The Mumpreneur Diaries: Business, Babies or Bust - One Mother of a Year

And I suspect the first time I was on I couldn’t have been too coherent, since I was horrifically hungover. When I got the call the night before (being called onto BBC Breakfast is all very urgent, last-minute stuff and is a deeply thrilling ‘I only got the call at 6 pm the night before and simply didn’t have a thing to wear’ affair), I got all overexcited and insisted on bending the Husband’s ear about how great I was going to be over several gins and bottles of white. As I was being conveyed in a luscious Jag – nice to see the wise use of my licence fee, Auntie, by the way – to Broadcasting House at 5 am the following day, or it could have been the same night for that matter, I was clutching my 2-litre bottle of water very tightly and attempting to turn my eyeballs from pink back to white. The make-up ladies were very sympathetic and didn’t mention the fact that I was sweating pure ethanol. And apparently studio lights are so strong they bleach out your eyes anyway, hence the orange pancake make-up.

This time I didn’t make the mistake of staying up all night drinking. Instead I stayed up all night breastfeeding. The pink eyes were still there and instead of ethanol I seemed to be sweating Gold Top. What poor Sian Williams thinks of me I do not know.

But even with an hour’s sleep and leaking boobs, I’m ducking and diving, doing deals. Once I was back in the green room (an affront to trades descriptions since it is the orange broom cupboard), I had a chance to chat with the bloke I was pontificating on screen with. He’s the publisher of a dads’ mag and I’m anxious to get my foot in the door. Much as I’m getting excited by my nascent mumciergery, wonga for words is what’s currently paying the bills and it’s good to have a standby. I loosely pitch a couple of ideas at him and leave it at that.

Tuesday 29 April 2008

Call the editor of the dads’ mag to go over what I’d said to his publisher yesterday morning, but he’s not in so I leave a message. On the school run I bump into the Glamazon. She’s a fellow pre-school mum and I’m always guaranteed to bump into her when I’ve failed to shower for three days and have dragged something to wear out of the washing up box. Never leaving the house without full warpaint, she’s got this old school glamour thing going on. Masses of long, wavy black hair, eyes kohl’d to the max, red lips and HUGE Jackie O sunglasses, she positively sashays. She’s also filled with boundless energy and seems to know everyone in the village as the playground echoes to ‘DARLING!! How ARE you?!’ at 3pm every day. She’s a blast.

We get talking about deadlines as you do and she mentions that she’s running late on one for this men’s magazine she occasionally writes for, one for the dads. I realise that this must be the same magazine I was talking about with BBC Brekkie and get all excited that we have a shared interest.

The second thought I have, following hot on the heels of the first is ‘Oh bugger – I’ve just tried to poach this woman’s column from under her.’ The editor must realise that we’ve got the same dialling code and, as we’re in the sticks, we must live very close to each other. I hope he doesn’t call her to tell her. Hacks can be at each other’s throats for the exclusive on a story, but equally it’s bad form to poach a column from under a fellow hackette’s feet. Particularly when you share the school run. Frantically think of ways to get her onside – perhaps she’d like to be in the mumcierge biz?

Chapter 4 Teething Troubles

Monday 5 May 2008

Realising that the possibility of getting the mumciergery off the ground any time soon is unlikely, and having to wait until next month for the doula training course, I need to get money coming in somehow. My only real recourse is to go back to hawking stories round publishers again.

I may as well write about what I know so I send several beautifully crafted story breakdowns about becoming a doula and trying to set up a business as a Stay At Home Mum. Convinced that these are the topics du jour I can’t help but imagine that the commissions will come rolling in. I email the Husband to warn him that he may be needed for babysitting cover in the next few days as I’ll be busy churning out copy for magazines and newspapers – I’m convinced that the Saturday Times will snap up the doula story, Labour’s failure to provide adequate maternity care being one of their favourite drums to beat.

Tuesday 6 May 2008

Nothing. Not a sausage. The Times replies to say they did a story on doulas two years ago and therefore it was recent history. The parenting magazines don’t bother replying. A follow-up call to one reveals they haven’t even looked at it as their commissioning editor is on maternity leave and they seem less than keen to fill her shoes, claiming: ‘We have enough stories for the time being.’

I would say I’ll go on to plan B but I don’t really have one. Should I just calm down a bit, wait for the doula course and stick with that? What about the mumciergery? It seems like such a good idea; there must be a market for it. The Partner in Crime and I will both be gutted if we decide to give it a miss then some bored, filthy rich housewife decides to give it a go and makes an absolute fortune, cornering the market in our area completely.

I don’t have to make a decision about anything this very instant. I’m lucky that I’m getting payment of sorts for maternity leave, not that it leaves you enough for shopping anyway. It’s a treat not to buy own-brand pasta at the moment. Still, it would be nice to have some kind of income to fatten up the bank balance. Plus, the novelty of sitting around watching daytime TV has worn off a bit. Yes, it’s great that I now see a lot more of Boy One and Boy Two is getting some quality parenting. I’m even seeing more of the Husband although in his current state of mind it’s debatable as to whether or not this is a good thing. I’m in danger of getting bored and overdrawn so clearly I should be doing something…

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