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'

Love (part 2) Depression

She was in a state, shaking and trying not to cry. I take it all in, the whole scene, knowing that this is not right, not 'normal' behaviour. I tell her to take some big breaths, relax, slow down.
'But I get like this a lot now Billy'
That's what she calls me, Billy.
'I had to phone the bank the other day, they wanted some information and I couldn't find it and I got myself into such a state and started shaking and...'
She breaks down. I hate to see her like this but I've seen it before. It can start like this, I think to myself. And I hope I am wrong.

We were trying to book a holiday on line. The place she had set her heart on was not available, however her next choice was so we booked it immediately. It was all too much for her. The disappointment of loosing her first choice, (to me seemed totally out of proportion) the quickness of booking on line.

What makes it worse, my step father makes it unbearably clear, albeit with a stealthy delivery, that he would really rather stay at home. He says he wishes she had booked somewhere further east (we are talking Devon/Dorset border here rather than 'The Far East') She wishes he was more enthusiastic, they never go away together. The sadness of the situation slowly creeps under my skin, like a sort of osmosis, a passive process; I have felt it before.

Before I was married and had a family I remember her sitting on a dinning chair in my living room saying that she had nothing left to live for. There have been times when I have wanted to point out, since then, how much she would have missed; two grandchildren for a start. But when I look at her today, I do wonder whether a half life is good enough (perhaps she was right after all), whether the half life has made her this way. And while I think it, in my selfish 'only child' way, I wonder if I am seeing myself 30 years down the line. Will I be like this woman, so easily pushed off key? I recognise so many of her traits in myself. Will age make me weak and unsure, doubtful and depressed?

She sent an email this morning, I read it in the car. It made me cry, for her not myself. ...'Just a bit 'down' about the holiday...wish he was more enthusiastic.. wish we'd used my credit card so I could cancel it...I suppose I'll get used to it.. have been feeling a bit depressed lately and this seems like the last straw...' That was when I realised it was real, no one feels sad about a holiday that they have longed to book.

I have persuaded her to go to the Dr next week. Hopefully she'll get pills, they worked the last time. It takes 2 weeks before you feel any better. Yet I am convinced that to be loved and cherished would work just as well, my love is not enough, it is not that sort of love that she has been deprived of for so long. No, it is the love of a good man that could have made her life so much more full. Love and kindness. She is 77 this year.

My Mum
Unloved

There but for the Grace of God go I

Love (part 1) She loves me, She loves me not

This is my Tall Girl, she is growing so fast and already looks about 18! Thinking about it it's less than 4 years until she actually is 18. Now that's a sobering thought.

'Why does my hair only look good on a non-school day?' She lamented this weekend, whilst admiring herself in the vanity mirror (well named) on the passenger side sun shield.

Sometimes life's just so unfair, isn't it?!

She's at that age when mood swings can vary by the minute. I can be a very much loved Mummy one minute, or the worst person in the whole world the next, sometimes it's hard to keep up, or play the part, whichever is required at the time!

But no matter how bad it gets she never swears at me, nor I her. I had never really thought about it before, I mean I would not ever expect either of these things to happen. Yet she mentioned it one day, that she was glad we were not 'that sort of family'. I am glad too, glad we don't and glad she has noticed that what we all have is much too precious to treat with indifference.

3 years and 11 days...

...Since I started writing here.


I started my blog 3 years ago this month, after hearing Petite Anglaise interviewed on Women's Hour. The next day I wrote my first post; I became totally absorbed. It wasn't long before I spent most evenings in front of the PC. Without knowing it, I had already chosen another life


My marriage had become pretty empty anyway, worn down by bringing up 2 children, having left my career to have them and leaving my happy-go-lucky self behind with my resignation letter. Not that it was the children's fault, and I certainly wouldn't ever be without them. I could say my husband was selfish and stopped me having much of a life, he certainly restricted my aspirations, but I was guilty of letting it come to that I suppose. I was living a half life, had slipped into it almost without thought.


It wasn't long before I began to get frequent readers on my blog. The same people who came back over and over again. I read their lives, they read mine and slowly they became virtual friends. I knew more about them than my real friends, such is the nature of blogging and I very much needed their friendship. I suddenly realised how lonely I'd been in my suburban half-life. (I have met several of those bloggers in the real world since then, and it has been satisfying to find that they are the same in real life as they appear to be virtually.)

Not long after starting to write I found another blogger who lived in the same city, a man, younger than me. He blogged about ridiculously funny and blokey things, having started his blog after ending a short relationship. His blog always made me laugh. Within weeks we read each others lives every day.

During this time we were only communicating in the 'comments' section of our blogs. He always left a witty remark or a caring comment. Within about 3 months we emailed each other directly, about nothing in particular, yet there was a feeling, an excitement every time I opened my mail and saw his name. Within in 4 months we 'Google chatted' daily. I was addicted, to blogging, chatting and the man! I was no longer lonely. I felt as though my life was slowly beginning again, I was alive, had forgotten how it felt.


I had fallen for words alone, how easy it had been.


Almost nine months after starting my blog we arranged to meet for coffee, harmless enough between friends, or so we told ourselves. It was a strange meeting, as with other bloggers, we already knew so much about each other. It seemed like we'd known each other for a very long time, were asking each other about events and people we'd written about, yet we had never met in the real world. It was 2 weeks before Christmas. On the 2nd January, less than a month later, I told my Husband I wanted to leave him. That was 27 months ago.

My divorce came through last month. I don't blog daily any more, mostly through lack of time and I do miss writing and visiting you, my virtual friends.

It has been a long and traumatic journey which is almost over. Yet at the same time there has been a wonderful and exciting new life unfolding almost daily, one that I never thought I'd have a chance to reach for, let alone attain. I don't regret any of it, but I still find it hard to believe it all happened by a chance listening to Womans Hour in the car, on the way to visit my Mum and an unexpected and innocent meeting in the 'comments section' on my blog. 


Three years and eleven days ago I had no idea what life would bring, resigned to the mundane and predictable life of being with someone who didn't love me any more. Yet for almost three years and eleven days there has been a sub plot waiting to emerge. Five Hundred and Fifty five posts later, who knows what will happen next?

The Beginning (After The End, which is below)

I know why my wedding sits so firmly in my head as one of the best of days of my life. It is because I organised it all, I had it as I wanted it, each thing perfect and beautiful to me. And, looking back over the long years of marriage, this was probably my Swan Song. The last thing I was in control of, the last creative thing that I did before limits were put in place.

The limits were small and appeared slowly, small things one by one. My choices became narrowed, my wishes eventually ignored. All of it happening slowly over the years.

Yet I am to blame too for this loss of self.

A little more than a year after marriage I had my first child. It threw me sideways, I finished work, became home bound, stuck to the sofa with a newborn for what seemed like forever. I emerged slowly, a new creature, diminished in confidence, smaller, unsure. My world had shrunk, I was a 'kept' woman. My choices were dependent on another. Independence gone.

I have refound myself over the last year. I can have a choice, and it is all mine. I have forged through mountains of problems and climbed what seemed to be insurmountable hurdles to get here, to this point, the point where I become Ms. - such a 'loaded' title.

We, the children and I, are making plans for our new house. I can have the colours I want, I can choose how to spend the money and what to spend it on. It feels good. We have colour charts and magazines. Tall Girl and I are pawing over them, dreaming a dream that can become, to my surprise, a reality.

I have nearly made it. I wasn't sure I ever would. I wasn't sure I would be strong enough to see it through. Freedom, my own home in my own name. Back to the future in a way, for I had my own home before I was married. I gave it up without thinking then. How strange.

The End

Another document to add to the filing cabinet, in the compartment that says 'Passports, Births, Marriages, Divorce'. It's official, The End. From the proposal on 16th July 1994 to the Absolute 16th February 2011 and all of life's little ups and downs in between. Neatness in it's ending if nothing else. The beginning of another chapter, yet, yet...

Yet I can't help looking back to all those precious moments shared. My wedding day, for years ranking the best day of my life, not for the act itself but for the joyous day spent with all my favourite friends and relatives. So long ago now, but still precious, with hundreds of snapshots stored in my brain: My step fathers speech which was embarrassing and not a highlight; the Best Man's speech which made me cry; hoovering in my wedding dress between daytime 'do' and evening (we had the reception in our enormous ground floor flat comfortably sitting 35 for lunch with the rest of the guests arriving for an evening buffet); the smell of lillys wafting through the summer afternoon; the fire-eater as entertainment at night; the inebriated friend cross-legged on the lawn communing with the stars at midnight; the last drunks to leave at 2am. Vivid as though it were only yesterday.

And births, who could forget all the emotion of those days? "Mind his ear" the midwife shouts as the student nurse cuts the cord from around Small Sprogs neck! Another snapshot, shared with another now unrelated.

So no, when the solicitor rang me today and told me my Decree Absolute had arrived on her desk last week I did not shout with glee. "How does it feel?" she asked. I could have said numb, but it took a while to realise the feeling. In a way that piece of paper made no difference at all, for the marriage was over years ago but it is still sad. Something held so precious for a while, now spent. Yet my days go on the same, nothing really has changed at all, moments always there; never can be erased by a piece of paper.

Dressed for all occasions!

I picked Tall Girl up last Sunday from her Dads, to go to the christening. She is wearing a lovely dress which we bought together last year. She has on some suitable shoes and decent tights, she looks grown up. She has some mascara on, but not too much and her hair is straight and glossy.

We get into the car.

'You look lovely' I say as we pull out of the drive

'I've got my shorts on underneath' She exclaims

I give her and odd look and she pulls up her dress to prove it, black tights and denim shorts, with a pretty dress over the top.

'Why the shorts?' I grin

'Well you said it would be cold in church, and I though if we broke down or had and accident, it would be better to have shorts on as well'!

I guess you can never be too sure of how the day will proceed!

Ruby May

Today at a christening, it suddenly struck me how strange life is. There is my Tall Girl with the baby on her lap, beaming and cooing to her as if she were her own. The baby's uncle sits next to me and reminisces about when he held my Tall Girl as a baby, and how her big brown eyes stared out of her small pink face in wonder at the world. And I, in turn, remember holding him at the same age, remember his birth, remember him growing up, all those years ago.

So much water under the bridge since then, so many lives touched, so many twists and turns of fate. Yet here we are, all together for this new small bundles big day, all together again. It is reassuring.

Through my life I have lost touch with lots of people, some on purpose and some with carelessness. Sometimes I search the web to find a name. Pointless of course.

Today I am grateful for my friends.

Parents Evening

Parents evening in a state comprehensive, short hand for bun fight, never my favourite evening of the school calendar I must admit. The large sports hall is riddled with humanity of all shapes and sizes and their offspring. The teachers have 5 minute slots but everyone, seeing as they have made the effort to get there in the first place, wants their 10 penny's worth anyway and this means queues and huffing! After attending for the last three years I have become accustomed to the elbows out and everyone for themselves, dog eat dog sort of an affair. I can elbow with the rest of them if required!

As we stand next in line for the Art Teacher, I notice a couple sidle in from the left. I do my own sidle and take up my starting position for when the couple in front leave their bottom warmed seats for another queue. I can feel the woman of the couple bristle; parents evenings bring out the best in us all
'What time is your slot?' She asks nosily
'5.35' I reply.
She looks defeated (ha) 'We'll let you go first then' she concedes 'Ours is 5.40'
'Thanks' I say through gritted teeth. Bloody cheek is on the tip of my tongue.

On the way home Tall Girl pipes up 'I'm proud of you'
'Oh thanks' I say, glowing with pride.
'I'm glad you are my Mummy and Daddy is my Daddy' She goes on
'Why is that?' I ask
'Well,' she starts 'did you see some of those Mums and Dads in there?'
'What about them'
'Some of them were sooo... well, red hair, bright red, and you know...chavey and... '
She went off in a tirade. The phrase she needed was 'mutton dressed as lamb'!
'So you're proud of us because?'
'Well, you dress like a mum should'
'You mean I look my age?' I asked
'Yep'
Do you know, for one moment there I was almost flattered!

In the afternoon

When we left court we agreed to go for coffee. It felt strange to be there together, drinking coffee and tea. I needed to be there though, together. He needed it too. We had just gone through a traumatic experience together, ships lost in a storm that had brewed for months, years even.

We drank the first cup, he texted 'The judge was a bastard' several times into his Blackberry. We went over the whole 15 minute process again and again. I needed his company, he was the only one who knew how awful the stress of waiting for an unknown 'other' to make a major decision in your life, was like.

We talked about the children, about how they drive us mad! It was so good to hear that they do the same things, we both still say the same things to them. We are united in childcare if nothing else.

I don't want to let him go. We go to the pub, and are the last to leave.

He talks. I remember how good he is at it. I catch up with all the news, of his friends and work stuff, and we keep coming back to the judge and the court.  It's like we have to keep reminding ourselves that it's all over now, we got through it together, like so many other major events over the last 16 years.

We do the school run together and part company. I suddenly feel very alone. I miss him I guess. I miss the history and the easiness of it, not having to explain, the 'knowing'.

When I first met him I hoped we could just be friends, I never intended it to be more than that. Perhaps now, after all these years, that's just what we can be.

Today in court

It took no time at all to navigate through the morning traffic to get to court this morning. I was early. Waiting is always the most painful part of a stressful situation. I sat in the car and waited, to distracted to read. Friends texted and called, the thought that people cared made me cry, how silly is that?

Getting into the court building was like entering an airport, bag searches and metal detectors, queues. The man in front of me kept fishing things from his pockets, going through the metal detector, setting it off and then emptying more things from various pieces of attire. I wondered what he didn't understand about 'emptying pockets' in the first place. Eventually he was relieved of a small pen knife which he had to leave behind the security barrier. At least being a spectator had taken my mind off the proceedings. As I ascended the marble stairs I looked back to see Husband waiting in the queue for security.

We never intended to go to court. We had done all we could to avoid it in fact. We had been brought to court today by a judge who wouldn't sign our consent order.

In September we agreed terms, not equal, but almost. I wanted it over and wasn't prepared to spend more money and time quibbling through the courts. The solicitors drew up the agreement and sent it to the judge to approve. He sent it back saying it was not a fair split, no pension rights. Twice we returned it, assuring the judge it was what we wanted. During this time, months of it, my lease was getting close to the end of it's time. It became more urgent to get a settlement.

In the court room today the judge provided no preamble. As soon as we were seated he proclaimed that he was not going to pass the order. I put my head in my hands, Husband looked pale. The judge repeated this several times, both solicitors trying to say that we were all in agreement but no, he was not here' to rubber stamp' the order we had agreed on.

I was waiting for him to speak to me. He did not. All of a sudden I could hold back no more. Don't ask me what I said, I can't remember now, but it was heartfelt, said through tears and said with conviction. We had agreed, nothing would change my mind. Whatever I said, it convinced him. He signed it, we were free. Almost.

Fifteen minutes in court, seemed like a lifetime. As we left the room the  whole thing seemed very surreal. I turned to husband and we hugged. We had both suffered the stress and tension. He turns 60 next year, his pensions will ensure he can have a reasonable lifestyle while his children grow up. It is important, to us both.

'I was going to text you this morning' He said in my ear 'Parsnip' I laughed, and cried together. It was a joke, from long ago, that's the trouble with knowing the same person for a long time. We have so much history.
'You ok?' I ask
'Need a drink' he says.
Our solicitors look on amused. You'd probably not have guessed, as an outsider, that we had just ended our marriage, the decree absolute only weeks away...

THE day...

Court tomorrow, please let it be over soon.

On the more comical side of things, apparently a lorry blew over today on the M60. Not funny in itself at all, but I did think about Tall Girl and her worry about the bus falling over in the wind. Not so silly after all. I hope she doesn't see it on the news, or I'll never get her to school in the morning.

A windy morning, a stormy night in fact and a little wan voice calls from the top of the stairs in the gloomy half light that is just before 7am.

It is Tall Girl, it is Friday morning, and she knows I am not going to work. In her head this means she doesn't have to go to school. I need her to go to school, I can't rest in the house unless it's empty. A luxury to have an empty house. I feel selfish, for a moment. Then I pull myself together, there is nothing wrong with her and she needs to go to school.

'I can't hear you' I shout up the stairs to her. She comes down. 'What did you say?' I ask
'Is it too windy to go to school?' She whines
Too windy to go to school? I laugh, probably not the right response.
'The bus might blow over' she exclaims.
Bless, she really does hate the wind. I wonder whether to have a talk about forces, gravity and the fact that Double Decker buses are heavy at the bottom. I decided against.

She sat sulkily at the breakfast table, a well practised stance often used to make mummy's guilty in the morning for being heartless enough to insist that school was a place where you should be.

Gradually we managed to get the whole morning routine rolling slowly but surely towards the point of leaving the house.
'Don't worry' I tell her as I kiss her good bye at the door 'If it's too windy the buses won't run'
I have my fingers crosses behind my back!

Small Sprogs derision!

I have managed to get a job done that has been bothering me for ages. It is always a relief to get things done that are haunting you, in this case my filing! I had a sort of system, it was called 'Putting all the stuff into one drawer and forgetting it'! It worked quite well in as much as I knew where everything was, it just took an age to find one piece of paper in the midst of hundreds.

Anyway I took the bull by the horns one evening and started to put neat piles on the carpet all around me. Small Sprog was watching TV and could see me from the sitting room.

After a while curiosity got the better of him. He looked about. I had more or less emptied the drawer and the piles were strewn across the landing and up the stairs. 'What are you doing?' He asked in his best disdainful voice.
'My filing' I said to him 'I'm having a tidy up'.
He surveyed the chaos. 'And how's that going for you?' He replied.
Cheeky little ******!

The last few days...

My friend and I talked things over. It was good to talk.

On Monday I handed in my notice for one of my jobs. I feel I can no longer cope. I still travel the 90 miles round trip to see Mum when I finish work. She thinks it does me good to sit and do nothing at her house. In reality it adds to the stress, too much to do, not enough time. I leave her at 7.15 in order to get to my book club at 8.15. My last task of the day. I really don't feel like going but my lovely friends have arranged it on a night that I am child free, so I feel I should attend. When I finally get home it is passed 10pm. I had left the house before 8am. I am shattered and know this is all the last straw.

The stress has reached my digestive system. Over the weekend I feel sick, can't eat, and when I do it doesn't stay long in my system. I phone the Doctor again and she signs me off work. It is a relief. I have used the time to sleep these last two days, I have slept between school runs and again at night. I am hungry for sleep.

Today I found out that I have lost the house I wanted to buy. Not a surprise really.

On the plus side I have a court date now, a week today. Several months too late! Maybe soon I can get on with my life. If the spring would just get on and arrive, perhaps things would look much better!

How has your week been so far?

Just fine

'It's muscular' the Dr reassured me after looking at my neck. Typically, at that moment, it was not as painful as it had been over the last month, so emphasising where it hurt and how it keeps me awake at night was hard and probably unconvincing.

No solution, was his diagnosis, stress related. 'Are you stressed?' He asked. I nod. He looks at me enquiringly.Over the last month I have repeated the list to myself so many times it comes out in a matter of fact way, the words tumble tonelessly from my mouth: 'My lease runs out next month and I can't afford the rent if I renew it. Another 6 months rent would be a years worth of mortgage. My nearly ex husband has the money he owes me, which would enable me to buy a house I can afford but the solicitor won't let him give it to me. Meanwhile I may loose the new house. The judge insists we go to court but I can't afford to pay the fees. My temporary job ends in 7 weeks, I hate it but need the work. I hate it so much I feel like I have lost all the fun of living.'

I look at him, tears rolling down my cheeks involuntarily. My eyes leak often and readily these days. However the list is just a list. Nothing anyone can do and repeated in my head so often it appears before me like words read from a text book.

He says nothing. They don't make pills and potions for those sorts of problems. And anyway, I bet half his clientèle have the same problems or worse, most likely much worse.

I want to scream at him, beg him, 'Sign me of work please, because I don't think I can take any more' But I know I need to keep on working, being off sick will only make my working life more intolerable on my return. And then there's my 'time off and sick record' to worry about.

No solution then. I leave the consultation room and head for the toilet to dry my eyes and compose myself, Small Sprog is in the waiting room, sitting patiently. I don't want him to see me upset. In a moment I will meet him with a smile and a 'Shall we go now?' and up he will jump and follow me out of the surgery. 

And so life goes on. We go through the motions, the everyday routine, practised and guarded, no one would ever know...

These days my life is so busy I don't seem to see anyone else I can talk to and it doesn't seem right to burden friends. But sometimes the burden squashes in on me. I pick up the phone tonight to call Mum but when she answers I know she is busy by her tone. 'Not to worry' I sooth 'Just phoning up to see how you are' She tells me briefly how she is, but needs to return to her visitor. She asks how I am. 'Oh I'm just fine' I say 'Just fine'

Eleven Years

Eleven years ago tomorrow I gave birth to the light in my life. As he came out I remember the nurse saying to the student 'Mind his ear!' as they cut the cord that was around his neck. He has been in many scrapes since then.

There was no suffering after his birth, no depression that I was so afraid would haunt me again as it had after the previous birth. He was beautiful, born with a sunny nature. I loved him, love him still. My Small Man, I love him so much it hurts sometimes.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SMALL SPROG!

Unhappy

I know I should be writing a grateful list, and I am truly grateful for so many things, but during these last few weeks I have found that the negative thoughts have taken over. Perhaps it's the time of year, or the economic climate. Perhaps it's the sudden realisation that financially I am alone.

On New Years Eve I had too much time to think. I mentally reviewed the last two years, new year always makes me reflective. Since then I have been tearful and I can't seem to get out of it. Quite often I'm feeling under the weather, but not enough to stop. If only I could stop.

Work has been fractious, with abusive children, fighting teenagers and, in another job, a small boy who refuses to do anything that he is asked to to. I feel tired before I get to work, by the end I'm exhausted. I am forgetting things, simple things like which words to use. It's a little frightening. Normally I can cope, but not recently.

Tomorrow I am looking at a house to buy, soon I need to move but there is still no sight of the settlement. On one hand I am counting the weeks until my temporary job ends, 10 in all, and on the other by then my lease will have run out. I have no cash to buy us a home and once my temporary job finishes my working tax credits will stop until I can find more work. Finding work is becoming increasingly difficult. I need my working tax credits to afford the mortgage I want. It seems an endless circle of things just not happening in the right order. Sometimes it doesn't seem too unreasonable to ask for a break does it? Just a little, very little small one, just this once?

If the cash came through next week things might look better. But I fear, even if it did, it will not dispel the blues now.

A Small Sprogism

Small Sprog watches his sisters teen DVDs through is fingers when kissing is involved; he really isn't impressed with all that kissing lark. However he almost got more than he bargained for when, whilst playing games on line, he clicked on a link. Hmmm, a new game he thought. He was telling me this in the car on the way to an evening event at his sisters school.
'But you'll never guess what Mummy?' He says in a most indignant way
'What?' I reply, trying to keep my eyes on the traffic.
'It wasn't a new game at all and I'm not going there again' I became a little worried, where had he 'been' in the virtual world?
'What was it then, if it wasn't a game?' I braced myself
'It was one of those ''mating''sites' He shuddered at the thought
'Mating sites?' I said with slight panic, then it suddenly dawned on me, and Tall Girl at the same time. Dating sites is what he meant, we roared with laughter at his utter disgust!
Dating not mating? Or perhaps he was right after all.