Small Sprog has quite a few 'going to bed' tactics, I'm sure you can imagine? So when he says he feels sick, just as it's time to turn out the light, I'm often just a bit sceptical. It's the 'I need a drink of water' syndrome.
Last night, just as we turned the light out, he felt sick. "No you don't" I say
"I really do" he replies.
It's a bit 'cry wolf'.
I start to become exasperated. I tell him he can come back downstairs but only for a moment. I go off to find a bucket just in case - just in time in fact - Small Sprog is sick, poor thing. At least he is a good aim.
Consequently he is at home today, right as rain and slightly bored, which is a good thing, I don't want him to think taking a 'sick day' is fun.
So as we go to get Tall Girl from school this afternoon we have a conversation about fishing. He was watching a programme about fishing on TV last night to take his mind off feeling ill. "Did I tell you?" He says "That my friend has a fishing magazine and there is a picture of a boy with a massive carp that looks just like me?"
"Oh Small Sprog" I say sympathetically "You don't look anything like a big carp!"
He gives me a withering look. "No, the boy" he says "I look just like the boy holding the fish"
I giggle. He may have thought I was being silly but actually I was deadly serious. Hey Ho! I'll put my madness down to sleep deprivation. How do you account for yours?
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
The New Boy Band
Small Sprog and friends have created themselves a band. They are allowed to use the music dept facilities at school during lunchtime. His recent Facebook pic showed the four of them together with the words 'The Band With No Name'. In the comments one of them had said "Thought we'd got a name?"
"Not yet" said another "Thought of 'The Nutters' though"! Too true I thought. And so it begins..
Today Small Sprog gets into the car. "We've got a name"
"Oh good" I say "What is it?"
"Dynamo"
"Good name" I say, thinking I must try not to get it mixed up with my lawn mower -Flymo- or worse still the nick name that Lovely Man calls the lawn mower (Spazmo, which I know is very politically incorrect and I hope I have not offended anyone here).
"Who thought of it?"
"Me, but Alex thought of the slogan 'Hot Chicks And Rock And Roll'!"
"Oh!" I say "Do you know, sometimes there are things I wish I didn't know Small Sprog!" Goodness me they are only 12.
Anyway, he persuades me to let him leave his guitar at school so they can continue to practice. I agree and am secretly pleased because he really needs to practice loads more, it's not until later on in the conversation that I realise another boy is playing his guitar (his mother, sensibly, won't let him leave his guitar at school) and Small Sprog is vocals. So much for the guitar practice then, but he does have a good singing voice and it's way better than his guitar playing.
In the back of the car I ask him what they are currently rehearsing. He starts to sing, which always makes me smile. "Have you downloaded the lyrics?" I ask
"No, I know them all backwards"
"Go on then" Says his sister
"Go on what?" I ask confused
"Sing it backwards" she says with a 'duhh' sort of voice
"No" I say "He doesn't mean really 'backwards', it's a figure of speech"
"Oh" she says disappointedly and then, loosing interest, she asks "Can I have the radio on?"
I look at Small Sprog and raise my eyebrows, sometimes she just doesn't get it!
"Not yet" said another "Thought of 'The Nutters' though"! Too true I thought. And so it begins..
Today Small Sprog gets into the car. "We've got a name"
"Oh good" I say "What is it?"
"Dynamo"
"Good name" I say, thinking I must try not to get it mixed up with my lawn mower -Flymo- or worse still the nick name that Lovely Man calls the lawn mower (Spazmo, which I know is very politically incorrect and I hope I have not offended anyone here).
"Who thought of it?"
"Me, but Alex thought of the slogan 'Hot Chicks And Rock And Roll'!"
"Oh!" I say "Do you know, sometimes there are things I wish I didn't know Small Sprog!" Goodness me they are only 12.
Anyway, he persuades me to let him leave his guitar at school so they can continue to practice. I agree and am secretly pleased because he really needs to practice loads more, it's not until later on in the conversation that I realise another boy is playing his guitar (his mother, sensibly, won't let him leave his guitar at school) and Small Sprog is vocals. So much for the guitar practice then, but he does have a good singing voice and it's way better than his guitar playing.
In the back of the car I ask him what they are currently rehearsing. He starts to sing, which always makes me smile. "Have you downloaded the lyrics?" I ask
"No, I know them all backwards"
"Go on then" Says his sister
"Go on what?" I ask confused
"Sing it backwards" she says with a 'duhh' sort of voice
"No" I say "He doesn't mean really 'backwards', it's a figure of speech"
"Oh" she says disappointedly and then, loosing interest, she asks "Can I have the radio on?"
I look at Small Sprog and raise my eyebrows, sometimes she just doesn't get it!
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
From the past (with explanation)
(Afterword: Having read a couple of comments below, I thought that perhaps I should explain that these events, spaced across 6 or more years, at the time did not feel catastrophic, dramatic or even on ordeal. Life just lurched from event to event, good and bad, intense and less so. Perhaps it was because I was so young and had nothing to compare my life with, perhaps it was the time itself? In the early to mid '80's I had never heard of 'Domestic Violence' I don't think the phrase had been realised back then, it wasn't on the news, on advertising hoardings or seen between TV programmes, it wasn't in my vocabulary; things happened but that's just how it was. I didn't share these events with my family - can you imagine the fuss, things were complicated enough? But then again, as I have said, there didn't seem much to tell. It is only now, now that I put it all together - and condensed here even more so- that I realise I was a victim in a way. But I prefer, like many others, to think of myself as a survivor - and that is a survivor of life in general, not just of Domestic Violence.)
"Guess who touched me on the arm in the supermarket yesterday?" She says in an animated fashion. I shake my head. "M!" she shouts with glee, "you know, your old flame?" I nod my head and she continues with enthusiasm. "He asked after you". She is pleased to have seen him and I look at her in amazement.
She is talking about a man that she didn't really approve of all those years ago, he had tattooed arms ( I was instructed from an early age to "never bring a man home with a motor bike or tattoos!") and long hair - though no bike - and she had said that he had no table manners at all. She thought he was lazy and not suitable (despite owning his own company) and "was he seeing someone else?". I will always remember that line because I was never quite sure myself. Yet here she was talking about him like an old friend (though she had warmed to him over the 6 or more years we were together.)
"I just happened to have some photographs of you all, I'd just collected from Boots" She continued. Goodness me she has shown him photographs? "He has 2 girls now you know?" I did. "He says tall Girl looks just like you"
"Poor thing, everyone says that to her." I reply as I make a swift mental calculation and realise I was hardly 3 years older than she is now when I first met him.
As she carried on I began to remember parts of those 6 years, or was it 7. The images flashed through my head at speed, like a film-strip flicking on a stark white wall superimposed on the current view of my mother sitting in her conservatory. Each scene played for only seconds but were none the less vivid: The fist through the car windscreen, from the inside; the blue room, in a fairly grim B&B in Dartmouth, and the searing pain of sex, as I lay silent and he ground down on top of me without my consent; the view from the back of the ambulance as we sped to hospital to have pills pumped from his stomach; the promise I made afterwards - how many others had said those same lines?
"He says he thought he saw you the other day" She smiled as she delivered this piece of news "and I told him you'd love to have had a chat" I smile back, remembering better times, times when he could talk me out of a black mood and make everything in the world seem so much better, just with words. The time he stroked my head until an agonising migraine had passed; his last note to me - everything will be alright.
"He says he often thinks of you kindly" She finished
How strange, until now, I had never thought of him at all.
"Guess who touched me on the arm in the supermarket yesterday?" She says in an animated fashion. I shake my head. "M!" she shouts with glee, "you know, your old flame?" I nod my head and she continues with enthusiasm. "He asked after you". She is pleased to have seen him and I look at her in amazement.
She is talking about a man that she didn't really approve of all those years ago, he had tattooed arms ( I was instructed from an early age to "never bring a man home with a motor bike or tattoos!") and long hair - though no bike - and she had said that he had no table manners at all. She thought he was lazy and not suitable (despite owning his own company) and "was he seeing someone else?". I will always remember that line because I was never quite sure myself. Yet here she was talking about him like an old friend (though she had warmed to him over the 6 or more years we were together.)
"I just happened to have some photographs of you all, I'd just collected from Boots" She continued. Goodness me she has shown him photographs? "He has 2 girls now you know?" I did. "He says tall Girl looks just like you"
"Poor thing, everyone says that to her." I reply as I make a swift mental calculation and realise I was hardly 3 years older than she is now when I first met him.
As she carried on I began to remember parts of those 6 years, or was it 7. The images flashed through my head at speed, like a film-strip flicking on a stark white wall superimposed on the current view of my mother sitting in her conservatory. Each scene played for only seconds but were none the less vivid: The fist through the car windscreen, from the inside; the blue room, in a fairly grim B&B in Dartmouth, and the searing pain of sex, as I lay silent and he ground down on top of me without my consent; the view from the back of the ambulance as we sped to hospital to have pills pumped from his stomach; the promise I made afterwards - how many others had said those same lines?
"He says he thought he saw you the other day" She smiled as she delivered this piece of news "and I told him you'd love to have had a chat" I smile back, remembering better times, times when he could talk me out of a black mood and make everything in the world seem so much better, just with words. The time he stroked my head until an agonising migraine had passed; his last note to me - everything will be alright.
"He says he often thinks of you kindly" She finished
How strange, until now, I had never thought of him at all.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Missing
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| Sculpture at University of Bristol Botanic Garden, artist unknown. |
I did a deal with the
I have been just over a week without them now and today when I was tidying Tall Girls room I came across something she needed for school tomorrow. I text her asking if she really needs it (they are not home until Wednesday - see what I mean about the deal? It's a long time) She texts back that she does need it and I say I'll drop it round. It feels a slight inconvenience to travel in that direction, I still drive along the well-to-do tree lined streets thinking about other times and 'what ifs'.
I pull onto the drive and she comes to the door, my beautiful Tall Girl and it's then when I realise how much I have missed her and how much I need to hug her to me like a newborn child again. Now that she is fully grown she is as beautiful to hug as she was as a baby, more so perhaps and even more precious now because she is only on loan to me and the time is nearly up, fully grown and 16 this year, she is well on the way to being mine no longer.
We hug a lot just there on the threshold of the house that used to be mine, the one I cooked and cleaned in, the one I ran single-handed for so many years.
Small Sprog appears and sticks his head up the back of Tall Girls hoody. She remonstrates, while I hug him too and whisper how much I love him. I say good bye and see you Wednesday and I'm gone.
Friday, April 13, 2012
A Stinky Cat Post
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| Yes he may look like 'butter wouldn't melt' but there's cat nagging in there like you wouldn't believe! |
Last night I go upstairs to get ready to go out. I make sure I have a little lie on the bed with him first and give him a cootch around his ears and he smiles that cat smile - insincere? Who knows?
The minute I get up from the bed he's on the alert. I look at him. Eye contact is always a mistake; he miaows. I try to avoid his eyes as I move around the bedroom getting ready to go out. As I walk past him to go into the bathroom he complains again. "You really aren't that endearing at all" I say to him as I reach for my perfume. I come back into the room to find he has disappeared (he can do this completely silently, like the Cheshire Cat) it is almost a relief, there's only so many insults a proud cat can take I think to myself.
I pick up my things and walk out onto the landing, there he is ready to ambush...
Monday, April 09, 2012
Perhaps
Just recently I have spent time with my Lovely Man's family as well as my own parents and although visiting my own oddball parents is an adventure in itself, Lovely Man's parents house is usually more full and lively. This is probably due to the fact that Lovely Man is so much younger than myself and therefore so are his parents; he also has a bigger family and I am lucky to feel equally at home in both places.
So now that my eldest offspring is almost closer to 16 than 15, I find myself wondering what it will be like to have them 'home to visit' with various friends and boyfriends when they are older. Will I still be such an embarrassment that they won't bring their friends home at all? Perhaps even they won't want to come? Or will they just come home to humour me? Will the Not So Small Sprog walk through the front door, straight to the kitchen and stick his head in the fridge to see what's for lunch? For that last one, I hope so.
How will it be? There is much to look forward to I hope but I dare not to imagine it for fear of it not turning out as planned.
Sitting here now, in Lovely Man's Parents House, the window open and bird song in abundance, I want this paradise for my own family. I want the house in the country with fruit trees and space all around. Yet I am already middle aged. This prize is the one afforded to people who marry young and stay together through thick and thin, who build on the foundations of solid jobs and hard work, who bring their children up in a stable family, no bags packed for weekends with daddy, no halving of the marital home or working part time because there's not much else available right now.
Someone once told me that I would be jeopardising my financial future if I left my marriage. They were right of course and I knew so at the time. Yet I felt and still feel that to stay together for financial and material reasons alone would be like throwing away life itself. To not feel love or be loved.
Someone else once told me that to achieve anything, to reach your goal, you have to have a plan. Dare I plan or even dream? Does it seem fruitless, when half your life is over, to keep striving for perfection?
This is what I have begun to ask myself. Yet I guess in a way I already have the answer. In these last three years life has changed beyond all recognition. I have invented a new life for myself; perhaps it is a new life or perhaps it is just one more point along the axis from start to finish. Maybe, still, anything is possible. We just have to make it happen.
So now that my eldest offspring is almost closer to 16 than 15, I find myself wondering what it will be like to have them 'home to visit' with various friends and boyfriends when they are older. Will I still be such an embarrassment that they won't bring their friends home at all? Perhaps even they won't want to come? Or will they just come home to humour me? Will the Not So Small Sprog walk through the front door, straight to the kitchen and stick his head in the fridge to see what's for lunch? For that last one, I hope so.
How will it be? There is much to look forward to I hope but I dare not to imagine it for fear of it not turning out as planned.
Sitting here now, in Lovely Man's Parents House, the window open and bird song in abundance, I want this paradise for my own family. I want the house in the country with fruit trees and space all around. Yet I am already middle aged. This prize is the one afforded to people who marry young and stay together through thick and thin, who build on the foundations of solid jobs and hard work, who bring their children up in a stable family, no bags packed for weekends with daddy, no halving of the marital home or working part time because there's not much else available right now.
Someone once told me that I would be jeopardising my financial future if I left my marriage. They were right of course and I knew so at the time. Yet I felt and still feel that to stay together for financial and material reasons alone would be like throwing away life itself. To not feel love or be loved.
Someone else once told me that to achieve anything, to reach your goal, you have to have a plan. Dare I plan or even dream? Does it seem fruitless, when half your life is over, to keep striving for perfection?
This is what I have begun to ask myself. Yet I guess in a way I already have the answer. In these last three years life has changed beyond all recognition. I have invented a new life for myself; perhaps it is a new life or perhaps it is just one more point along the axis from start to finish. Maybe, still, anything is possible. We just have to make it happen.
Saturday, April 07, 2012
Orchid house
At the Botanical Gardens again, in one of the hot houses we found some orchids.
Sadly my camera ran out of battery so the quality of these pictures isn't too good. Luckily I had my ipad to hand and took them on that. It was only in the rucksack because I had a Voucher Code on it so that we could have cheap pizza afterwards - but that's another story!
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I love theses ones, they looked as though they had rags hanging from them
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these are my favourites, they look a bit evil don't you think?
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The ones below are also favourites, all so wonderful and 'other worldly'
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The other bonus was that it was lovely and warm in the greenhouses!
And by the way...
Happy Easter!
Thursday, April 05, 2012
Chugger
This week we stayed a night at mums. It is a long time since we have all slept overnight there and I have to say there was definitely a wealth of blogging material during the 24 hours that we were in situ! Here's a sample;Whilst sitting in the kitchen in the late afternoon I could hear my stepfather at the front door talking to a charity collector or chugger (charity mugger)
"Did you run the sports relief mile?" he was asking my 81 year old SFather
"No" he retorted "but I moved the Top Hat from Mayfair to Old Kent Road"!
I laughed out loud in the kitchen and soon the 'Chugger' was off to another front door. I wish I could think up lines that quickly. He may be 81 but his humour is still sharp as a knife.
Meanwhile my mother was telling me about how she put dinner in the airing cupboard. "You are supposed to cook it in the oven mum" I say disparagingly.
"It was only to defrost it" she explained. Though I am sure this isn't a recognised method of safely defrosting a meal.
However, having put the dinner in the airing cupboard in the morning she went on to tell me that she had forgotten all about it and cooked something totally different for dinner that night, only to find the tepid intended meal in the airing cupboard the next day. It's a whole new concept of the idea of the 'slow cooker' don't you think?
"It was a senior moment" she explained "I often have several a day!"
And she's not the only one I thought to myself!
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
Flying pigs and pink flamingos!
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Tall Girl is in the back of the car (She's in the back on the way to school with SS in the back on the way home. She chooses this option because she feels more invisible in the back of the car. Heaven forbid that, in the queues leaving the city, we should get stuck next to the school bus on the duel carriage way long enough for her to be 'seen' in the car travelling with her embarrassing mother and small brother ). We are driving merrily along and I can see what looks like someone's old pink swimming towel draped in the hedge ahead, ruining the aesthetics of the journey. I mentally harumph to a non-existent 'other' for spoiling the scenery when suddenly Tall Girl lets out an excited shouted "Oh!" shortly followed by a disappointed "Humph".
"What's the matter?" I ask sympathetically from the front.
"It's so disappointing" She replies, distraught "I thought it (the pink towel) was a flamingo"!
Small Sprog and I burst into laughter "A flamingo!" we laughed "well you don't get many of them rampaging around the local Alveston area do you?" I glance around at her, she is looking decidedly disgruntled and I wonder if I've gone too far.
"Well it could have been a plastic one" She retorts.
Small Sprog and I look at each other, we know it might be time to stop guffawing now.
The journey continues...
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
The University of Bristol Botanic Garden
On Sunday 1st April we went to the Botanic Gardens. We must have been the only family there. Small Sprog observed we were definitely the youngest (and that even included me!). However both he and Tall Girl love visiting. Tall Girl is taking photography GCSE and we both like to take photos there. Small Sprog loves the cactus and the tropical house which has a pond, massive lilly pads and friendly fish, this is enough to keep him interested for quite a while.
It's just a short drive from home and it was the first day of the summer opening times. A lot of plants are still to emerge but there was a wonderful carpet of spring flowers there so I thought I would share some of my favourites.
Wild anemones
I thought these were Pasque Flowers but I'm not sure
Wonderful Primroses.
There were some exotic flowers in the greenhouses, I shall save them for another time.
Photographing them means I can look at them again and again long after they have faded, which is kind of magical when you think about it!
What's your favourite spring flower?
PS. Have an Easter Nest? Made by TG and SS!
Monday, April 02, 2012
Meme
I have missed my own bloggyversary! 4 years of blogging on 3rd March, goodness me, all those wasted hours wittering about life here in the suburbs.
Here's some more:
Today the stinky cat has polished off Small Sprogs ice cream while he wasn't looking.
Mum has sent me, via email this morning, a detailed account of how she cleared dog diarrhoea off next doors lawn while they weren't looking.
My neighbour texted me to see if I had cough mixture - great now I am mummy to another!
Tall Girl thinks she's seen a pink flamingo in the hedge on the way to school.
and as if that's not enough, here is a meme. I've not been sent one of these for a very long time so I was delighted when Looking For Blue Sky sent me this one ...
Here's some more:
Today the stinky cat has polished off Small Sprogs ice cream while he wasn't looking.
Mum has sent me, via email this morning, a detailed account of how she cleared dog diarrhoea off next doors lawn while they weren't looking.
My neighbour texted me to see if I had cough mixture - great now I am mummy to another!
Tall Girl thinks she's seen a pink flamingo in the hedge on the way to school.
and as if that's not enough, here is a meme. I've not been sent one of these for a very long time so I was delighted when Looking For Blue Sky sent me this one ...
As usual I have to answer a few questions, and as usual I'm not great at one word answers...
Favourite Colour? Red mostly but anything bright!
Favourite Animal? Has to be Stinky Cat at the moment
Favourite Number? 7 (no idea why) closely followed by 3 and 5.
Favourite Drink? Red wine or a Margarita given half the chance!
Facebook or Twitter? Facebook as I can't quite get to grips with Twitter.
My Passion? I'm a bit of a butterfly so hard to answer this one. My children, fairness and equality, food and eating ...
Giving or Getting Presents? Giving, but I'd never say no to a surprise pressie!
Favourite Day? Like Looking For Blue Sky, it's got to be the first day of the holidays, endless days with no time keeping. Bliss.
Favourite Flower? Arum Lilly for the architectural beauty, Oriental Lilly for the scent, Daffodil because it's the only flower, in my opinion, that looks great in yellow except for Sun Flowers, Hyacinths for their heavy fragrance.... I could go on forever.
Favourite Place? By the sea
Favourite Place? By the sea
I'd like to pass this Meme on to;
Friday, March 30, 2012
The Hairdressers
"How about a thicker fringe?" My new hairdresser drawled in that sort of knowing way that they have. I agree - do I never learn? She starts to chop and long strands fall into my lap. I look down at them, feel their weight. The brown is flecked with grey now, just a little and the strands attempt to form curls beneath my fingers. I am reminded of the twists of hair that my grandmother used to keep all wrapped in tissue paper inside a pink box on her dressing table, my mothers hair I think, cut from her head when she was a small baby. As a child I was fascinated by the small curl. It resembled hair, light brown and not at all as my mothers was in adulthood but already aged in a way, lifeless and old before its time.
I wondered where I had put the curls from my children, that I collected during their first hair cuts. After several house moves they could be anywhere and had I labelled which curl had belonged to which baby? Probably not.
I picked up the little ball of hair from my lap as she swung me around to 'look at the back' before ushering me to the till - and the colossal bill. I held the severed hair, my hair, not wanting to drop it to the floor. It was warm and resembled, for a moment, a small mammal that needed nurturing.
"Would you like to book your next appointment?" She enquired.
I declined
I wondered where I had put the curls from my children, that I collected during their first hair cuts. After several house moves they could be anywhere and had I labelled which curl had belonged to which baby? Probably not.
I picked up the little ball of hair from my lap as she swung me around to 'look at the back' before ushering me to the till - and the colossal bill. I held the severed hair, my hair, not wanting to drop it to the floor. It was warm and resembled, for a moment, a small mammal that needed nurturing.
"Would you like to book your next appointment?" She enquired.
I declined
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Forever (Fictional)
Forever he'd said.
She thought about the word. Mostly she tried hard not to use it but this was due to experience rather than devotion. Forever, she thought, is like a slippery fish, the brave one who tries to escape the fish bowl but lands up hitting the lino. The one that you try to scoop up with the fish slice just before its' last gasp and then realise - once it's back in the water - that you've managed to leave its left fin stuck to the floor and now it can only swim around in bloody circles. That's what forever is like; you look at it swimming around in circles and wonder if you'd have been better off just walloping it over the head with the handle of the fish slice and putting it out of its misery!
That had been her experience of forever. Not to say that it hadn't been very real to start with. No, it had really felt like it would be forever but it had got damaged somehow, lost its way and finally someone had had to put it out of its misery. Who was brave enough to hit the fish over the head? The final blow; 'I'm leaving you'... It seemed a such a long time ago now.
She thought about the word. Mostly she tried hard not to use it but this was due to experience rather than devotion. Forever, she thought, is like a slippery fish, the brave one who tries to escape the fish bowl but lands up hitting the lino. The one that you try to scoop up with the fish slice just before its' last gasp and then realise - once it's back in the water - that you've managed to leave its left fin stuck to the floor and now it can only swim around in bloody circles. That's what forever is like; you look at it swimming around in circles and wonder if you'd have been better off just walloping it over the head with the handle of the fish slice and putting it out of its misery!
That had been her experience of forever. Not to say that it hadn't been very real to start with. No, it had really felt like it would be forever but it had got damaged somehow, lost its way and finally someone had had to put it out of its misery. Who was brave enough to hit the fish over the head? The final blow; 'I'm leaving you'... It seemed a such a long time ago now.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Help! Now my Mum wants to blog!
I expect her to arrive about 12.45. By 1.15 I start to worry and text her - are you OK or shall I come and get you?
For months now Bristol Water have been digging up the roads around here, they have almost made it impossible to get to my house at all, we are marooned in a sea of deep holes, orange barriers and blue pipework! To make matters worse, Mum has no homing pigeon genes at all, in fact when I was small she would drive her little red Mini into Cheltenham (where we had always lived) park up, take me shopping and then forget where she had parked it. Sometimes we walked several streets before coming across the car, usually by accident.
Anyway, she was half an hour late. After texting her she called back, a little sad and defeated. She was lost, only about 3 streets away but lost all the same. No problem, I told her, I'll come and get you. (Last time she followed the road diversions and eventually found us but this time it was all too confusing.) Poor Mum.
An hour and a half and a few cups of tea later we pick up the children from school, who were very excited to see Granny. The volume rose considerably during the journey with chatter and singing and silliness. "I remember when you said you had the most amazing mum in the world" says Granny to Tall Girl and she agrees. Then Small Sprog pipes up "I've got an amazing mum too but sadly she couldn't be with us today!"
"Thanks Small Sprog!" I fake indignity before we all explode with laughter. He then proceeds to rattle off his current stash of 'oneliners' especially for Grannies delectation. How does he do it?
At home Tall Girl shows off her latest muse, her blog. Yes, she has started blogging and so far been quite successful getting comments after only her first post. She is delighted and excited and glued to it as much as I'd like to be. However now that she is blogging Small Sprog also wants one, he wants to call it "Maybe Broccoli Doesn't Like You Either".
Before she leaves Mum says "When you next come up, can you show me that blogging thingy?"
"You want to blog?"
"Do you know what?" she smiles "I think I do"
Bang goes my anonymity then!
And talking of bloggers, this morning before Mum arrived I met Maggie from Nuts in May for the first time, along with her sometimes blogging son Sam. We shared tea and a few hours chatting together, it was lovely. She is a lot like her blog, she seems very kind and gentle and is softly spoken. We've probably 'known' each other now for nearly 4 years. I hope we can continue in both worlds now we have met virtually. Thanks for meeting up Maggie.
I told Tall Girl all about the meeting. "Maybe I will meet up with someone commenting on my blog one day" She says with glee "Theres' someone commenting from Italy I'd like to meet"
Bristol was easy, I thought, Italy might be trickier but isn't it great still this blogging thing?
For months now Bristol Water have been digging up the roads around here, they have almost made it impossible to get to my house at all, we are marooned in a sea of deep holes, orange barriers and blue pipework! To make matters worse, Mum has no homing pigeon genes at all, in fact when I was small she would drive her little red Mini into Cheltenham (where we had always lived) park up, take me shopping and then forget where she had parked it. Sometimes we walked several streets before coming across the car, usually by accident.
Anyway, she was half an hour late. After texting her she called back, a little sad and defeated. She was lost, only about 3 streets away but lost all the same. No problem, I told her, I'll come and get you. (Last time she followed the road diversions and eventually found us but this time it was all too confusing.) Poor Mum.
An hour and a half and a few cups of tea later we pick up the children from school, who were very excited to see Granny. The volume rose considerably during the journey with chatter and singing and silliness. "I remember when you said you had the most amazing mum in the world" says Granny to Tall Girl and she agrees. Then Small Sprog pipes up "I've got an amazing mum too but sadly she couldn't be with us today!"
"Thanks Small Sprog!" I fake indignity before we all explode with laughter. He then proceeds to rattle off his current stash of 'oneliners' especially for Grannies delectation. How does he do it?
At home Tall Girl shows off her latest muse, her blog. Yes, she has started blogging and so far been quite successful getting comments after only her first post. She is delighted and excited and glued to it as much as I'd like to be. However now that she is blogging Small Sprog also wants one, he wants to call it "Maybe Broccoli Doesn't Like You Either".
Before she leaves Mum says "When you next come up, can you show me that blogging thingy?"
"You want to blog?"
"Do you know what?" she smiles "I think I do"
Bang goes my anonymity then!
And talking of bloggers, this morning before Mum arrived I met Maggie from Nuts in May for the first time, along with her sometimes blogging son Sam. We shared tea and a few hours chatting together, it was lovely. She is a lot like her blog, she seems very kind and gentle and is softly spoken. We've probably 'known' each other now for nearly 4 years. I hope we can continue in both worlds now we have met virtually. Thanks for meeting up Maggie.
I told Tall Girl all about the meeting. "Maybe I will meet up with someone commenting on my blog one day" She says with glee "Theres' someone commenting from Italy I'd like to meet"
Bristol was easy, I thought, Italy might be trickier but isn't it great still this blogging thing?
Friday, March 02, 2012
Baa Humbug
World Book Day, how I hate it! Now I know that does sound a bit Baa Humbug but dressing up is not my thing, well not 'that' sort of dressing up anyway!
Most adults at work just go ahead and hire dresses from the local costume hire shop, which is OK if you have loads of spare cash to splash (baa humbug) but it's only school and I'm only there for half a dressing up day.
The theme is 'fairy tale characters', I decide to go as Dick Whittington's cat, easy; dress in black, put on my boots, dig out Small Sprogs monkey tail (not a surprise that he has one of those really is it?!) and make some ears. I made the ears. I looked like a panda with them on, they really weren't the right shape. Bum. I went to the local costume hire shop.
"Do you have cat ears?" I ask unenthusiastically. The shop assistant shows me a pair for £4.50 that come with a tail and a bow tie. A bow tie? I see... 'that' sort of a cat.
"Or these are £6" She muses showing me a pair of black ears with provocative 'tufts' of white. I settle for the pack of three and go home.
Later on my Significant Other notices the bag lying on the bed. "Ah, cat ears?" He says with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yep" I answer begrudgingly "With a tail and bow tie"
His eyes brighten.
"Obviously I won't be wearing the bow tie to school"
He looks crestfallen.
"Maybe another day?" He looks hopeful!
He may wait sometime, the baa humbug is still in me!
Most adults at work just go ahead and hire dresses from the local costume hire shop, which is OK if you have loads of spare cash to splash (baa humbug) but it's only school and I'm only there for half a dressing up day.
The theme is 'fairy tale characters', I decide to go as Dick Whittington's cat, easy; dress in black, put on my boots, dig out Small Sprogs monkey tail (not a surprise that he has one of those really is it?!) and make some ears. I made the ears. I looked like a panda with them on, they really weren't the right shape. Bum. I went to the local costume hire shop.
"Do you have cat ears?" I ask unenthusiastically. The shop assistant shows me a pair for £4.50 that come with a tail and a bow tie. A bow tie? I see... 'that' sort of a cat.
"Or these are £6" She muses showing me a pair of black ears with provocative 'tufts' of white. I settle for the pack of three and go home.
Later on my Significant Other notices the bag lying on the bed. "Ah, cat ears?" He says with a twinkle in his eye.
"Yep" I answer begrudgingly "With a tail and bow tie"
His eyes brighten.
"Obviously I won't be wearing the bow tie to school"
He looks crestfallen.
"Maybe another day?" He looks hopeful!
He may wait sometime, the baa humbug is still in me!
Monday, February 20, 2012
From bad to worse!
I am woken, just before the alarm goes off; there is a male 'member' in the bathroom. I can hear him in there, I am lying in bed with my eyes still shut. That's not all going into the pan I think to myself!
The light dawns...Monday morning, no more school holidays...bum!
I pad to the toilet myself, carefully avoiding a puddle the size of The Great Lakes, and sit down. Dilemma. Do I get him to clear it up and risk it spreading about the whole of the bathroom floor (I mean it could get seriously out of control if you don't look what you're doing!) or do I sort it out? I go for the multi tasking option of wiping while I am sitting. Holding copious mounts of tissue in my hand I make a grab for the detox, the handle of the squirter bit is dripping. Ewww.
20 minutes and a shower later I go down to the kitchen. The cat is hungry. He cries incessantly like a hungry newborn, even though there is still food in both his bowls. He has the noise off to a fine art. He goes off like an alarm as soon as you make eye contact. I try to fill the kettle and put it on but only get as far as the tap. The noise is too bad, if I don't feed him the whole street will wake. I empty last nights supper into the bin, wash his dish and refill.
Last time I did an internet shop I didn't have my glasses on, the cat food I'd bought was slightly different. Into the bowl it went like a slimy slippery bogey. I put it on his mat.
Now Mr A Cat can be quite fussy and knows every trick in the book to get a decent meal but today he must have thought it was his birthday. Surprisingly the new food was a hit. He gulped it down in one...Then threw it up on the landing seconds later. That's what happens when you bolt your food, I tell him as he looks a bit sheepish. I gather up the warm mass in some thick tissue. 30 minutes out of bed, I muse, and I've already cleared up a massive pool of pee and some slightly warmed through cat puke. Nice.
He runs back downstairs, ever hopeful for a second breakfast.
How was your Monday morning?
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Mothers love (A Valentine for My Daughter)
We walk together, the february sun feeling warmer on our backs than it should for the time of year, the birds singing like its the middle of spring, and not for the first time, I wonder at how life takes the most amazing twists and turns.
The warm air prompts me to open a picture in my memory, one of a very small girl. It was the early promise of spring that reminded me, and indeed it was probably 15 years ago to the day; a warm february day, on a different walk with a different man and a one year old, who had changed my life beyond all expectations.
Before being a mother I was a different person, though I am closer now to what I once was, than I have been since but Motherhood was a massive shock. Post-natal depression didn't help, all at once I was ricochet from a promising design career to a full time mother who couldn't understand why she was still in pyjamas at 3pm and had spent most of the day trying to look after a small bundle with no instruction manual.
Our lowest point on this massive journey that she has joined me on (or perhaps I have joined her?)was one dark December day, after trying to get her to feed for what seemed hours, just sitting on the sofa with tears rolling down my face, and as I cried, she cried, we were both in despair and there seemed little respite in the lonely days of early motherhood. And there we were for most of the daylight hours; November is not a great month to give birth, it felt very cold and dark and lonely. I was overwhelmed by the feeling (for the first time in my life)of responsibility and it gave me a sick feeling in my stomach. I wanted my old life back, at that moment I don't think I had ever wanted anything more.
Yet a year and a bit later I remember walking in a beautiful park on a day just like this one, unusually hot for the time of year, and a little girl, once so small, now looking like a proper person. I have a photograph of this day, she is smiling an insane smile, full of cheekiness, she has on a long sleeved t-shirt with flowers on the front and she is brandishing a pair of sun glasses at the camera. My baby girl, the two of us together on this long and dangerous journey of life, discovering what makes us both tick, what hurts us and how to carry on.
In what seems like an instant, all of a sudden, she is 15 and we are living a life so far away from the one back then, further away than I had ever expected, that it is hard to imaging the other walk with the other man and the hotter than it should be sun on our backs all that time ago.
We have come a long way, baby girl and I. I never realised what it was to love a child until I became a mother, it grows and as far as I know, it has no end. I can't imagine my world without her. She has so much further to go now than I do; I do hope her route is not too hard, for I don't think I could bear that.
The warm air prompts me to open a picture in my memory, one of a very small girl. It was the early promise of spring that reminded me, and indeed it was probably 15 years ago to the day; a warm february day, on a different walk with a different man and a one year old, who had changed my life beyond all expectations.
Before being a mother I was a different person, though I am closer now to what I once was, than I have been since but Motherhood was a massive shock. Post-natal depression didn't help, all at once I was ricochet from a promising design career to a full time mother who couldn't understand why she was still in pyjamas at 3pm and had spent most of the day trying to look after a small bundle with no instruction manual.
Our lowest point on this massive journey that she has joined me on (or perhaps I have joined her?)was one dark December day, after trying to get her to feed for what seemed hours, just sitting on the sofa with tears rolling down my face, and as I cried, she cried, we were both in despair and there seemed little respite in the lonely days of early motherhood. And there we were for most of the daylight hours; November is not a great month to give birth, it felt very cold and dark and lonely. I was overwhelmed by the feeling (for the first time in my life)of responsibility and it gave me a sick feeling in my stomach. I wanted my old life back, at that moment I don't think I had ever wanted anything more.
Yet a year and a bit later I remember walking in a beautiful park on a day just like this one, unusually hot for the time of year, and a little girl, once so small, now looking like a proper person. I have a photograph of this day, she is smiling an insane smile, full of cheekiness, she has on a long sleeved t-shirt with flowers on the front and she is brandishing a pair of sun glasses at the camera. My baby girl, the two of us together on this long and dangerous journey of life, discovering what makes us both tick, what hurts us and how to carry on.
In what seems like an instant, all of a sudden, she is 15 and we are living a life so far away from the one back then, further away than I had ever expected, that it is hard to imaging the other walk with the other man and the hotter than it should be sun on our backs all that time ago.
We have come a long way, baby girl and I. I never realised what it was to love a child until I became a mother, it grows and as far as I know, it has no end. I can't imagine my world without her. She has so much further to go now than I do; I do hope her route is not too hard, for I don't think I could bear that.
Monday, February 13, 2012
It never rains...
Meeting a friend for lunch last week, she launched into her current list of problems. I really didn't mind, I've done it myself to her several times and sometimes it's reassuring to know someone else has more problems than you!
When she drew breath she apologised and asked how my line up of current woes were. 'Oh I'm fine' I trill triumphantly ' all well my end'! I should have known, I guess I did know as I said it, one should never invite trouble.
So that weekend, just as I was relaxing into a happy state of Saturday-night-ness, I checked my emails and there it was, the trouble I had invited. A cheery email from Ex. We've been divorced a year this month, it stated happily, so (this bit was matter of fact and with no preamble) I'm going to dock your maintenance to the bare minimum allowed by law. Those weren't the exact words, but that was the intention. I froze. We manage now, just. Sleep was hard to come by that night.
Initially I am angry, I am in rant mode here, it is not 'my' maintenance it is money to support the children, he pays nothing to support me, and I would not want him too. However, I do expect him to support his children, especially as he has recently come into an inheritance.
Then I am shocked. How can he do this? So I do my sums. Luckily I can meet the mortgage and regular standing orders, but there's not much left over, not enough at all. Bugger!
So we have a family conference, 3 heads are better than 1 and I want the children to understand I am doing all I can but there is a limit. They rise to the occasion admirably, they even suggest not having a TV, just for a nano second! In the end we realise there's not much more we can shave off our domestic needs, the food bill has already been shaved substantially.
I email Ex telling him that if he chooses not to support his children through me then he needs to support them directly. I list all the things that I have been paying for that I can no longer pay for and ask him to continue to support them by paying these bills instead; guitar lessons, dyslexic tutor, school trips... This was over a week ago. I am still waiting for him to acknowledge the email and agree payments. Nothing so far. I am edgy, I'm not sure if I can fill in the gaps, actually, I'm pretty sure I can't.
Today I picked up my ageing car from its MOT. £362 later I can drive it legally. The credit card flexes well.
I am hunkering down, waiting for the third thing. I know I'm not alone here, times are hard. What's your current solution?
When she drew breath she apologised and asked how my line up of current woes were. 'Oh I'm fine' I trill triumphantly ' all well my end'! I should have known, I guess I did know as I said it, one should never invite trouble.
So that weekend, just as I was relaxing into a happy state of Saturday-night-ness, I checked my emails and there it was, the trouble I had invited. A cheery email from Ex. We've been divorced a year this month, it stated happily, so (this bit was matter of fact and with no preamble) I'm going to dock your maintenance to the bare minimum allowed by law. Those weren't the exact words, but that was the intention. I froze. We manage now, just. Sleep was hard to come by that night.
Initially I am angry, I am in rant mode here, it is not 'my' maintenance it is money to support the children, he pays nothing to support me, and I would not want him too. However, I do expect him to support his children, especially as he has recently come into an inheritance.
Then I am shocked. How can he do this? So I do my sums. Luckily I can meet the mortgage and regular standing orders, but there's not much left over, not enough at all. Bugger!
So we have a family conference, 3 heads are better than 1 and I want the children to understand I am doing all I can but there is a limit. They rise to the occasion admirably, they even suggest not having a TV, just for a nano second! In the end we realise there's not much more we can shave off our domestic needs, the food bill has already been shaved substantially.
I email Ex telling him that if he chooses not to support his children through me then he needs to support them directly. I list all the things that I have been paying for that I can no longer pay for and ask him to continue to support them by paying these bills instead; guitar lessons, dyslexic tutor, school trips... This was over a week ago. I am still waiting for him to acknowledge the email and agree payments. Nothing so far. I am edgy, I'm not sure if I can fill in the gaps, actually, I'm pretty sure I can't.
Today I picked up my ageing car from its MOT. £362 later I can drive it legally. The credit card flexes well.
I am hunkering down, waiting for the third thing. I know I'm not alone here, times are hard. What's your current solution?
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Guest post
An email from my mother:
Having sneakily drunk (he doesn't know how many glasses of wine)while he was cooking fish and chips for tonights meal, he ate his dinner and then sat with his head on his arms while I washed up (which is his job too on a Friday night!)Then I had to struggle to get him to his feet and walk him to the bedroom (thank goodness we live in a bungalow) where, on the way, he would have fallen over three times if I hadn't got hold of him!
He is spark out now, lying on his bed flat on his stomach. I have put towels on the floor each side of the bed, a glass of cold water on the bedside table and a plastic bucket for him to vomit into! All he said as he collapsed into the bed was 'I'd like you to sing to me now'!Blow that for a game of soldiers!if he's like that when I go to bed I shall just cover him up with a blanket, don't know what kind of night I shall have though, I've never known him quite so sloshed...oh, he did mutter that he'd never have another drink though.
This guest post copied from an email from my mother last night made me laugh until tears rolled down my face. I emailed back saying that I hope she had a quiet night and that I didn't envy her in the morning.
Her morning reply:
Slept (he) like a baby, woke up full of beans, apologies and swearing he'd never drink another drop!
You've got to hand it to him, at almost 81 he's doing very well!
Having sneakily drunk (he doesn't know how many glasses of wine)while he was cooking fish and chips for tonights meal, he ate his dinner and then sat with his head on his arms while I washed up (which is his job too on a Friday night!)Then I had to struggle to get him to his feet and walk him to the bedroom (thank goodness we live in a bungalow) where, on the way, he would have fallen over three times if I hadn't got hold of him!
He is spark out now, lying on his bed flat on his stomach. I have put towels on the floor each side of the bed, a glass of cold water on the bedside table and a plastic bucket for him to vomit into! All he said as he collapsed into the bed was 'I'd like you to sing to me now'!Blow that for a game of soldiers!if he's like that when I go to bed I shall just cover him up with a blanket, don't know what kind of night I shall have though, I've never known him quite so sloshed...oh, he did mutter that he'd never have another drink though.
This guest post copied from an email from my mother last night made me laugh until tears rolled down my face. I emailed back saying that I hope she had a quiet night and that I didn't envy her in the morning.
Her morning reply:
Slept (he) like a baby, woke up full of beans, apologies and swearing he'd never drink another drop!
You've got to hand it to him, at almost 81 he's doing very well!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Small Sprog is 12
It was Small Sprogs birthday last week. He is a not such a small sprog now; (according to his sister) he swears like a trouper on the school bus, his upper lip has a slight shadow and he doesn't give out unconditional hugs any more (not to his mother anyway). Yet inside I know he is still the same Small Sprog; he still wants to know how many atoms are in an ant and he still imagines ridiculous scenarios at meal times - "What if a big dinosaur came down the road right now?..." -that sort of thing. Though his pre-teen self doesn't like to leave the sofa unnecessarily and all the best wishes he got on Facebook were from girls!
But I still love him as a small sprog and I still want to hug him, but that's not part of this part of the game now, hardly ever. Yet in one of his moments he will butter me up and tell me I'm the best mummy in the world; if he doesn't make guitar hero I reckon car salesman is right up his street!
I know he is not mine, he is his own person, I do not own him but I am borrowing him until he can make it in this world on his own. Sometimes it's hard.
For his birthday we took him Go Carting, it was brilliant. After that all his friends came back here and whiled away an hour shooting each other with Nerf Guns before eating their own body weight in pizza and birthday cake. As I lit the candles on the cake Tall Girl hissed at me: Don't sing! (God forbid I do something dreadful to embarrass her) However I had already checked myself before her stage directions had left her lips; he was 12 now, he certainly didn't want his mum singing 'Happy Birthday' to his friends did he?
So as I approached the table, holding the cake with the lighted candles in front of me, one of his good friends burst into song: Happy birthday to you. He wasn't embarrassed I thought, how brilliant, it's still perfectly acceptable to sing 'The Song' when you are about to be twelve years old. We all sang together, however I'm under no illusions that they may well be singing far more risky songs together in the future and I definitely won't be party to those!
But I still love him as a small sprog and I still want to hug him, but that's not part of this part of the game now, hardly ever. Yet in one of his moments he will butter me up and tell me I'm the best mummy in the world; if he doesn't make guitar hero I reckon car salesman is right up his street!
I know he is not mine, he is his own person, I do not own him but I am borrowing him until he can make it in this world on his own. Sometimes it's hard.
For his birthday we took him Go Carting, it was brilliant. After that all his friends came back here and whiled away an hour shooting each other with Nerf Guns before eating their own body weight in pizza and birthday cake. As I lit the candles on the cake Tall Girl hissed at me: Don't sing! (God forbid I do something dreadful to embarrass her) However I had already checked myself before her stage directions had left her lips; he was 12 now, he certainly didn't want his mum singing 'Happy Birthday' to his friends did he?
So as I approached the table, holding the cake with the lighted candles in front of me, one of his good friends burst into song: Happy birthday to you. He wasn't embarrassed I thought, how brilliant, it's still perfectly acceptable to sing 'The Song' when you are about to be twelve years old. We all sang together, however I'm under no illusions that they may well be singing far more risky songs together in the future and I definitely won't be party to those!
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