Green Fingers

"So then," says Younger Dad, "the garden is your responsibility, I will mow the lawn."

"Oh," I replied.

My fingers certainly aren't in cahoots with the earth. No, definitely not green. I don't enjoy the gritty sensation of soil particles under my nails. The idea of worms wrapping around my fingers. Slug spittle gobbed on stems.

I can't remember the last time I had a garden. I think it was nine years ago. Brambles and nettles. Nettles and brambles. Before that? My home of origin. Sycamore trees. Bluebells. Fat peonies.

When I surveyed our new garden, all I saw was a massive tangle of overgrown weeds. When was the last time this poor garden received care and attention? The previous owners had let it go somewhat, the scene before me mirroring my dark chocolate habit...

Out. Of. Control.

Creeping buttercups - advancing armies of assaulting yellow - choked the flower beds, attacked the gravel pathway. Gangs of dandelions glared with 'what'ya look'in at luv' malicious intent. Tall green villains bullied the remaining shrubs maybe once planted with an 'English garden' vision in mind.

Tools were bought. A pokey prodder thing. A shovel thing. A fork thing. Little A had her very own yellow bucket and blue watering can. Then a week ago, project weed began in earnest. I donned my gardening gloves and began uprooting the green invasion with fervent abandon, hacking away a few feet every day. And while my hands dug in, pulling out wiry white roots, dismantling the intruding infrastructures, Little A collected snails in her bucket, named the ants crawling around her ankles, made brave attempts climbing the silver birch.

And then I made a delightful discovery. One that took me by surprise.

It turns out I love gardening. 

And it works wonders for PMS.

My gardening gloves grew holes. And I didn't mind the crumbs of earth that fell inside. Or the worms my flowered-fabric fingers touched. As each unwanted weed was thrown in the bucket, another bad thought was tossed away. Turning the soil grounded the hot coals in my toes. Cool, calming, stable earth.

The flower beds are now cleared. The soil, dry and naked. A big shop at the gardening centre beckons.

I can't wait.

So far, I have placed the gift of a lavender tree beside the garden fence, planted French lavender papillon - their feathery heads like Native American head dress, potted burgeoning tomato and courgette plants.

Next week, Little A's Jack-and-the-Beanstalk sunflower will find a new home in the borders.

#One Week - Spring '13 - A Few Warm Days

When I was a child, I would save my stash of best and favourite sweets until last - a bag of sherbet, a curly wurly, half-melted maltesers - so they wouldn't run out, that I would have an endless supply hiding under my bed. Even as a fully-fledged adult, I like to take my time over a baked vanilla cheesecake or strawberry crumble soaked in custard - the very, very last mouthful waiting on the plate until I am completely ready, my taste buds on full alert for that final bite.

And this is how I feel spring has treated us this year. She has saved her best until last - these first days of June, the curly wurly, that last morsel of crumble. After all the mood swings, she has finally blessed us with sunshine. It's lifted my spirits. It's improving my complexion. I'm feeling creative - the fingers made for writing have even weeded the garden this week!

Spring has been a heady cocktail of change and movement. A new home and a new pre-school. And I couldn't be happier for Younger Dad, Little A and I. Apart from re-plumbing the entire kitchen sink and the half-functioning hob and the bathroom leek and the fridge freezer exhaling one last breath, I so love... love... love... living here. Moving house was full of hiccups but the journey well worth the extra sliver hairs. Still, I would rather not repeat the process for a long, long time.



And through all the sorting and clearing and mending and refurbishing, I have managed to make time for my second love, my writing. My words are beginning to bloom. I have made great inroads with my novel, Four Gigs, having now written around sixteen thousand words, and I have decided to attend The Festival of Writing in York this coming September. I can't quite believe the path that blogging has led me down. It's amazing. It really, truly is.

When I thought the going couldn't get any better, I found myself shortlisted as a semi-finalist in the Britmums in Brilliance Awards (BiBs), and have been asked to read this post at the blogger's key note speech at the end of the conference. What an honour! I am so excited. I am so nervous. And I feel for those 500 attendees who will suffer my personal slaughter of Happy Birthday. Marilyn Monroe I am not.

Bring your ear plugs...

I never thought I would hear myself say it, but I am glad this windy, soggy spring is behind us. 

Summer is thankfully on our doorstep. The longest day nearly upon us. 

The Pimms, the BBQ's, the holidays. Wimbledon, strawberries, green salads. 

And over the weeks of July and August I am slowing the blog down - taking a break - as I need to concentrate on the novel. 

I am looking forward to a long, lazy, slow summer. Are you? 

This is the final day of the seasonal linky One Week. I wanted to say a big, big thank you to all those lovely bloggers who joined in, and those who commented, and tweeted, in support of this project.

One Week will hopefully return this summer. Get your cameras at the ready and imaginative hats on! The date planned - 9-13 September - is sandwiched between a week away and the writing festival. I am considering either leaving it, or just running the linky over a couple of days instead of the usual five. 

For more details about One Week, take a gander here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days...

Badge Code ...

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#One Week - Spring '13 - Make a Wish

Oh Man-in-the-tree, Man-in-the-tree, it's time to open your eyes.

To stop sleeping.

Look it's here. All around.

Daffodils. Tulips. Forget-me-nots.

"It's been the coldest spring in 50 years," you say.

"But.. But.. if you just open your eyes the sunshine will come," I reply.

"Huh," you grumble, and turn away.

Easter Bunny. Easter Bunny. 

You came! You came!

Little A believes in you. (I wish I could too).

She found your treasure on the lawn, wedged in branches, hidden in garden urns.

Thump your hind legs together.

Make it go away.

The icy down pours, the frost, the north easterly winds.

"There is nothing I can do, be patient,"  she says.      

Oh Dandelion clock, Dandelion clock, you are my final hope.

You have flowered and gone to seed.

Let me help you spread your wings.

"Make a wish," you say.

Short, sharp puffs. 

Upside down umbrellas drifting on a shush of a breeze.

My wish.

Summer come. Summer come. Summer come.

I am still wearing my winter coat and winter jumpers. I am still eating casseroles and pasta. I am still tired and lazy. Little A still sloshes in her wellington boots, walks to nursery in wet drizzle, wears a pair of gloves in-doors.

There are the lighter evenings. That's good. We've had a BBQ. That's good too.

The Mini Milks - vanilla, strawberry, chocolate - have all been demolished.

But I can't help thinking the tide is turning. Cooler, wetter springs and summers. Dry, milder winters. Maybe I should save the bucket and spade and shades for the autumn?

I remember the springs of my youth. Snow men in April. A flurry in June.

Though some thing is different this time. I feel it in my bones.

Do you think the consequences of global warming are now taking effect?


This is the fourth day of the seasonal linky One Week. Until Friday, I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of spring '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

Badge Code ...

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#One Week - Spring '13 - Red Cheeks

There's a little girl swinging next to Little A. They've been playing together for the last half hour.

She looks at me, backwards and forwards, wide-eyed and curious. Then she turns to her daddy...

"She's got red things on her cheeks."  

Daddy shuffles, he's on the spot, a silent smile appeasing his daughter's enquiring mind.

He doesn't answer. We both know what she's talking about.

It cannot, must not be mentioned.

I wonder if he will explain when I'm not within earshot. I think I would.

I have Little A in a hip hold in my arms. She's observing me intently.

"Your cheeks are always red," she says.

And this spring it's bothered me.

The comments. The earnest observations.

I touch both cheeks and feel tiny raised bumps. I think of those tidal worm hills on waterlogged sand. I wish I could crush mine with a foot.

I can still see the ruddy patches in the dim yellow glow of the bedside light, and I frown at my reflection in the opposite mirror.

I have an archipelago of red islands on the east and the west hemispheres of my face.

Two constellations of deep pink stars.

Spotified.

Some are paired like ball room dancers, waltzing over my pores.

What caused it? Was it the end of breastfeeding? The Bobby Brown foundation? The Ponds cleanser? A limited diet? Lack of air and exercise? Not enough water? Am I over cleansing? Under cleansing?

I just don't know.

And they won't go away. They are melded into the landscape.

Maybe it's middle age leaking out. I have noticed hot flushes, they arrive with the morning post. And the hormones, the pendulum swing of my moods.

Or maybe it's anger painting itself?

Could someone give me an answer?

I thought life began at forty.

Instead, I am reliving my teenage years.

This is the third day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next few days (until Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of spring '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

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#One Week - Spring '13 - Waiting

Where are you?

I'm waiting. 

Days and days and weeks and weeks.

But nothing.

I see you in the soil.

Purples and blues.

White lampshades lighting your way.

I hear you in the trees.

The warm prooo prooo of the wood pigeon.

A welcoming call.

You elude flower and leaf and birdsong.

You sing a melancholy verse.

Of rain and hail and snow. 

Sometimes you dive through the grey.

A quick hello.

Then away. 

I wonder if you've given up.

Had enough.

Can't be bothered.

I worry you're changing.

What did I do to upset you so?

You were consistent and generous.

You wore a smile.

I know what you're going to say.

'It's not you it's me.'

I'm sorry.

Please come back.

Please.

This is the second day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next few days (until Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of spring '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

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<a href="http://older-mum.blogspot.co.uk/p/one-week.html" title="One Week"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8436/7807711152_5f912c7903_m.jpg" width="225" height="169" alt="one week" /></a>

#One Week - Spring '13 - Park Life (the return)

We left our wobbly bench behind.

Along with memories of soggy sandwiches and browned apple slices.

The wobbly bench was our special bench in our very local park.

By the time the removal fan pulled away from the curb, the wobbly bench no longer wobbled, stapled into resurfaced tarmac with four large nails. It wouldn't budge. Not an inch.

And then we found a new bench.

In a brand new park.



And this new park is a hop and a skip from our new home.

It trumps the old one.

There is a bouncy trampoline. I have tested it. It's adult proof. And big, big slides. And wooden Robinson Crusoe climbing frames. And sand. Lots and lots of sand. Swings. A tunnel. A hammock.

And a wooden seesaw, the seats carved into dragon's heads. A bucket on a solid silver chain for hoisting sand. Lots and lots of sand. A small wooden table and chairs for a teddy bears picnic.

But something has changed.

It's her.

No more games of Piggy and Bunny. Or Mummy Shark and Baby Shark.

"I'm a big girl now."

Always a 'big girl.'

She tears away from me.

"I'm going on the biggest slide." "I'm going on the biggest climbing frame."

"Stop taking pictures of me!"

I love her independence. Her sense of self.

How sometimes she absolutely doesn't need me. She has new playmates now.

She sits and watches the older children swinging and climbing.

I can see it in her eyes, 'one day... one day...'

Six months on, she still address' Younger Dad and I by our first names.

No more 'Mummy'. No more 'Daddy'.

I don't think this is a phase. It's sticking and stuck.

And I kind of don't mind.


This is the first day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next five days (Monday till Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of spring '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

Badge Code ...

<a href="http://older-mum.blogspot.co.uk/p/one-week.html" title="One Week"><img src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8436/7807711152_5f912c7903_m.jpg" width="225" height="169" alt="one week" /></a>