At the Doctors

Tall Girl is tired and run down - aren't we all? But it's been a while so I thought I should get her checked out so that she can enjoy her 6 weeks off school. I'm sure it's just the teenage stage of wanting to sleep all day and wake up in the evening. Anyway I rang the doctors just to be sure and she said to book in with the nurse for a blood test.

Poor Tall Girl is nervous of needles, she's nervous of lots of things, wasps, moths, strange men, big dogs, hospitals, the dark....you name it, she's scared of it, almost. Though she is much better now at 14 than she has ever been before. However needles are probably her Room 101. So as she came down stairs on Monday morning, the first day of the holidays, all chirpy and asking if I'd spoken to the Doctor, it was with great trepidation that I told her about the blood test.

She cried, she shouted, there was much gnashing of teeth! "I'm not having it!" She declared several times. And on it went. In the end I persuaded her to go to the appointment and talk to the nurse about it. She agreed. At least I could get her there, I thought, and perhaps the nurse could persuade her to go through with it.

So at 2.30pm we entered the surgery, Small Sprog in tow with his iPod to keep him busy. We sat in the waiting room for a short time, and just as I thought she was about to come apart at the seams we were called in.

Nurse Debbie was an angel. She was the kindest most caring nurse you could wish for. She started to reassure Tall Girl and tell her all about what would happen and showed her the needles and explained how she would do the procedure. Tall Girl warmed to the idea. A little.

All of a sudden I realised Small Sprog was very quiet. I looked across at him. He was turning green. It was the sight of the needle. "I think I'll just wait outside" He said in his best grown up voice, and off he went out into the corridor. The nurse on the other hand spent ages with Tall Girl, who was still refusing. The best we could get from her was to agree to come back in 2 days time.

When Tall Girl and I left the room we went to pick up Small Sprog. He didn't look any better.
"Are you ok?" I ask him, trying to hide a grin
"No!" He replied "I just thought I'd escape to the waiting room, but then I had to listen to 6 people discussing their diseases!"
Poor Small Sprog, escaping one graphic medical drama only to find another waiting for him in the waiting room. It's shame he has such a weak stomach, he had to be rushed home for an emergency toilet visit as soon as we left, it had upset him so much. Perhaps he has too much empathy!

As for Tall Girl, she did go through with her blood test today, though it was a bit touch and go. I won't go into details, save to say that the stress of it all made her vomit into the washing up bowl, once back home. But it's done now and that is enough of that!

Chalk and Cheese

Tall Girl came home flouting all her end of year subject 'level's today. We looked at them over the dinner table. They were good; they were average, which is good considering her dyslexia (and general lack of enthusiasm!)

Small Sprog asked to be excused form the table. As he left the room he said he though he'd be hopeless at 'Big School'. "No you won't" I argued "You've done so well this year". And he has. In fact, I think he has exceeded his sisters standards at the same age. Yet he doesn't take praise easily, believe me I do try.

Yesterday Tall Girl said that she'd been discussing with her dad that when she's passed her driving test she's going to get a second hand Fiat 500. "Really?" I say to her, eyebrows raised to the sky "Then you'd better start saving up!" (She's never got any money, it burns a hole in her pocket too quickly) I suspect she thinks Daddy will buy her the car. And there's me thinking I might be able to afford a newish car myself  in a few years time and that she'd be happy with my old one. Dream on on both counts!

Small Sprog on the other hand has been saving up for his car for a year or so, ever since I told him I had done so when I was his age. My first car was £500, he already has as much. Tall Girl can't save for toffee. They are so different, which is how it should be I guess, and they are developing together, in their own ways.

Oh yes, I nearly forgot, she got a certificate at prize giving too today (as, I suspect, did most children). However I wasn't there to witness it, that would have been Far Too Embarrassing apparently!

Tall Girl makes a non-political point.

Small Sprog is soon to be at Tall Girls school, in less than 3 weeks time, if you discount the summer holidays. I have tried to tell her to keep her views to herself when they have been less than positive but some have slipped out.

The other day I overheard her relaying the girl pecking order, or some such.

"Well, there's The Popular Ones" I hear her explain "Then there are The Chavs, (I ask you?!) then there are The Orange Ones"

I felt I had to intervene at this point.

"The Orange Ones?" I exclaimed. We live in Bristol and have no marching around here!

"Yes, you know, the ones who wear foundation 3 shades darker than their skin colour (I think Small Sprog may have lost the thread by now) and forget to smooth it down their necks so that you can see a tide mark just under their chin"!

I nodded. Yes I knew the ones. Her observations made me laugh. As for Small Sprog, I don't suppose he understood a word of it, but then, that's just as well.

Give me strength not vomit!

Small Sprog had his first day at 'Big School' yesterday. He took it in his stride and went in happily when I dropped him off in the morning. I was due to pick him up and his friend (they are the only 2 children going from his school so safety in numbers!) in the afternoon.

When I got home I decided to make some cakes for them to eat on their journey home to celebrate their first day. Recently things aren't quite turning out as expected here.

The cakes were fine, in fact they came out quite well and I set off back to school in the afternoon hoping they would enjoy them. I was looking forward to hearing their news. However I was met by a very sad Small Sprog who was feeling wretched with a headache. His friend managed 2 cakes but Small Sprog felt too ill.

It's a 30 minute journey between home and school and I could see he was quite poorly, and as he got out of the car he proceeded to vomit on his new shoes! Poor Small Sprog. At least he didn't do it in my car!

He was ill most of the evening but by 10pm had fallen asleep. I had my fingers crossed for a peaceful night when Tall Girl appeared looking less than happy. She had had a sore throat for a few days but I put it down to the excitement and shouting that went on at the concert she attended at the weekend.

"What's the matter?" I asked her, hoping for good news
"I think I've got throat cancer"! She exclaims, tearfully "Like in the picture at the dentists"
I manage to keep a smirk inside. The poor thing does always over react, such a hypochondriac. "It's just a sore throat, let me have a look". Then we performed a little dance with the spotlight in the bathroom and a magnifying mirror. "You'll have to bend your knees" I squeal, teetering on my toes and wobbling all over the place. She is as tall as me now and it's like trying to look down the neck of a giraffe. I get a glimpse of redness, maybe a spot (please don't let it be tonsillitis) I manage to assure her she doesn't have throat cancer and say that if it gets any worse we'll get the doctor to look at it.

Exhausted I slump into my bed. I felt like I'd had a full on night at A&E.

PS. To add insult to injury, when I phoned into school this morning to say Small Sprog had been sick they said I'd have to keep him off for 48 hours. It's the new rules. That means me not being able to work tomorrow and therefore losing a days pay. That's twice this month...great.

Confidence

I try not to write about work but I am going to indulge this once.

It's not been a very enjoyable year as I have worked with a teacher who is very'self contained'.  I have often felt undermined, or under the thumb. But this is not the reason for this post.

The end of term play is almost upon us and teachers are asking for props to be made. I often get the job, I have the reputation for being 'arty' and I do like helping with that sort of thing. The trouble is they ask for the most impossible things! And the school, like most others, is as poor as a church mouse right now (or so they claim) so the resource cupboard is empty. There's only so much you can do with old cardboard boxes brought in from the wheely bins, and Sellotape!

Anyway, last week I was asked to make a giant inhaler, the sort used for asthma, bit much much bigger. I got going with my boxes, paper and tape. It took me much longer than it should have and when it was done I didn't think much of it. However I left it upstairs in the relevant place and moved on to other things.

Towards the end of the afternoon, one of the teachers I used to work with said to me "You know that inhaler?"
"Yes" I said "I didn't make a very good job of it did I?"
"Well I was going to say it looked fantastic!" He said genuinely enough.

I felt myself beam. Silly really, over a bit of cardboard and tape. But it was more than that. It's been a rough ride at work since last September, pretty rough elsewhere in parts too, and  I haven't had a 'thank you' or a 'well done' for a very long time. I hadn't realised how much confidence suffers in this situation. Just one person saying I'd done a good job, albeit ridiculous, made me feel really good for a moment.

It was a good moment.

I still have no idea what I'll be doing at work next term. What other job changes at the drop of a hat with no notice? I am hoping I will work with someone less controlling. Fingers crossed

Strawberry Sunday

Strawberry picking, a wonderful summer event, followed by jam making; it satisfies the 'hunter / gatherer' in me. And it is July, you'd think it was the perfect time. So off we go to our usual patch, but no. Loads of green strawberries, loads of plants with flowers on, loads of plants that have had strawberries on previously but none to pick. How disappointing.

Then it rained! We sat in the car until it stopped playing pencil and paper games, with the children bickering in the back and me hanging my head out of the car window every few minutes to see if the rain had stopped.

It did, eventually stop, so off we ventured again. We went on the hunt for raspberries next but got waylaid in the blackberry patch instead. Now you'd think it was much too early in the season for blackberries but these are the cultivated variety and are simply huge. Covered in juice and excitedly shouting out 'Look at this one!'we compared size and flavour. Reminding the children to only pick the very black ones we greedily filled our baskets as the rain started again.

As we left the nice lady at the farm said they'd have plenty of fruit right through to September, which is just as well as we are planning another visit soon.

Meanwhile the blackberries are already made into jam, with a few left over for blackberry and apple crumble. It may not look like summer has arrived yet outside, but in my kitchen it already smells like autumn.

Friday nights in

 Small Sprog is dancing in the kitchen, it must be Friday night! He interprets the words of the songs with actions; not always suitable. He makes me laugh (and I need that tonight), the interpretation of the 'F' word that crops up (unsuitably) in the song is something to behold I can tell you, and not for the faint hearted.

He is light on his feet as he pogo's around the kitchen, which is undoubtedly the best place in the house to dance because of all the reflective surfaces. He watches himself, his brown curly mop of a hair-do bouncing along with the rhythm.

He brought his school report home today, it is glowing though not academic. 'Quiet and reflective' it says (if only she could see him now) 'A bright boy'. I am proud. Always proud. I want to hug him but he no longer wants hugs as he did as a small boy. He is struggling with the growing up process, too young to understand hugs are important no matter what age we are, too old to do it without thinking.

Tonight doesn't feel like a Friday night even though Small Sprog is dancing in the kitchen and I have a half full glass of red on the go. Tonight feels a little flat, though I try to keep up the spirits. Its been an emotional week, and I have come to terms with it all.

Sometimes I really wish I had a good friend to be with, someone just around the corner who would pop round in times of need. All my friends are married with kids, they live busy lives, some have moved away. Sometimes I feel isolated as life goes on around me, but hey, I'm just feeling a little delicate right now...

You don't always appreciate the mundane.

When we went to mediation, nearly 18 months ago - but what seems like a different lifetime away - we discussed and agreed childcare. Ex husband wanted to work towards having the children every other week, for a whole week - a 50/50 split. At the time we discussed that, it was decided by him that this would start was once Small Sprog was settled at senior school. Christmas this year. I never thought it would happen.


At the time it seemed a lifetime away; I had this thought that once the children were settled with me, that they would want to stay, would be familiar with the routine and would  not want to change it. Recently, since we have moved and become settled, in our own home at last, I have been trying to build a home that they would enjoy living in, a family home, a home for us...That was then.


Recently the prospect of sharing their care equally has been haunting me, perhaps because Small Sprog has only 2 weeks left at Junior school. I am anticipating an email from Ex H. Emails from him are the only thing that makes my heart fall now, but at least there are no more awful solicitors letters dropping through the door every five minutes any more.


What will I say if he asks to have them? I decided to ask the children what they thought about sharing their time 50/50, after all, they're old enough now to decide. I felt so confident. We were happy in our new home, we had plans, we had a routine, thought we might get a pet.


I asked Tall Girl first, would she ever want to spend a week at daddys and a week at mine? She said she would. I was shocked. Really? I asked her. She didn't even needed time to think about it. It cut me to the core. I asked Small Sprog the same question this week. He jumped at the chance. I cried a lot yesterday, but not in front of them obviously.


What more could I do for them? I asked my Mum in an email. What have I failed to do? Like a spoilt child I wanted to be the best parent, I wanted to have the homeliest home, I wanted my children around me, not only half the time. I work in a school so as to have all the time I can with them. I enjoy their company; I thought I would still be needed for at least a few more years yet. I am not ready to lose them, it seems much too soon.


Then I feel angry inside. He was such a hands off father when we all lived together, he hardly ever wanted to spend time with them and retreated to the garden during most of the summer. He often seemed to regard them as a nuisance. Tall Girl even admitted that she used to be scared of him once.


So what has happened? He seems to be the perfect father now, spends loads of time with them on his weekends and when he doesn't (because he's still in the family home) all their friends are still on the street for them to play with. They have a great time, with or without him, as it should be I guess. For them, that must still feel like their 'real' home.


However whether he wants them 50/50 now or not is irrelevant really. They both want to spend more time there, I have already lost them...


I spent some time here feeling bereft. My heart hurt. It seems so unfair that they don't remember all the things that they have done with me over all their lives. So much time spent together, but they don't seem to remember any of it.


How will I feel being a part time mum? In most ways it is all my own fault, I split the family up, it was selfish and this is my punishment. So every moment I have them now is precious, it always has been, but you don't always appreciate the mundane.


I will leave you with an excerpt from an email from my lovely Mum. No matter what happens, at least I know, while she is on this earth, that she loves me and will always be there...

 It will all be fine for a while, but he won't change. He 'll begin to be the hands off father he once was, and when he starts treating them as a nuisance, I'll think it will be a different story. I shall never forget the day when we were all sitting down for a meal, you were in the kitchen and TG was sitting at the end of the table with her back to the window and asked him if she could shut the conservatory door as it was making her dinner cold and he said  "NO". I could have cried for her.  A few treatments like that and they will soon realise which side their bread is buttered.I do know that they have 'The Nit Children' to play with, but as they get older that won't last forever. I can't think what their Christmases will be like without your touch.

You have absolutely nothing to reproach yourself for. You have been a wonderful mother to them, and done so much for them and with them. Think of all the wonderful birthday parties you have given them all the wonderful themes you have created and fun you have given them.Oh, yes he was there but what did he contribute to it all.Will they stir the Christmas cake with him and have a wish...

Give them time, they aren't stupid, they will think it all out for themselves eventually.

I hope she's right

Today I feel sad

Small Sprog has been at his dads this weekend as has his sister. He always gets dropped off here with me at 7.30am before school every other Tuesday morning (I have always thought this ridiculous when he could come home on a Monday night, anyway, that's how things go I suppose).

So this year both children were away on my birthday. Tall Girl sent a Happy Birthday text before school yesterday and posted on my Facebook page. It was enough to know she had not forgotten and had thought about me. I heard nothing from Small Sprog (despite his owning a phone, email and an illegal - age wise- Facebook page set up in cahoots with his sisters help!)

This morning when I opened the front door to him he did his usual disappearing act into the living room to watch TV. Perhaps he had forgotten that it was my birthday yesterday? However, on watching a news item about someone else's birthday he commented that it was the day after mine. There, I thought, he hasn't forgotten.

But such a great sadness came over me. He had not wished me happy birthday when he saw me today, no words, no card, no text, no small scribbled drawing, nothing. I felt empty, abandoned.

Is it wrong of me to expect an acknowledgement, no matter how small? He wouldn't have had a chance to buy anything but words cost nothing and a home-made card is treasured forever. What have I done wrong? Have I not tried to bring him up to do all these things, to make a fuss of people we love and friends we treasure? Do we not always make cards for friends, for Granny? I even still get them to make cards for their dad on his birthday (though I did not insist for Fathers day this year, the first time. But I did take them to the shop to buy him a Fathers Day gift which Tall Girl had decided on)

Is it wrong to feel so desolated? Perhaps I am being silly. He is only 11. Yet I am doubting my parenting skills even now. By now, shouldn't the whole palaver of celebrating birthdays be ingrained, isn't it all part of being a social being, being aware of others feelings? How would he feel if we all ignored his birthday?! We have traditions on birthdays, special breakfasts, a birthday banner and balloons, a cake, cards, presents for all our birthdays, all those things. Has all this not made an impression?

I had a meal with my parents last night. Later in the evening my lovely Mum gave me a food parcel to bring home. "The children will want to celebrate your birthday" She said "They'll be sad they've missed it" Inside the parcel was a homemade birthday cake complete with candles (though not the full amount!), some chocolate slices, meringues, cream and strawberries. All the ingredients for a great birthday tea.

I unpacked it all today and gazed. Such a lovely thoughtful thing that she has done for us all, but I really don't feel like celebrating anymore. A small thing, but I feel suddenly empty.

Got him!

I had just laid down to sleep, well to read a little really but soon to sleep, when I saw him. Huge he was, and brown, motionless for now but soon to move around threateningly. My heart missed a beat, I stared him out but he waited there menacingly, still but not disguised.

I formulated a plan in my head. I needed to be quiet. I needed to move with the stealth that he himself had used when, earlier on, he had manoeuvred himself into his current position. The children were already asleep, I didn't want to frighten them.

I moved slowly from my bed. Anything could disturb him, and once he was on the move I was lost.

I crept downstairs, located the hoover, took the hose connection and returned upstairs with it pointing at the ready. Last time I had tried fly spray, to which it had seemed immune. I certainly wasn't trying that method again! On the landing I plugged in the Dyson, crept into my room, pointed the hose at the lampshade, pressed the 'on' button and swooosh.... Sucked the moth into the abyss! I could hear his great wings flapping, ewwww! One more blast of suction and he was done for.

Phew!

Now I'm sorry if you are fond of moths, and I know some are quite rare. I love nature myself. I will catch spiders and release them, bees and other insects too but when it comes to moths, it's them or me I can tell you. And in the past it's not always me that wins. I had a run in with one last year that was immune to fly spray. That was a Very Nasty Business...

It is my birthday today. I am a year older. I am hoping that one day I will grow out of my moth and butterfly phobia!

While you're here please help yourself to cake (mind the crumbs on the carpet, I've just moved to a new house you know!)

What are you scared of?

Small Sprog again...

"Can I get out of the car through the window mum?" says Small Sprog after school. I thought for a minute. My initial response on the tip of my tongue was NO! But then I thought, why not? It wasn't going to do any harm, was it?
"Yes" I replied. His face lit up. I opened the electric windows and he was out in a trice. "Can I do it again?" He shouts "Can I get in that way, can I?"
Hum, sometimes one makes the wrong choices! What had I started?

We went to the bank and I was thinking he may have forgotten on returning to the car. Who was I trying to kid. "Can I get in through the window?" He says excitedly.
"Well, it's not possible is it?" I say "'Cause I have to open the door to put the key in to open the window in the first place, there's not point in going through the window when the doors open"
He was crestfallen. My grown up logic was totally boring.
"Hang on" I said as I opened the door and placed the key in the ignition, put down the window and shut the door again "Go on then!" In he got, pleased with himself.
"Your turn!" he squeals from the passenger seat.
I did wonder if anyone was watching the ridiculous turn of events as it unfolded, it can't possibly have made sense to a bystander. (And no, I didn't!)

At tea time he tried to gross his sister out by covering his mashed potatoes with tomato sauce. Instead of building a 'volcacno' of potato and then filling it with red hot 'lava', he had leveled it all on his plate and was zigzagging the sauce too and fro. What happened to the table rule of not playing with your food, I thought absentmindedly as I watched him? I really must try harder.
"That's enough sauce!" was about all I could muster, it was almost mesmerising watching the sauce slowly dribble onto his mash. I must have been tired, what was I thinking?
"Look!" He suddenly exclaims "A Jackson Pollock!"
"Oh Yes" We both exclaim.
"We could sell that!"
I guess Damien Hurst has done worse!

Mrs Dean

‘So have you written that book yet?’ She asked, eyes wide open.

‘Ha!’ I laughed

‘Well, you have the time now’

‘Yes, but I can only write when things are in turmoil, now every thing's calmed down, I’ve lost the inspiration. Besides, life’s all a bit boring now!’

‘Boring? ‘She gave me a look.

‘I know, I know! Not boring, not boring at all’ I smile, slightly ashamed

She understands. Not boring, boring was sharing your life with someone who had lost the will to enjoy life itself. Boring was only having sex once in a ‘Blue Moon’.  Boring was making dinner every night for years on end in a loveless marriage, keeping home, ironing, washing, making packed lunches....No, not boring, just stable now.

There was an acceptance, an acknowledgement between us. I watched her face, surveyed her demeanour. We had known each other for, how long? It must have been 20 years now. Goodness was it really that long since I had moved in for 2 weeks and stayed for 6 months. Was it really that long since she was fussing about having blooming polyanthus in the garden in December?

She must have been 15 years my senior, possibly more, but she didn’t look much different from the first time I’d met her, maybe a little thicker at the waist, but then who wasn’t once one had passed what used to be called ‘Middle Age’. ( What were those pills that people used to buy for the over 40’s when I was a teenager? I can remember Mum buying some to give as a ‘tongue in cheek’ present. I was innocent then, I had wondered what they were for but was vaguely aware of some sort of adult giggling, and there was the – awful - thought that they, or the giving of them, might contain some sort of sexual connotations. Heaven forbid!)

She was beautiful in an assured way, her hair the colour of golden corn, her skin pale and freckled like a child after a day on the beach. There were lines, when I looked carefully, around her eyes, the smiling sort. And her mouth, those lines that smokers get from pursing up their lips for a drag, were just beginning to appear.

She had lost two husbands in her life, both through illlness rather than carelessness. She had owned two naughty dogs, had had two beautiful children. She was now living in two homes, her own, that I had once lived in with her and the house that she shared with her lover...

More moments from suburbia...

At last, the end of year 9 exams and year 6 SAT's! At least both children were suffering during the same week, or was it just me that was suffering?


"How did your French exam go?" I asked Tall Girl after the event. She's not too hot on French and uses Google Translate for her homework, but what can you do?!
"I think I did quite well" She assures me smiling.
"Really?" I say, hoping she doesn't pick up on my incredulity. "What about your written paragraph?"
"Yes" She continues "I wrote loads, and when I didn't know the French words I just wrote them in English"!
"Ah"
What else could I say?


Meanwhile Small Sprog stoically rode to school in the car every morning knowing that there was no way he could get out of his exams. "I hate SAT's" was his mantra all week. On Friday morning he was in tears before school. Not only was he still doing exams but apparently he was due to stand up in front of the whole school in assembly and speak. (This isn't on his wish list of things to look forward to, even though, at home, he is the most gregarious of all of us.) Now if this had been Tall Girl she would have wailed and fussed and there would have been much angst and gnashing of teeth about it for weeks before hand, but Small Sprog being Small Sprog uses the 'Ostritch Method' when anything scary is about to happen; he ignores it until it is almost upon him. Hence me knowing nothing of his up and coming speech until we are on the way to school.


I pass him a tissue to dry his eyes. He blows his nose, thinks for a while and then says "Must be awful being a tissue Mum"
I gave him a weary look
He throws the tissue over his shoulder and says "They must feel so discarded"


Honestly, what am I going to do with him?

This morning I felt suddenly overcome by a sense of freedom and independence. It has been a long time coming but it feels soooo good.

Settling into suburbia...

It's been a few weeks since we moved in now, though it doesn't seem that long as the time has been interspersed with holidays and weekends away, which were all lovely and very welcome. However, here we are, home at last; boxes unpacked, books on shelves, Small Sprog 'goggling' the TV from his favourite sofa, wet towels drying on the bedroom floor and the first stains on the new carpet. Well, to be expected I suppose and at least it wasn't me who spilled the spill.

So far I have still not caved into requests for pets various, though Tall Girl has a friend with a cat who has, inconsiderately, just given birth to several kittens that look adorable, and everyone in the world seems to be getting a new puppy at the moment; I fear a conspiracy, but as I said, nothing furry has passed the threshold. Yet. (Apart from Small Sprog, who seriously needs a hair cut)

The neighbours (we all moved in within 10 days of each other) all seem really friendly and quiet too, which is fantastic, though I'm sure they may not say the same about us, singing in the kitchen can sometimes get out of hand. The man on one side of us plays the piano, but he does it so beautifully it's a complete pleasure to hear him. (I'm not sure he would say the same of our singing) but there's the problem. 'The Man Next Door'. Well not him exactly, not 'him' at all in fact, just his name, both their names. I have this dreadful habit of forgetting as soon as I'm told a name!

I was sensible when I was introduced to the neighbours the other side, I must have been concentrating, and I came inside and wrote their names down; Paul, Maxine and Louis the dog. I wasn't so clever with the 'nextdoors' on the other side though. He introduced himself as I was leaving the house and before my car had rolled off the drive the name had gone, poof, out of my head forever! Now is it just me or is that normal? Perhaps my age is catching up with me? Though, come to think of it, I think I've always been this bad.

Anyway, yesterday as we unintentionally 'put out the bins' together he gives me a cheery 'Hello Suburbia' just like that. He can remember my name, I have no idea of his. What can I do? Suggestions below please!

So that's it so far folks. Riveting isn't it? A regular life, settled, a home of our own blah di blah. It has occurred to me, as I write, that here I am again putting bins out in unison, that there may be multiple gardening occurring on sunny weekends, that washing will flutter daintily on several washing lines on a Monday morning. From suburbia, there seems no escape!

(One day a house in the country, one day, maybe...I can always dream)

Home is where the heart is...

Small Sprog looked longingly at the house. "Can't we stay Mummy?" he pleads as I carry on packing boxes. "Not really" I say, "It's not really ours to keep"

That was over a week ago.

On Monday we went back to the old house to pick up post. The place, which I have to admit did feel so much like home as soon as we'd moved in last year, was completely empty. It even smelt different.

It's almost a privilege to be able to return to the old home once you've decamped to the new. Not always possible to say your goodbyes to the inside so thoroughly.

Tall Girl went to look at her room while Small Sprog sat on the kitchen work top. She came down again "It doesn't look like home any more" She said, almost disappointed.
"The other house feels like home now" Says Small Sprog, "It's got all our things in it"
Which just goes to prove, I guess, that home is what you make it.

I'm really glad they feel they have a new home now and not just a new house. For me it all still seems a bit unreal.

Almost back to normal

We've been here a whole week. It was exhausting but all that has passed now...

The last things to pack before we moved was the children's soft toys. They have always had a small selection of truly loved ones on their beds. Into the box they went, that same box that the soft toys had arrived in, just over a year ago, the one the children had written all over; 'this way up', 'live bears do not crush'.

I remembered the year before, when we were moving out of the family home. They had created the box then, chosen their toys, split them; some for Daddy's house, some for ours. It had broken my heart, toys that had settled on their beds since birth were lovingly divided, the deed was certainly significant.

This year it was only harrowing for the inhabitants of the box! Poor furry toys, all crammed into their temporary cardboard home.

However, not all the toys had made it into the box

When she was a baby, Tall Girl was quite unsettled. We tried all sorts of things to try and settle her, one of which was to buy her a soft toy to clutch; Larry, Fat Larry actually, named after the '80's group. Larry the Lamb was a hit, she loved him, so much so that she wouldn't sleep or go anywhere without him. So much so that we had to buy 2, just in case.

Anyway, Larry is still with us (luckily one for each house!) and she still swears she can't sleep without him, though he is a shadow of his former self, 14 years older and slightly bald in places, not exactly fat any more either. We have a family joke that she will wear him about her person as she goes down the aisle. She says she will wear him on a tiara!

So as I was checking all the last minute things before the removal van arrived, I walked into Tall Girls room and closed all the drawers of her bedside chest. The removal men would move as many chests as they could, contents intact. As I checked the top drawer of the chest I could see a little beige leg poking out. I opened up the drawer and there was Larry looking up at me. I smiled. She hadn't trusted the box with her treasured cargo, oh no, the box might get lost en route (though we have only moved a few streets away) but the chest would surely get there, and so, therefore, would Larry...

Tomorrow the children go to Cornwall with their Dad for a week. I will miss them dreadfully, I used to love having them all to myself for the long school holidays while their Dad was at work. Tonight he has texted her to say that he has packed all their things. I asked her if she had checked with him to make sure he'd remembered to pack 'The Other Larry'. "Oh!" she says, clutching her phone "Capitals at the ready!" and off she goes tap tap tapping with another text to her Dad.

Today I am moving house. After so much waiting it seems quite unreal.

See you on the other side, internet connection permitting!

A new sort of Suburbia

After over 2 years, I have reached the end of the tunnel, I think, I hope. I was not sure I'd ever make it. Today I picked up the keys to our new house. Today it is officially mine. It feels strange, almost an anticlimax, so long in the planning, yet all of a sudden it came before I was ready.

We are not moving in for 10 days yet, I can't wait to make it home. Yet we have been so happy in our rented house, it is going to be difficult to match.

A new phase. How on earth did I get here? I really don't recall.

Love (Part 3) and war

This week I have bought curtains and lampshades for our new house. Contracts have, at last, been exchanged and we move within 4 weeks!

Along with the curtains, I bought Tall Girl a little present for her new room, some wooden letters joined together, just like the ones here, spelling out the word 'love'. She was delighted when I gave it to her.

As an aside; we have a set of gold letters that belong in the living room and say the same thing, only they are not joined so can be 'fiddled with', often spelling Olive; with the slim side of a matchbox intervening as the letter 'i'. Very funny - you know who you are...

Anyway, a little later on I picked up Small Sprog from school. The letters were still in the car. I opened the door and he jumped in, picked up the word and said 'Hey! I really like this'

'Gosh' I thought 'Maybe he really is in touch with his feminine side'

'Look' He says brandishing the word at me upside-down, holding on firmly to the capital 'L'. 'It makes a great gun'!

Shame he is a bit too young to understand the word 'Ironic'