Fifty shades of Grey - what's all the fuss about?

As an occasional mummy blogger I feel that it is OK for me stray from my usual fare of amusing anecdotes about family life into the territory of book reviews just this once, for the book in question - Fifty Shades of Grey - has been dubbed 'mommy porn', such is its success amongst us mums.

It was first brought to my attention by fellow blogger, Nappy Valley Girl, who currently resides Stateside where it has topped the New York Times bestseller list. She piqued my interest so I instantly downloaded it to my Kindle. It's a pretty tawdry tale about a virgin college girl who is seduced by an enigmatic and gorgeous billionaire (surely a creature that only ever exists in fiction) with a taste for kinky sex. Now many are up in arms about the morality of such a tale, but that is not what bothers me about the book. 

I am not averse to a bit of filth, but what really put me off my stride was the appalling writing. Now I know onscreen porn is famous for its wooden acting and stilted dialogue and I do understand that that's not really the point of it. But when it comes to written smut do standards have to sink equally low? 

There was no way any amount of riding crop flicking, nipple tweaking or cupping of sexes was going to get me hot under the collar when I was so distracted by the monotonous, repetitive style. I found myself twitching not with lust for the sexy Christian Grey, but with irritation as the writer explained that he was wearing 'a white linen shirt and black pants' or that he had 'soft copper hair' for the umpteenth time. 

Describe what your hero wears, if you must, but please, please, please only do it once. I don't need to be reminded every other page. I don't give a fuck. Get yourself to the Red room of Pain E.L. James, you need a good spanking for your tedious repetition of trivial detail. I know that Ana's borrowed plum dress 'clings in all the right places' you told me five pages ago, and 10 pages ago, and 15 pages ago - ARRRGH. And that is not a cry of sexual abandon.

Every vaguely interesting revelation, argument, sexual act, day with the letter y in it is greeted with either Ana or Christian's breath 'hitching'. Not entirely sure what that means, but it is certainly a catch all action that indicates that the lead characters are shocked/aroused/annoyed/alive. 

Another thing that really annoyed me was that, although the book is written by a Brit, it is an homage to the Twilight vampire movies, and as such is written in ersatz American. So the heroines lips are awkwardly wrapped around the phrases 'Oh my' 'Holy crap/shit' and 'Jeez' every other sentence. Surely this is not how American's really speak, even inside their own heads? 

Perhaps I am missing the point as clearly other women's quality control switches off the moment a pair of hands are roughly tied behind a back or smooth buttock cheeks pink up under the discipline of a twitching palm. A quickie over the bathroom sink and they care not for a misplaced full stop or the excessive use of slang. But Fifty Shades of Grey left me not panting with desire, more fuming with righteous wrath at it's flagrant abuse of my mother tongue. 

Three is a magic number

Looking back over this blog which takes me from my first skirmishes with twin motherhood I can hardly believe how fast I seem to have reached a point of relative sanity. I remember those dark days when juggling to squirming newborns was driving me to the brink on a moment by moment basis.

Sleep deprivation, twinned with raw terror and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I contemplated what I had let myself in for made the first few months of my twins' lives far from a pleasant experience. It didn't get much better as I navigated my way through the early months or even, years, of my growing family.

There were the summer holidays with four small children in tow which felt more like a labour camp than a relaxing break as our routine was interrupted with disastrous consequences. I recall sweating in the Provencal heat as I tried to simultaneously heat up baby food for the screaming twins, change a nappy, put sun cream on my older boys while manhandling them into their swimming trunks.

By the time all that was done it was all I could do to uncork a bottle of the local plonk and collapse, spent on the sofa in front of a Dr Who DVD. Not really the idyllic break from the harsh realities of motherhood I had imagined.

But things did gradually improve. As the twins got older, the middle boy started school, the oldest became marginally more responsible, I stopped contemplated walking out on the whole damn shooting match on a daily basis. The black gloom of early motherhood lifted, I even began to enjoy my boys and to occasionally think that having a big family wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Last week was my twins' third birthday. Although at the time I thought we would never make it through the first few years, now it seems as if it was a blink of an eye ago that they were sharing a moses basket in the living room as I looked on dazed exhaustion. I showed one of the twins a picture of him sleeping with his brother in their cot and he refused to believe it was really him. I find it almost as hard to reconcile that coiled up baby with the handsome little boy he is today.

We have jumped so many of the hurdles sent to trip up the parents of small children. We have successfully completed weaning, walking, talking, eating proper food at the table with a knife and fork (though admittedly table manners still need some work) and potty training (daytime only, but we are a well on our way).

Next up is nursery and school, though I am shoving those to the back of my mind, for after spending so long longing for the day that I would wave the twins off and get my life back, at least for the length of the school day, now I am dreading letting my little ones go.

I love the fact that while I am working I can pop down for a quick cuddle, or to catch a glimpse of a dimpled smile, or swap a few words with my babies. I am so sad that those toddler days are fast disappearing and before we know it we will be screaming at all four of them to get their clothes on ready for school.

I am never good when it comes to change, I want to catch each precious moment and hold onto it forever as I am only too aware that these are the best days of my life. I just wish I wasn't always too busy to enjoy them as much as I know I should.

I remember back in those dark early days my husband's late grandma said that she wished she could swap places with me. I had spent my day rushing around after four children, changing nappies, washing bottles, doing school pick up and drop offs and every time the thought of flopping down on the sofa for a cup of tea arose someone would start screaming for mummy. She had spent the day napping in front of the TV. I was definitely up for that swap.

But I do know what she meant. Having little children gives you such a purpose and joy in life. Watching them grow up and master the skills they will need to eventually transport them into adulthood is a precious and immensely rewarding way to spend your time. Now is the time to store up memories to get you through the teenage years when they don't want to know you and the adult years when their own lives mean that family is put on the back burner for most of the time.

Looking back will always make me feel painfully nostalgic, but looking forward to a future free of buggies, nappies, potties, bottles, highchairs and other associated baby paraphenalia is enough to reassure me that while all my bites at the mummy cherry have been unutterably sweet, four is definitely enough for this tired old mum.