in hospital. They’re the real heroes in action.

Life is imperfect. I am imperfect. We all are. I’ve learnt to love my quirks and idiosyncrasies, and those of my family and friends. Our faults can also be our biggest assets. My trusting nature means people take advantage of me sometimes, but it makes me kinder, and more open to others. Without it, some of the amazing folk I’ve met along the way might have passed me by.

I’m not going to tell anyone how to live or how to be happy, but I can share what works for me, as a flawed mum and partner, who occasionally shouts at her children in a usually messy home. Let’s not drown in life hacks, personality hacks, parenting hacks – hacking ourselves to bits – because that stress is the worst. And let’s remember to stop getting stressed about how stressed we are!

It’s been a massive relief for me to accept that I probably won’t ever have an Instagram-perfect home, face, body or partner. I probably won’t make my family organic juices throughout the day, throw a fake reindeer skin over my spotless designer sofa or waft through my Moroccan-inspired garden in a silk kaftan. Just isn’t happening.

Let’s celebrate being capable of love, and embrace the imperfections all around us. Let’s be kinder. What would the world look like if we were kinder to each other? It would be … almost perfect.

This book is about how my imperfections have helped me to live my best life. Thanks to them, I can make better choices about how to feel, what to focus on, and enjoy life.

I may be only twenty-nine, and I’ve broken a lot of rules, but I’ve learnt so much about love, being a mummy, and how to keep a smile on my face when the world seems bleak. Now I know what I need to do on my down days, when I’ve got Mum Guilt or I’m just sad, I want to share how I get through feeling hormonal, emotional or plain exhausted.

I’ve also decided to stop comparing myself with others or focusing on negatives. Halleluyah! I suffer from anxiety, so I’ve had to learn how not to worry about superficial things: it takes practice.

I want to bring you into my huge, crazy Jewish family. Today we would be labelled a ‘broken family’ but we didn’t fall apart when Mum and Dad divorced.

Dad bought a house opposite us so my sister, my brother and I could live half the time at Mum’s and half the time at his. Then he remarried and we grew into a blended family. It wasn’t conventional but it worked. That was where I came from – and that’s me.

This is an easy, no-stress book that celebrates all our weirdness and incredible-ness, with a few tips and bits of advice at the end of each chapter. I hope by sharing the things I’ve learnt along the way, I can help make life a little easier for you too. This is what makes me happily imperfect. Enjoy!




STAY POSITIVE


Labels! Everyone knows the stereotype of an Essex Girl – too much make-up, bleached hair, teetering on sky-high heels. She definitely lacks brains. Such a cliché! I could’ve let it hold me back, but I treasure my roots.

My accent is my member’s card to my life. All my friends and family speak like me. Fundamentally, we’re all good people with huge hearts, and that’s what matters. My accent makes me approachable, and I’ve started to enjoy my label. I’ve embraced the so-called ‘flaws’ of my accent and working-class roots. Italia Conti might not have wanted me, but The X Factor did, and the way I spoke became an advantage: it made me stand out from the rest, and gave me the ‘wow’ factor when I opened my mouth to sing. I’ll never forget the looks on the judges’ faces. It was the moment my hopes and dreams crystallized, the start of everything. Thank goodness I’m an Essex Girl. Would Simon, Louis, Dannii and Cheryl have noticed me if I wasn’t?

Look at the labels society may have stuck on you. Do they fit? Do they work for you? Do they define you? Can you own it or them, and make a positive from a negative? I’ve learnt that there’s more scope to impress people when their expectations are low, so set out to surprise them. Take advantage of those expectations and have a bit of fun with them, just like I did. Make peace with your labels – they could end up serving you rather than defining you.

Use this book to look at what might be going on with you, and identify it as a stereotype, a cliché or a label. It can be as easily shrugged off as embraced. You are you, your utterly unique and amazing self, and that is more than enough.




CHAPTER 1

Letter to Me (aged fourteen) (#u259755a7-56a4-5539-9a94-edd611c36404)















































CHAPTER 2

The Big A (#u259755a7-56a4-5539-9a94-edd611c36404)









It started with prickles of sweat on my hands, then something like an electric current turbo-charged up my arms as I clutched my stuffed cat, Tootsie, and listened to the last words of our bedtime story. My older sister Jemma, who was eight, my brother Matthew, four, and I shared a bedroom. I was only six and, out of nowhere, I was terrified. It was a feeling I’d never had before. Because I was so young I didn’t even have words for what I was experiencing but I recognized fear. My body started to shake. My mind started to whirr. I couldn’t swallow. My breathing felt weird, like I had to think about it instead of just doing it. What was going on? I had to force each breath in, and each one out. I was starting to pant.

‘Stacey, are you okay?’ Mum peered into my bunk as she closed the book and started up towards the light switch.

‘Don’t leave me! Please don’t go!’ I begged, holding Tootsie even tighter. ‘If I go to sleep I might die. I might never wake up again!’

I don’t know where those thoughts came from, I just blurted them out.

Mum looked at me strangely. ‘What are you on about, Stace? Of course you’ll wake up again! You silly girl, you’re just overtired. What you need is a good sleep, young lady.’

‘No, Mummy. I’m scared.’ I must have sounded so pitiful!

At that moment Dad stepped into the bedroom. ‘It’s time for sleep, Stacey,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, let’s leave them and let them get some rest,’ he said, looking pointedly at Mum. Dad was strict about bedtimes, which now I understand. Back then I would never have dared challenge him, so I stayed in my bed, though each second was agony.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Stacey, I promise you. We’re here and you’re safe. Now go to sleep,’ Mum whispered, leaning over to kiss my forehead.

Usually she was able to soothe me but not that night. I stared after her as she tiptoed out. I didn’t dare to move, sitting bolt upright in my bed, as Matthew and Jemma snored softly in their bunks close by. Our giant teddy, Sylvester – we called him Sylvia after one of Mum’s friends, thinking it hilariously funny – was beside me. I cuddled up to him, dread filling me right up.

Every night Jemma and Matthew fell asleep before Mum had finished reading, but it usually took me longer to drop off.

‘You’ve got a busy head, that’s what it is, clever girl,’ Mum would say, ruffling my hair proudly. I didn’t feel clever. I just couldn’t switch off my head like my siblings did at bedtime, and I wished I could! Mine was always sparking with thoughts and questions.

I don’t know why I suddenly developed such a terror of going to sleep and dying. What could have triggered it? No flippin’ idea. I was confused as much as scared, and I really believed in that moment that I’d drown in the blackness of sleep, never to wake up. Dramatic but true. The thought makes me shudder, even today.

‘Don’t go! I’ll die if you go!’ I whispered, but the door was shut, the room turned black, and I sat there, wanting to scream but instead panting, my eyes as wide as a rabbit’s in the headlights. My breathing was becoming shallower and faster. I’m going to die … I’m going to die … My head was thumping. My body felt numb as I tried to draw air into my lungs. What if I fall asleep and it’s black for ever?

The numbness spread from my feet into my legs and passed through my small frame. I felt heavy and even more frightened. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t move. For what seemed like an hour, I sat there, my heart pounding.

Eventually – perhaps only a minute or so later – the feelings began to subside. I lay down, feeling really sick, my eyes eventually closing, but sleep stayed away.

That was my first panic attack and it was the start of my lifelong relationship with anxiety, or the Big A, as I call it. It was frightening because I hadn’t a clue what was happening to me. From then on, I dreaded bedtime because I was scared it would come back, and it often did. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, and go back to being the happy child I was before it struck.

It’s taken me a long time to make peace with my anxiety, to understand that it’s a natural survival instinct, though I’d be lying if I said I’m totally comfortable with it.

I still experience panic attacks, though they’re less frequent, and at least I now understand what is going on. I can also be open about my anxiety, which means I can share my experiences and, hopefully, help you guys. Worry isn’t a taboo subject for me. I think the more honest we can be about anxiety attacks, the more we can all feel we’re not alone, that we can talk about it and therefore help others who might feel isolated.

Anxiety creeps up on me when I hear about the death of a friend’s friend or see something tragic on the news. Death is the only thing I’m properly scared of, whether mine or a loved one’s. It freaks me out. In fact, I envy people who worry about their relationship ending, or their children moving far away because that stuff just doesn’t bother me. I don’t worry about whether I’ll lose my job one day, or even if my boyfriend Joe and I will split up. I don’t want any of those things to happen, but they aren’t life-or-death. Dying is the only thing that is!

If I’m alive I can do anything, but I’m aware that death could touch me at any moment. None of us knows when our time is up. I don’t want my life to end. I love my family, my children, my friends, and even Joe (sorry, babe, I couldn’t resist saying that!). Every morning I wake up happy to be alive and grateful for all the amazing things that have come my way. The thought of being dead fills me with horror. I don’t want to lose any of my loved ones and I don’t want my life to end. It’s as simple as that.

I know people will probably laugh at me for being so morbid when I’m only twenty-nine, but I grew up around Jewish grandmothers. If you want to learn how to worry about anything and everything, get a Jewish granny! Seriously, my nana (my dad’s mum) would constantly say things like: ‘Ugh! Don’t go outside – it’s cold!’ or ‘Ugh, if you don’t eat breakfast, you’ll starve!’ or ‘Ugh, you need a coat on [when it’s twenty degrees outside]!’

Nana lived like everything was dangerous and she was permanently on the edge of a cliff. I wonder if it was because Dad’s father died when he was young and she had young children to bring up on her own. She did an amazing job, but her anxiety definitely had an effect on me, though as a single mum I totally get where she was coming from.

When I look at my boys, Zachary, ten, and Leighton, six, I feel it’s all down to me to look after them. I mean, who would have them if I died? Who would support them and guide them? I’m really lucky. I have a big Jewish family so they wouldn’t be left on the streets. It’s more like, who would love them the way I do? And there’s no answer to that.

I grew out of the childhood panic attacks and spent my teenage years in an almost exactly opposite state: I felt indestructible. I’d spent ten years worrying about dying in my sleep and was still alive so I trusted life again. I actually believed that nothing bad would ever happen to me, and behaved accordingly. I had found my outspoken, rebellious side and loved it! It drove my mum mental.

When I went into labour with Zachary, everything changed and anxiety reared its ugly head again. I had no idea what to expect when I found out I was pregnant at seventeen. It was a big shock, closely followed by worry about the birth. I asked other mothers what their labours were like, and no one told me the truth. It was like there was a secret conspiracy to stop me knowing how traumatic childbirth can be. Looking back, it’s obvious they were trying not to frighten me, to protect me from the often grim reality, but it also meant I had no idea about the pain of contractions. I was in labour for seventy-two hours. I couldn’t believe how much each contraction hurt.

Ten years ago people weren’t talking about it so publicly and honestly. There was no social media, no ‘Maybe I can go on Twitter and ask for help or read blogs.’ I was told, ‘It’ll all be all right in the end,’ but that didn’t prepare me for having giant needles in my spine, clamps up my vagina, and yet another person looking at my nunny.

It was the first time I truly felt my mortality, triggering all those old, anxious feelings. Giving birth was so painful, alien and undignified that it shook me. I found it utterly traumatic (don’t let me put anyone off – I had a second child so it can’t have been that bad, right?) and at one point I really thought I was going to die.

I realized I wasn’t super-human. I’m not indestructible: I am, in fact, mortal. Perhaps I should’ve grasped that earlier in life. I’m a bit of a control freak. I like being on top of things. Anything I can’t control sets off my worries big-time, and those feelings continue today.

Now I can’t wait to have another baby. I go online, look up childbirth blogs, and birth stories, then work out all the options.

Anxiety is the bottom line for me. It sits under everything I do or am as a person. It comes on early in the day, a kind of itchy, troublesome restlessness that creeps over me, making everything I do seem strange and forced. It’s usually when a friend rings and says, ‘Did you know so-and-so got diagnosed with cancer?’ or ‘So-and-so died yesterday of a brain haemorrhage,’ and it stays with me all day. It’s the understanding of how fragile life is. It’s much later, when I get into bed, when the kids are asleep, when my filming is done for the day, and there’s nothing to distract me, that I go into a full-blown panic attack.

If I try to relax that only makes things worse. My breathing becomes something I have to think about, just like when I was a child, and that’s when I know I’m having an attack. My body feels numb, heavy and paralysed. I have pins and needles in my hands. I can’t swallow, and feel like I’m going to faint. I’m like that for about two minutes but it feels like for ever.

So, what do I do? I’ve come to terms with the fact I cannot stop the attacks when they start. I have learnt that the only way through is to accept it. I can’t change who I am so I accept that I’m someone who has panic attacks. It’s part of me, just like the colour of my eyes or the way I speak.

Rather than try to stop one, I concentrate on each moment, focusing on what is happening rather than trying to deny it. It sounds counterintuitive but, slowly, I was less freaked-out when I had one. Over time each attack felt less severe. I had to see an attack for what it was: a response to unhappy news that left me feeling powerless. A panic attack began to seem a logical response to whatever had happened. Once I understood the cause, I was able to sit through each one, and understand it. In doing so, I lost some of my fear of the actual attacks.

Afterwards, I can’t sleep, so I’ll clean the house, at 1 a.m., if need be, and eventually I might get a few hours’ sleep. These days the attacks are fewer. I don’t know why. I tried every technique I could, including cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), yoga, Rapid Eye Movement Therapy (EMDR – Eye Movement Desensitizing and Reprocessing Therapy) and hypnotherapy. They all helped in small ways, and may be useful to anyone experiencing panic attacks. Do seek help and try different techniques if you suffer from anxiety – it really is worth it. In the end, though, it was accepting my anxiety, and enjoying my life despite the attacks, that made the difference for me.

I have learnt that if I allow each attack to happen without trying to stop it, it will work its way out. When I’m in that scary place, when my body is freaking out and my mind is telling me I’m going to die any second and leave my babies bereft, it feels like it’ll never end. That’s why I talk about it to friends and family. Somehow the act of talking, of being open about it, makes it seem less overwhelming.

If anxiety is part of you too, you’ll know that feeling – the first few prickles of sweat, the nagging thoughts, the sensation in the pit of your stomach that tells you an attack is under way. You may feel light-headed, restless, have racing thoughts, faster breathing, and your heart is beating, it seems, at a thousand miles an hour.

At times like that it’s impossible to see the bigger picture, to know that this excruciating feeling will last for a few minutes at most. Knowing your triggers and building a support network of friends, family and GP are invaluable in dealing with anxiety.

My trigger is always health-related. I know that the Big A will creep up on me and take me hostage at night if something upsets me.

I’ve learnt to differentiate between nerves and full-blown anxiety. For example, I get nervous before I go on Loose Women or before I sing. That it isn’t anxiety because during an attack I feel like I’m going to die. I can’t control that at all. I’ve been with Loose Women for years but I get a bit nervous still because I care so much about my job. I want to do well. That isn’t the same as an attack. Before a show I can calm my nerves by telling myself that no one wants me to fail, the girls have got my back, or I remind myself that I’m capable of doing my job: that’s why I was hired. I can create a positive mindset through experiencing nerves.

Positive self-talk is empowering because it helps me to keep my nerves in check so I can use them to try to do a better job. I like feeling that I’m giving something my very best shot.

If I’m honest, I have days when I sit on the panel and feel under-qualified, or unsure of my opinion, but at those moments I make a conscious effort to tell myself I’m good enough, and that it’s okay to be unsure or even to change my mind on an issue. I tell myself it’s okay to be nervous. If I felt nothing, I would wonder whether I wanted or cared about my work.

Knowing my triggers, working with my body and mind, and letting go of the need to stop my anxiety has helped me to keep the attacks in perspective, even to celebrate them. I find that turning a big negative into a positive is the way forward, though it takes time and understanding to achieve. I see my GP regularly, and I make sure my family and I eat healthily and do loads of outdoor play. I focus on creating a happy, balanced home and work life. The Big A can be a positive, even if it often doesn’t feel that way. The challenge for me is to remember that, and keep living my life the best way I know how.




STAY POSITIVE


Find someone neutral or trustworthy, perhaps a GP, family friend, partner, or mental health professional, and just open up. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Speaking up on any mental-health issue is brave and honest, and will make things easier.

You may need further professional help, which may include medication or talking therapies. Work at understanding your triggers.

Recognize that anxiety is part of you – and is no different from any other illness. If you break your leg, you go straight to a doctor, and it’s the same with panic attacks. Treat your condition as an illness rather than as something to be ashamed of.





CHAPTER 3

Ugly Duckling (#ulink_c178721f-1db4-5440-b417-9fc472c93203)









The pretty girls at school were petite with cute button noses, smooth, shiny hair, sculpted eyebrows, long lashes and fuzz-free skin.

Then there was me. I was gawky. Ridiculously tall, with frizzy, unmanageable hair – barely there eyebrows and lashes, and a thick Yeti-like fuzz of body hair.

How did I get through school with those ‘gifts’ from Mother Nature? I just didn’t realize how unconventional I was until people pointed it out to me. Even then, I was blissfully unaware of what people classed as pretty or otherwise. I hadn’t really thought about my looks until then. I’d concentrated on developing my personality. I could make people laugh, and if I was naughty and funny, I had friends. I thought less about what I looked like, and more about who I was.

You could say that was where it all began for me. I had to cultivate my character because my looks didn’t mean anything to me. My Shallow Hal approach to life meant that looks were irrelevant to me. Whether someone was kind, funny or smart was way more important than how they looked. I still feel that today.

Saying that, I knew I wasn’t cute on the first day I walked through the gates at high school with the rest of my year group, and someone, an older child, said quite loudly: ‘Ugh, she’s not little …’ And by ‘little’ they meant cute or sweet, or even ‘resembling someone my own age’.

I didn’t resemble anyone of my age. I didn’t fit my year group. My body didn’t fit my age. I was much taller and awkward, with fully developed boobs yet I still had milk teeth. Go figure.

I basically had an adult’s body, plus all the accompanying hormones, with a child’s face and emotional development. I was a complete mismatch. As soon as I heard that first ‘ugh’, I knew I was going to have to work harder than the other girls to be liked. As a kid, I’d always longed to be the cute one, the little one, but I never was. I was always the gangly one with shocking hair and tufty eyebrows. It didn’t take me long to realize that none of the boys my age fancied me. They all went for the smaller girls with the straight sleek hair and button noses.

My hair was long but it was frizzy, so much so that my sister Jemma and I nicknamed our hair the ‘Jewish-fro’, or Jew-fro for short. Straighteners hadn’t been invented, and if they had, I wouldn’t have been allowed to buy them. Neither my mum nor my dad was vain and they’d have laughed at me if I’d said I needed to buy something to straighten my hair, though they relented when I was older. They thought we were beautiful as we were – which until then I’d believed. School had set me straight. I like to describe my ’fro in those days as part Joan Rivers, part Cher, part Monica-from-Friends-when-she-goes-to-Barbados. A fright, basically.

By the time I hit year seven, I had braces to add to the mix. Another nail in the coffin of my physical appearance. My front teeth were so far apart I liked to joke they had had an argument and were trying to get away from each other. At one point, pre-brace, I could fit a pound coin in the gap. My eyebrows had become small tufts that sat waving at me from over my eyes, and I’d been blessed with thick black hair all over my body except in the places that girls want it. My body was, I thought, horrendous. I was embarrassed by it and by my face. I wanted to stop time so I could go back to being young, but my physique wasn’t letting that happen.

When (shock! horror!) someone finally fancied me, it was a boy from year eleven (when I was still in year seven). I found that disgusting because, back then, I thought he was way too old for me. Practically ancient! Also, the girls in his year took his liking for me as treachery, and blanked me, which wasn’t pleasant, especially as I never encouraged him.

All in all, I was pretty insecure. I knew I would never be the pretty one in class, so I felt I had to earn people’s friendship by acting out and generally being as loud, naughty and funny as I could.

I had to make myself likeable – it was a survival mechanism, but it taught me so much. My dad had always been very sociable. If we went to Butlins on holiday, he’d always be the parent who made friends with everyone, who led games with the kids, or got up for the talent contest. I really admired how well he got on with everyone, and how much effort he put into meeting people and honing his social skills. When I was a child he would say to me, ‘Go on, go out and make friends,’ or ‘Be confident. Go and join in.’ He had the knack of bringing people together. I always wanted to be that person, and being the ugly one at school laid the foundation for it.

So, I told jokes, messed about and did stupid things to build my friendship group because there was nothing I could do to change my appearance. I felt I had to work way harder than the attractive girls to fit in and be accepted, and that people had to have a good reason to want to be friends with me. Rightly or wrongly, that had a huge impact on the development of my character.

I rapidly became the class clown and loved my friends, who came from across the spectrum of the year group, including the popular ones, the pretty ones and the clever ones. I was just friends with everyone. I made sure I was the one you could have a laugh with and was great fun to be around.

Louise was my hero. She was popular, pretty and naughty, so, to me, she was endlessly mysterious and fascinating. All the boys loved her, and I looked up to her. My mate Joelly was just like me, really silly and childish in her tastes and behaviour. We both found really uncool things funny, and shared a secret liking for a babyish cartoon called The Land Before Time. Neither of us would have admitted at school to liking it – it would’ve been social suicide – but together we’d laugh over our favourite bits.

I was so rubbish at lying that I always got caught out. When I went off to school, I’d take my skiving clothes in a plastic bag. Mum always left by 7 a.m. for work so I didn’t have to worry too much about being caught then. But I’d get home, still dressed in my joggers, hoodie and trainers, to find Mum staring at me, asking why on earth I wasn’t wearing my school uniform. D’oh.

Basically, I was questioning the system at the same time as not feeling aesthetically ‘good enough’. I was working hard on every other part of me to compensate, and at times I definitely took it too far, but underneath it lay the strong belief, passed on to me by my amazing parents, that personality outweighs physical appearance. The thing I care most about, regardless of how I look, is who I am as a friend and a mummy, and I try to be as decent a person as I can possibly be.

The seed of self-esteem must have been planted in me by my parents because as I got older, and grew into my body, I grasped that my worth was as a complete human being, and didn’t rely on looks or achievements. I became more confident as people liked me for who I was, and the more sure of myself I became, the more boys started fancying me. I realized there was so much more to me than looks. I was growing up.

My parents had always told me that beauty is subjective, that everyone found different things attractive: there was no fixed idea of beauty. They instilled in me a belief that beauty is a state of mind: if I felt attractive, I would be attractive. In a weird way, this started coming true. The more at ease I was with how I looked, the more people were attracted to me. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It took me a long time to ‘find’ myself, and by that I mean accept and love myself. It didn’t happen overnight. School was a bad time for me, and probably for most people. You don’t know who you are. Your looks and your body are changing. There’s a lot to go through when you’re young and vulnerable. When I accepted those changes, I started letting go of any anxieties I had about who I was and what I looked like.

Zachary’s arrival had a massive impact on me. Everything I’d ever worried about suddenly seemed superficial because I had brought life into the world and I was entirely responsible for him. Even though the birth was difficult, I entered into a Shallow Hal period of happiness with my body – I was totally oblivious to the shape, weight and look of it. Instead, I marvelled at how my boobs could feed a tiny human, how I’d created little fingers and toes, and a beating heart, a person in his own right. My body was brave and amazing. Look what I can do! I felt like saying to anyone who’d listen. Look! I can make fingernails and kidneys and hair!

I was convinced I’d snapped back into shape after his birth and carried on regardless, wearing tiny bikinis on holiday and squeezing into skinny jeans. Looking at photographs of myself in those days makes me laugh. I clearly hadn’t snapped back at all. I carried extra baby weight for quite a while but I really didn’t know, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have cared a jot. I’d made a little boy. I was utterly impressed by myself.

After that, I refused to see my ‘flaws’ – the things I’m told by the media and advertisers that I should hate about my body. I realized I had to let go of what society was telling me. I was a perfect version of myself, and I felt beautiful. At last, I accepted that I could choose to feel those things, and that there was no perfect formula for attractiveness. We’re all beautiful, regardless of what we’re told we should look like. We can determine how attractive we feel. I get to decide whether I’m pretty or not and I refuse to give that power to anyone else.

I feel just as beautiful without my hair extensions, false eyelashes or fake tan. I feel amazing when I’ve got no make-up on and my hair is pulled back into a messy bun. Who is going to tell me otherwise?

I do all the make-up stuff, the glossy hair and fake lashes because it’s fun. I love dressing up. I love being able to change my appearance according to my mood, and I have a laugh with it. I never feel I need to do all that just to be acceptable. Anyone following me on Instagram or Twitter knows I’m just as happy to post pictures of myself without make-up as I am when I’m glammed up.

Being with Joe has also made a huge difference. He thinks I’m stunning, full stop. He loves me and thinks I’m the prettiest girl in the world, and that helps me feel I am because it’s how he sees me. There are many mornings when he wakes up and he has my false eyelashes stuck to his neck or back, and sees me with mascara streaked down my face and greasy hair. He doesn’t care. He loves me just as I am.

I’m not saying we need to have a partner to validate our sense of being beautiful, but it elevates my confidence for sure. I have had times in relationships where I’ve felt insecure, and others have projected their insecurities onto me. I freed myself from those situations and soon understood that someone else’s view of me didn’t have to be mine. Joe is amazing at being the total opposite of that. I used to hide my insecurities by being loud and funny. I’m still pretty loud, and I love having a laugh, and making people smile, but I do it because that’s me. I have nothing to hide any more – and that feels amazing.

I’m in control of how important, beautiful and intelligent I feel, and I stay vigilant: I notice when negative thoughts come into my mind, and talk positively to myself in response. We all have them, those creeping, gloomy ‘I’m not good enough’ thoughts. When they come in I bat them away. They still turn up every day, though far less than when I was younger.

If you’ve ever felt like an ugly duckling, like I did, then I’d advise you to take your head out of your phone for a second and look around you. I’m always surprised by the difference between real and online life. It’s comforting to lift my head and see that everybody else out there is like me. Nobody has yet invented a real-life skin smoother or airbrushing tool, so outside our laptops and mobiles, there are no perfect-looking humans, or CGI characters. What a relief! Everybody is beautifully different, and it’s those differences that make us people, rather than characters in a fantasy version of life. It makes them real.

The reality is that we don’t notice people unless they’re directly connected to our lives. We feel that everybody is looking at us all the time, but are we being looked at? Probably not. The narcissist in me, says, ‘Oh, maybe I can’t go out in my unicorn slippers with half my eyelashes hanging off’, but why am I worrying what the world thinks I look like? Why do I genuinely believe that the world is so interested in what I look like when I’m doing the supermarket run? It’s not! Take great comfort in the fact that nobody cares and that’s a really good thing.

It is never good to judge ourselves on looks alone. Why would we do that to ourselves? I look at my body and think, I can make stuff with my hands, or My legs can run, walk or do silly dancing – and that’s incredible!

I’m no ugly duckling – neither inside nor out.




STAY POSITIVE


When we’re feeling less than radiantly beautiful, which, let’s face it, can be a lot of the time, there’s a little trick that helps. Look at yourself in the mirror and tell yourself that you love yourself, and that you’re an awesomely amazing human being. It works. Try it for a week. Stand in front of a mirror every morning just before you leave home, and tell yourself you look amazing. It only takes a minute, and it feels super-weird at first, but the benefits are surprising. That minute of appreciation and self-love can help you face the world outside the front door. That confidence-inducing self-talk, celebrating your awesomely imperfect reflection, can be really powerful in helping you live your best day possible, while imparting a little Ready Brek glow of courage and inner beauty to help you on your way.





CHAPTER 4

My Tribe (My Big Jewish Family) (#ulink_a215470d-9e9c-54de-90c8-b8572c57abd3)









Three words sum up my childhood: Friday. Night. Dinner.

It was always held at Nana’s tiny two-bed Jewish flat in north London. It really was a Jewish flat because the block had been built after the war to help refugees settle in London. It was next to Manor House tube station, and every Friday after school we’d all pile into those small rooms. By ‘all’, I mean my mum and dad and us three siblings, then later my step-mum Karen and her children, my aunties Marilyn and Alison, their children, plus my dad’s brother Sonny and his family. Ten kids at least, assorted adults and the biggest vat of homemade chicken soup you’ve ever seen.

Playing with my cousins was the highlight of each week. I don’t know how we all managed to fit into the flat and play happily together yet we did.

‘Stacey, stop mucking about and help your nana! Matthew, stop chasing Jemma and set a good example …’ My dad’s voice would rise above the melee, but we largely ignored him and carried on playing, safe in our family universe.

‘Bubbe, of course I’ll help you. Would you like me to sing as I lay the table?’ I’d shout above the din. ‘Bubbe’ is the traditional Jewish name for ‘Grandmother’. We’ve never been massively Jewish – we celebrate the Sabbath each week, of course, and Hanukkah, but that’s about it, these days. I wouldn’t dream of denying my family access to Christmas, Easter, Diwali or any festival outside Judaism.

Nana’s eyes would twinkle and she’d shrug in that wholly Jewish way, which was permission enough for me to belt out my favourite chart hit of the moment as she stirred soup and fried dumplings ready for the feast – it went on through the evening due to lack of space.

I had an ulterior motive. If I entertained the adults, made them laugh and sang songs to them, they gave me second or even third helpings. It was a totally primal instinct. If I acted like a performing seal, telling jokes, making everyone laugh, they’d throw me a fish! I really felt I was there for their pleasure, and what I got from it was more food and the feeling I could fit in with the adults.

The first serving of chicken soup with kneidlach had the kids crammed round Nana’s cramped dining-table. Even a whiff of that distinctive smell takes me right back there, slurping the clear soup with its yellow stain from the chicken, the noodles, carrots and unbelievably tasty dumplings – if anyone left one I’d have it. The table was surrounded by random garden chairs, eight in total, though it only really fitted four.

Next, the adults would eat their soup so we’d all swap over, though I’d always go back for more delicious soup – Jewish penicillin, as Nana called it. Then we’d have the main course, a roast chicken with yellow rice. No matter how many times my dad or I have tried to make Nana’s yellow rice, we have always failed to reproduce the warm spiced flavour. Most of the time we wouldn’t have pudding because by then Nana was too exhausted from cooking, but if we were lucky, I mean reeeally lucky, she’d make us meringues. It’s another family mystery as to how she got them so chewy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. I’ve never been able to master her recipe, and I don’t think Dad’s ever managed it either. Most of the time we got a fruit pop – a long stick of iced water and sugar – and were happy with that.

Nana died aged eighty-six. She never got to see either of my boys. Zachary was born a couple of years after she passed, which, even after all this time, still makes me feel sad. Those evenings were legendary. In fact, it was an epic childhood, though by many people’s standards we had very little except each other. Nana never had a spare penny in her life, but if she had, she’d have given it to one of us children. She thought she had everything, though, because she was rich in family and love.

My family has given me a sense of belonging that has carried me through all the hardships and times when I thought I wouldn’t make it. Their love and support have defined and shaped me. I’d be nothing without them. I know how lucky I am to have them. They are my tribe, my clan, my brethren.

Growing up, I never really appreciated how close we all were, and it’s only since I’ve been a mum that I’ve realized how important family has been to me, and how I’d almost taken it for granted. For instance, Jemma and I used to fight loads. We argued so much that Dad built a fake wall out of plasterboard, which cut our shared room in half, including the window, to separate us. I was gutted because it meant that Jemma’s clothes weren’t so accessible for me to steal – that was what lots of our fights were about.

The other part of me was thrilled to have a space of my own even though it was hardly bigger than a cardboard box. It meant I could spend hours on the phone to my friends and Jemma wouldn’t be able to snitch on me – another cause of our arguments. Despite that, as Jemma and I grew up we became the closest of sisters. I call her every day and now we’re best friends.

Strong women run in my family. Nana, who was the daughter of Polish immigrants, brought up her four children single-handed and alone after my grandfather died when Dad was young. Nana Toby, as she called herself – she hated her real name ‘Mathilda’ – was progressive in her views. She let my dad build a darkroom in her cupboard when he became interested in photography, which later became his profession. Later, she looked after us three when Mum had to leave early in the morning for work. I was still at primary school before Mum and Dad divorced. Mum worked for the Department of Social Security while Dad was setting up his photography business, which meant that neither parent could be there in the mornings to get us ready for school.

When my mum left quietly for the office, so I wouldn’t be upset, I always found her out, ran to a top window and cried, ‘Don’t go! Don’t leave me!’ I was never one for understatement.

I was eight years old when my parents sat us down one day and told us they were separating.

‘Jemma, Stace, Matt, we’ve got something to tell you,’ Dad began.

‘Move over,’ Jemma hissed at me, wiggling her bum into the space where I was trying to sit.

‘No, you move. Muuum, Jemma’s sitting on me!’ I wailed.

All three of us were crammed into the tiniest, ugliest brown leather sofa you can possibly imagine.

‘Listen, you three. This is important,’ said Mum. ‘We’re going to divorce because me and your dad love each other but we’re not in love any more.’

There was silence, broken by Jemma bursting into tears.

‘Oh,’ was all I managed to say. Jemma was very upset, and I assumed I should be too, but our parents made it so easy and friendly that I wasn’t sad for long. Matthew took it hardest. He was only seven when they split up, so he found it really confusing.

I’d had no clue that Mum and Dad’s relationship was ending. They were so amicable, though we always knew when Mum was having a little cry about it: she’d hoover downstairs and we knew not to disturb her.

I think Mum had been feeling neglected because Dad worked so hard setting up his photographic company, but the reasons for their separation were never discussed. I always felt it was their business, not ours. Dad moved out, and not long afterwards he bought the house in our road. Each week, Mum had us from Sunday to Wednesday, Dad would pick us up from school on Wednesday and we’d stay with him for the rest of the week. They made it so smooth. They did the most selfless thing by putting us first.

A few years later, in 2000, when I was at the end of primary school, Dad met Karen. He introduced us to her that summer. Instantly, we loved her and she loved us. All credit to my mum, she made a huge effort to be nice to Karen and they got on really well. If Mum hadn’t liked her, we’d have struggled.

As an adult, I look back at that time and can see how difficult it must have been for Karen, fitting into a close family. She and her children, Aaron, Samantha and Ray, came on holiday to Turkey with us, and it must have been strange being there with all of us, including my mum, while she was starting a new relationship. Dad was so happy, and she was such a lovely lady, that the holiday didn’t feel awkward at all. I’ll never forget that Karen bought me a book for the plane, The Prince of Egypt. It was the first time our new extended family had had a holiday together. To me, it was exciting, different and lovely. Dad was happy. Karen was happy – and so were we.

Once Dad and Karen had moved in together, half of our week was spent with our bigger family. The first time my new step-siblings stayed overnight with us, I insisted my new sister Sam slept in my bunk with me. When it came to bedtime, we lay there silently for what seemed like ages. It was really awkward. I didn’t know her or she me. All of a sudden Sam put her foot out and caught the white sheet, which made me exclaim that her foot looked like Julius Caesar because it was wrapped in a toga.

‘It’s Julius Cheeser!’ one of us yelled, and then we were laughing. We laughed so loudly and for so long that Dad had to come and tell us to stop. After that, whenever we stayed over, there’d be silence, then one of us would shout, ‘Julius Cheeser!’ We still do it today –though we’ve given up sharing a bunk bed!

I don’t know how Dad and Karen could afford to feed us. We’d walk in from school and all six of us would head straight to the fridge. Most of the time Dad cooked.

One evening we’d all sat down at the table. ‘Oi, budge up, Stace,’ Matt said, elbowing me in the ribs.

‘Hey, watch it! I’m bigger than you,’ I retorted, giving my little brother a mock-grimace.

‘Yes, yes, Stace, you look terrifying.’ Dad grinned. ‘Now, everyone, sit still and let me put this down.’ He was carrying a large baking dish, which he put in the centre of the table with a flourish. There was a brief moment of silence while we registered the food, then the babble started up again, with laughing, fighting, teasing and squabbling.

I looked around me, knowing my life was messy but utterly complete. My new step-mum, Karen, was laughing at one end of the table, while Dad served up huge portions of his homemade shepherd’s pie. My sister Jemma, my polar opposite in character, was chatting to our stepsister Sam, while stepbrothers Aaron and Ray (and later half-brother Josh) mucked about with Matt. It was a glorious mish-mash of children and adults, our blended family in action.

‘Arrgh, Dad! You’ve put loads of chilli in it again!’ I shouted, feeling the sudden burn.

‘It’s meant to be shepherd’s pie!’ Matt gulped down a glass of water.

Dad beamed, as happy as anything with his latest creation, while we coughed and went bright red in the face. I’d never seen so much water drunk so quickly by a group of children! Other times, we’d be sweating from the heat of the spices he’d jazzed up our dinner with, and he’d never relent.

‘If you don’t eat it, there’s nothing at all,’ Dad would say, and I’m the same with my boys, except I don’t lace everything with chilli. I leave that to my father.

Afterwards we bickered as usual over who would wash, dry or put away the dishes. No one ever wanted to dry them. The job everyone wanted was putting away and we fought fiercely over it.

My family has given me the strongest moral compass. They taught me always to try to do the right thing, and to know how important people are. They taught me to have compassion and empathy: you never know what someone is struggling with. They may seem grumpy but they could be going through a very bad patch. Living with so many family members taught me to have consideration for others, and patience, especially when they’re enduring difficult emotions. When I complained about my sisters or brothers, one or other of my parents would say, ‘Hang on, Stace, don’t just think about yourself. Look at why they’re acting the way they are.’

That message has stayed with me, and I’m so grateful to them for that perspective. My family showed me that we could stand together and help one another, even during a divorce, and that we can have so much fun together. Just having each other was enough.

This became the blueprint for my parenting. I hope I’m able to be a smidgen of the parent to my kids that my mum and dad, and stepmother Karen, were to me. I really hope that with my boys I can bring joy into the simple things, without lots of stuff, the way I was brought up.

I want the values that were instilled in me – kindness, consideration for others, tolerance for people around me, togetherness and love – to be passed down to my children. I work really hard to achieve that. I’m just so grateful for everything my family did for me, and everything they still do today.

I wouldn’t be the person I am today without my family. I have a huge amount of respect and admiration for everyone in it. I can’t imagine what it’s like not to have a family unit as close and loving as mine. Meeting Karen made me realize that family doesn’t have to be blood-related. Anyone we love can be a surrogate parent, sibling, aunt or uncle to us. Family can be anyone – friends, pets, partners: it doesn’t have to be biological to be real.

My family set-up isn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination. My parents divorced, and we blended two families together. I have two children by different partners, and now I’m not with either of them. Yet, despite that, we have thrived and loved, and I feel so fortunate we have each other. Why do we worry about being a perfect family? There’s no such thing, only the love we have for those closest to us.

My parents’ behaviour was a huge influence on the way we dealt with the divorce. It was their positivity that made our lives carry on so smoothly. There are lots of circumstances in which it is impossible to have that kind of break-up – I’ve discovered that in my own relationship history. It is also worth noting that it is completely out of any child’s hands as to how their parents deal with separation or divorce. It’s wholly up to them, and many may be unable to move on without conflict or difficulty. We all try to do the best we can.

It’s important to recognize also that the breakdown of relationships doesn’t necessarily define our parenting. We can make mistakes, or find we can’t deal with our exes as easily as perhaps we’d like. That doesn’t mean we’ve failed. It just means that real life is challenging and complex – and family relationships most of all.

I believe that my children can become whoever they want to become, despite our immediate family circumstances. I have to strive to be the parent I want to be, providing a happy and steady home for my boys that is full of love. It’s all I can do.

I try to stay positive and kind about all the people involved in raising my children, which, although it can be tough at times, it is of the utmost importance to me as being a single mum isn’t easy. That would be my main piece of advice to anyone who is reassessing their tribe right now.

My family is my backbone. Every day I give thanks for each and every one of them.




STAY POSITIVE


My parents were united as parents, regardless of what was going on between them, and they always spoke about each other in a positive light, with love and respect. I try hard to do the same with my own children and their fathers. It isn’t easy, none of this is, but when I look at how happy my boys are, I know it’s worth the extra effort.

How can you be more positive in your family relationships? Are there relatives or partners you can deal with more gently, or be more understanding about their troubles or behaviour? Can you stop yourself reacting in a negative way, even just a little? Your tribe is just that, your group of other flawed people trying to do their best, often in ways that may not be comfortable for you. It’s when I see this that I remember love is a verb, and I can choose to express it in my actions, even if that means biting my tongue.





CHAPTER 5

Recipes That Say Love (Version 1) (#ulink_277b98f1-28d1-5d33-877d-2bcff64e71f6)









Getting a word in edgeways around our dining-table at mealtimes, especially on Friday night, was impossible unless you learnt to shout, make people laugh or debate passionately. With six siblings, and relatives coming out of the floorboards, we still have supper together on every Sabbath because it’s our tradition. I have at least fifteen people round my table.

Pretty much everything about my personality was formed round the dining-table. I learnt to talk really fast, like really fast, so I could get out what I needed to say before someone interrupted me. My head has always been filled with a million thoughts – and a million things to say. I guess my telly career thrives because of this so I’m very happy with this imperfection!

When you’re one of seven children, you aren’t heard if you don’t talk loudly. I learnt how to debate, how to engage in adult conversation, and I learnt about love. It was served up each evening amid the noise and the elbowing, the jokes and the occasional tears. Now, food for me is a form of love, and I serve it up to my boys every evening. I spend a lot of my life cooking. I see it as my service to my family, and all of it, absolutely all of it, expresses the love I feel for them. Friday-night dinner is the heart of our week, and has been since I was a child.

All these recipes are filled to the brim with love – the love oozes from them – and I dish it up unapologetically. I tell my boys I love them a hundred times a day, and that’s still not enough for me.




Nana’s Chicken Soup and Kneidlach


Nana always had a pot of her Jewish penicillin bubbling on the stove. Nowadays it would be described as ‘bone broth’ and sold for six pounds a pop in trendy Shoreditch, but it has been the staple of our lives. The chicken is usually a broiler bought from a kosher butcher so it has no giblets, but you can use any old chicken, though I’m told organic is best. This soup is meant to simmer from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. for the best flavour but two hours is fine!

Serves 4

You’ll need:

For the chicken soup

1 x 1.5kg broiler chicken or any chicken will do

1 onion, peeled and roughly chopped

2 sticks of celery, roughly chopped

2 carrots, roughly chopped

1 chicken stock cube

250g rice noodles

For the kneidlach

2 eggs, lightly beaten

2 tablespoons oil or chicken fat

2 tablespoons soup stock or water

1 teaspoon salt

110g matzah meal or fine ground breadcrumbs

Place the chicken and the rest of the soup ingredients in a large pot, with enough water to cover. Bring it to the boil, then lower the heat and allow it to simmer for around 2 hours, topping up the water as necessary. Remove any fat that rises to the surface and keep to one side for the kneidlach.

Meanwhile, make the kneidlach. (Or you can buy them if you’re super-busy!) In a bowl, stir together the eggs, oil or chicken fat, stock or water and salt, then add the matzah meal or breadcrumbs slowly until the mixture is thick. Cover and put it into the fridge for 30 minutes, then form into small balls.

Half an hour before serving, remove the chicken and set aside. Add the dumplings to the soup to cook for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, shred the meat from the chicken and place into serving bowls – you can return the bones to the stock pot for extra flavour. Drop in the rice noodles, and let them cook for 2 minutes.

Gently place the noodles and the cooked kneidlach into the bowls with the chicken meat, cover with hot broth and serve piping hot to appreciative diners. Amazing!




Friday-night Dinner Roast Chicken and Yellow Rice


Pretty straightforward, though Nana always made it taste amazing. It was always the centrepiece of Friday-night dinner, and reminds me of home, family and comfort. I have so many happy memories of those dinners, memories I try to recreate today at my own table.

Serves 4

You’ll need:

1 x 1.5kg whole chicken

2 tablespoons butter

1 lemon, halved

salt and pepper

For the rice

280g white long-grain rice

2 onions, peeled and chopped

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 teaspoons turmeric

A pinch of saffron

1/2 teaspoon salt

600ml water

Preheat the oven to 200°C/Gas 6. Place the chicken into a foiled roasting tin, rub the softened butter over the chicken and season generously. Put the cut lemon inside the chicken. Bung it into the oven and roast for 80–90 minutes. Stab it with a skewer: if the juices run clear, it’s done. If not, put it back into the oven for another 10 minutes, then test again.

Half an hour before you want to serve, make the rice. Heat up the oil in a saucepan, add the chopped onion and cook for two minutes until starting to soften. Add the turmeric, saffron, salt and rice. Cover with the water and bring to a simmer for 8 minutes. Place a lid on top and turn the heat off. Leave the lid on until the rice is fully cooked and all the water is absorbed. Fluff with a fork and serve with the chicken. Enjoy!




Dad’s Spicy Shepherd’s Pie


I’ll let Dad speak for himself here, as it’s his recipe after all: ‘I made this differently every time, but mostly it looks something like this. My spice mix varies according to how I feel on the day I’m making it, but I always have chilli, loads of chilli. My grandparents were Iraqi Jews who traded coffee in Burma. When the Japanese invaded they fled to Calcutta before moving to London in the 1950s. My heritage is where I get my love for spicy food, and I was always trying to share this with my children as they grew up.’

Serves at least 8, ‘because that’s how many I routinely had round my dining-table.’

You’ll need:

2 tablespoons vegetable or coconut oil

500g lean lamb mince and Quorn

1–2 medium onions, peeled and finely chopped

1 stick celery, finely chopped

1 carrot, finely chopped

1 garlic clove, finely chopped

1 teaspoon chilli powder or 1 fresh chilli, deseeded and chopped

1 teaspoon ground cumin

200g frozen peas

1 tablespoon tomato purée

100ml vegetable or lamb stock

For the topping

500g sweet potatoes

600g potatoes

1 tablespoon milk

‘I used half mince and half Quorn to make it healthier, and none of the kids ever noticed.’ Heat half the oil. Fry the lamb mince and the Quorn together in the oil. Once the meat has browned, remove it from the pan and set it aside. Fry the onions in the remaining tablespoon of oil, until they are softening, about 5 minutes, then add the celery and carrot. Continue to fry for a couple of minutes, then add the garlic, chilli and cumin. Let them cook for a minute, then tip in the peas. Add the mince mixture with the tomato purée, and a little vegetable or lamb stock to moisten the mixture. Leave to cook for 5 minutes, then remove from the heat.

Preheat the oven to 200°C/Gas 6.

Meanwhile, peel and chop the sweet potatoes and the potatoes. Add them to a big pan of boiling salted water. When they are cooked, about 15 minutes, drain and mash them with the milk.

Tip the mince and vegetable mixture into a large greased baking dish, then smooth the potato mixture over the top. Put it into the oven for 35 minutes, until the top has browned.

‘Hey presto – Spicy Shepherd’s Pie!’





CHAPTER 6

Mum Guilt! (#ulink_d7b47097-e3e3-5654-a8b2-1e1e06d1b604)









Zachary: ‘Mummy …’

Me: ‘Yes, Zach?’

Zachary: ‘Can we please live in a tent?’

Me (spluttering on my bottle of water): ‘Erm, why do you ask?’

Zachary: ‘Because then you won’t have to work and you can stay at home all day with us. We don’t need new toys, we just need a tent so you can be with us.’

Bam! Mum Guilt, right there. It’s inescapable and, it seems to me, inherent in any parent. Even if my rational mind knows we’re better off with me working and building a future for them, I fold when one of my children says something like that. Within seconds I’m hastily reviewing all of my career choices and wondering if we could live in a tent – which, by the way, would be a disaster. Sorry, Zachary, but no. They’d soon regret it when it came to Christmas in the tent, and me having to say, ‘Guys, no toys this year, but that’s what you wanted.’ Can you imagine their reaction?

I overthink everything when it comes to being a mummy. A prime example is at breakfast time. Most days the boys beg me to make dippy eggs. I have to leave for the Loose Women studio by 6.45 a.m. so I usually fob them off with a bowl of Weetabix before I run out of the door. Do I feel guilty? Hell, yeah. Do I also provide them with a strong female role model, a working mum supporting her family? Hell, yeah, to that too. But the doubts never go away.

Should I get up earlier to make dippy eggs each morning? No, I’d get tired, do my job badly, upset producers, shout at my kids, then not be able to pay the mortgage, but my head will still tell me I’m not a great mummy because I make the choices I make.

Some nights when the boys were younger, they’d both be asleep next to me in my bed, one on either side, while I worked on my laptop. Some people say that co-sleeping is bad as it makes children dependent, but others say it makes them feel loved and secure.

For us, it was a natural solution to make bedtimes easier when Zach and Leighton were younger. We all loved snuggling up together, and who’s to say that was wrong? But I still doubted my decision: should I make them sleep in their own beds? I wondered. Have I messed them up mentally by letting them sleep with me? Loads of psychology books and the parenting advice you can read online strongly suggest that sleeping in the same bed with your children can be detrimental to their development. Well, not only do the boys and I thoroughly enjoy sleepovers in my bed, but at 3 a.m. when Leighton climbs out of his bunk bed to go for his early-morning pee, I’m not up for a debate as to where he then chooses to sleep. In with Mummy he comes. And my head still says: Should I force him to stay in his own bed?

The nagging goes on and on.

I don’t do anything because a book or blog tells me to do it. I do it because it works for me. As long as I keep asking myself, Are they happy and healthy? I know, deep down, that things will be okay, that everything else is just fluff.

There is so much opinion out there. It’s virtually impossible to escape other people’s views, especially with so much online venting and so much advice readily available. It’s becoming more and more difficult to decide how to parent as guilt is only a click away. I admit that when Zach asked me to give up work and live in a tent, I had a little sob. I explained to him that Mummy had to work to pay the bills and ensure we had a nice home. (Now we live with Joe, but I cover half of everything.) I made sure I let him know I love my work: I don’t just do it for the money, it’s also about my happiness as a mum. I want him to know he should never feel guilty for following his dreams and pursuing whichever career he will choose.

My children are at the heart of everything I do, and are better off with a happy, successful mummy as a role model. I get time off between jobs and throw myself into playing with my boys, but I also have days when I come home and I’ve got no energy left for them. That’s okay too. Whether you’re a stay-at-home or a working parent, what matters is that the situation is right for you and your family. No one else can make such an important decision for you.




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