Maybe I had too much hot chocolate. All that sugar.
Up. Up. Up.
Like a hot air balloon. Light headed and floating among angel clouds.
Excited. The anticipation. The expectation.
Will I make it? Will I see my name in lights?
I know what's going on though, this want of recognition. I am hoping this time they will take note.
It arrives.
The results are in.
I scroll down the page. My name. My name. Where's my name?
It's not there.
Two minutes ago I had wings, now I'm falling like a bomb.
But... but... but... all that hard work I did? All those colourful words I wrote?
Crestfallen. Disappointed.
And it takes me back to the nine to three and break times and the stiff grey uniform and being that girl the boy never fancied and red marker all over my carefully crafted work. A perennial B student. The middling to bottom streams. Unclassified in maths O'level. Unclassified in general studies.
One solitary A in English though. And captain of the lacrosse team.
Is competition - hot housed in those early years - a good or a bad thing?
I don't like the effect it has on me. Brings out the best and the worst.
But I'm not bitter. Absolutely not.
So pleased at how far I have come.
So grateful to be a part of this landscape of words and friendship and support.
If anything, it helpfully mirrored back my eternal motivation.
What lies beneath.
That after all these years, I am still trying to please mum and dad.
Showing posts with label bad hair day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad hair day. Show all posts
Friday, 24 May 2013
Thursday, 4 April 2013
Nothing and Everything
It was just one of those days. Where nothing and everything happened.
A day when a soothing pot of tea restored the equilibrium after the afternoon's fraught tears.
But the morning began at a snail's pace, frustratingly lazy, the gloomy smog of a head cold setting the dial of my day to red - to not do very much at all. Just chill.
"Little A, mummy is feeling very tired, let's snuggle on the sofa, I'll turn the TV on."
"Mummy, can you get me some dried cheerios in a bowl and a beaker of warm milk?"
"What's the magic word?"
"Please."
This is often the way, when Little A has woken in the middle of the night, not returning to her sleepy dream world until at least an hour later. And curled under the warmth of a duvet, Little A's hand resting on my crown, the theme tunes of Tilly and Friends and the Postman Pat wash over me, lulling me into a half slumber like the delicate sound of lapping water at high tide - the crunch crunch of my daughter's teeth on her breakfast cereal, the only prevention of my being pulled fully under.
We break fast at 10 am. I have my bowl of 'proper raspberry porridge', Little A - the hungry caterpillar - digests two bowls of cheerios, this time with whole milk, and a bowl of mummy-made nutella pear porridge. Then to feed my cold - unbelievably, Little A still isn't satiated - I toast some thickly cut slices of sourdough bread, generously spread with unsalted butter and mirabelle plum jam. Thoroughly delicious. After time spent colouring in, browsing social media, that extra cup of tea, our morning feast has finally reached it's conclusion.
It's 11.00 am.
In the shower I chide myself with guilty thoughts, I'm such a lazy mum, useless at getting on, other mothers are out and about by 8.00 am.
After such a slow start, the only remedy I can think of is to make the most of the rest of the day. Little A and I dress together in the main bedroom. I watch as she pulls on her red doggy top, flattening the blond hair against her head. She falls over on the bed mattress as her feet catch in her trousers. I rub my tummy with stretch mark cream before clothing myself in what feels like one fell swoop. Little A reads a book bundled in a duvet on the sofa while I methodically sort the dirty laundry from the clothes basket into piles - underwear, Little A's clothes, Younger Dad's shirts, my jumpers (Little A's clothes always take precedence in the washing machine).
At 12.00 pm we are ready for the big, wide world. Well the supermarket to be precise. And it's here, in the baby aisle, were the morning's peace somersaults into a pool of pandemonium. Splash.
"Mummy please can I have this skipping rope?"
"Well I guess I promised you a treat," as I inspect the object of my daughter's desires, turning it slowly around in my hand.
"Mummy can I have this toy car too?"
"Sweetheart, you can't have both - you will have to chose one or the other."
"I want both. I want both. I want both. Waaaaaah."
And so it begins. She shakes her head. She stamps her feet in frustration. She screams. She barricades herself in front of the trolley. I am forbidden to move. So I kneel down at her level, "You have to choose. I am sorry but you can't have both, now I have to finish the shopping, you decide which toy you want as we go around the aisles." Of course, the situation escalates, "but I want both, I want both mummy." I plough ahead with the formidable task of calmly continuing the shopping with a mini volcano following behind.
In dairy, she pulls and pushes against the trolley, tears flying from her angry blue eyes. In wholefoods she is violet with rage, screeching, wailing, channelling her fire into physical strikes against my right thigh. We find ourselves obstructed by a brown tower of stacked crates, and in turn we frustrate a lady behind us. As she passes I notice her severe silver bob, her strong jawline, her ankle length black coat, she's tall but stoops over her trolley. Could she be 75? I don't know but there is something rather resilient about her, clearly made of tough stuff. She reminds me of a hawkish buzzard or vulture. Then she stops, turns to me and says with her nose in the air, "look how angry she is, what an angry little girl, totally out of control, no discipline, you need to discipline her."
The stooping buzzard continues her shopping as if she's just handed me a bouquet of flowers. But I am rendered speechless. And I feel terribly mortified, totally judged and inept. Why do some people think it's acceptable to publicly judge a parent? It's like the modern day version of medieval stocks. Maybe they should hand out tomatoes and potatoes and cabbages so shoppers can lob them at will at unsuspecting mothers.
Little A continues her frustrated onslaught. I feel every eye in the supermarket. At both ends of the aisle I can see customers and shop assistants staring - some smiling sympathetically - in our direction. And then, like passing through the eye of a hurricane, the eerily calm centre of a storm, the tantrum simply stops.
"Mummy I want a cuddle," she says between quiet sobs,"can you put me back in the trolley?" With Little A fully cuddled, nestled in the plastic seat, I turn my back to her pretending to choose a bag of wheat free penne slumped on a shelf while hot self conscious tears roll down my face. I just can't let Little A see that I am crying. I try making a phone call to Younger Dad - sorry I can't take your call right now, leave a message and I'll get right back to you. Frustrated, I take few deep breaths, and a few more still, and one final breath to steady myself. I'm ready to take on frozen foods.
"Little A, I have come to a decision," as I place the petits pois on top of the pork, "because you lashed out at me, and the trolley, you won't be getting any treats this afternoon. And when we get home you are going on the thinking cushion."
"But mummy, but mummy, I want the skipping rope. Waaaaaah."
And so it begins again. The storm continuing apace. I calmly wheel Little A to the baby aisle and place the skipping rope back on the shelf. And then I calmly wheel the trolley to a small checkout queue, my face parked in neutral.
"Look at you - I feel just like that when I shop at M&S," A kind voice interjects behind my back, and it has the effect of slowing down Little A's latest tirade - her shyness dampening the blaze.
I turn around to face a warm presence. Her cheeks are ruddy from tiny broken veins. In her hat she wears a miniature fresh daffodil. She's dressed head to foot in green and brown. A mother hen. And then she says something that's so reassuring, so comforting, that administers an antidote, some happy medicine for the earlier poisonous criticism,
"You're doing a brilliant job mummy, keep it up."
And I wanted to hug her. To say thank you, oh thank you, thank you once again.
I don't think she'll ever realise how much she made my day.
How did you handle a public meltdown?
Have you been publicly criticised for your parenting?
If you enjoy reading Older Mum in a Muddle, please spare a thought for me in the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards - The BIBS - there are sixteen great categories to chose from but I think I'm best placed in the writers category. You can click on the badge below to take you through to the nomination form on the Britmums page - there's only one week left to nominate..... Thank you! X.
A day when a soothing pot of tea restored the equilibrium after the afternoon's fraught tears.
But the morning began at a snail's pace, frustratingly lazy, the gloomy smog of a head cold setting the dial of my day to red - to not do very much at all. Just chill.
"Little A, mummy is feeling very tired, let's snuggle on the sofa, I'll turn the TV on."
"Mummy, can you get me some dried cheerios in a bowl and a beaker of warm milk?"
"What's the magic word?"
"Please."
This is often the way, when Little A has woken in the middle of the night, not returning to her sleepy dream world until at least an hour later. And curled under the warmth of a duvet, Little A's hand resting on my crown, the theme tunes of Tilly and Friends and the Postman Pat wash over me, lulling me into a half slumber like the delicate sound of lapping water at high tide - the crunch crunch of my daughter's teeth on her breakfast cereal, the only prevention of my being pulled fully under.
We break fast at 10 am. I have my bowl of 'proper raspberry porridge', Little A - the hungry caterpillar - digests two bowls of cheerios, this time with whole milk, and a bowl of mummy-made nutella pear porridge. Then to feed my cold - unbelievably, Little A still isn't satiated - I toast some thickly cut slices of sourdough bread, generously spread with unsalted butter and mirabelle plum jam. Thoroughly delicious. After time spent colouring in, browsing social media, that extra cup of tea, our morning feast has finally reached it's conclusion.
It's 11.00 am.
In the shower I chide myself with guilty thoughts, I'm such a lazy mum, useless at getting on, other mothers are out and about by 8.00 am.
After such a slow start, the only remedy I can think of is to make the most of the rest of the day. Little A and I dress together in the main bedroom. I watch as she pulls on her red doggy top, flattening the blond hair against her head. She falls over on the bed mattress as her feet catch in her trousers. I rub my tummy with stretch mark cream before clothing myself in what feels like one fell swoop. Little A reads a book bundled in a duvet on the sofa while I methodically sort the dirty laundry from the clothes basket into piles - underwear, Little A's clothes, Younger Dad's shirts, my jumpers (Little A's clothes always take precedence in the washing machine).
At 12.00 pm we are ready for the big, wide world. Well the supermarket to be precise. And it's here, in the baby aisle, were the morning's peace somersaults into a pool of pandemonium. Splash.
"Mummy please can I have this skipping rope?"
"Well I guess I promised you a treat," as I inspect the object of my daughter's desires, turning it slowly around in my hand.
"Mummy can I have this toy car too?"
"Sweetheart, you can't have both - you will have to chose one or the other."
"I want both. I want both. I want both. Waaaaaah."
And so it begins. She shakes her head. She stamps her feet in frustration. She screams. She barricades herself in front of the trolley. I am forbidden to move. So I kneel down at her level, "You have to choose. I am sorry but you can't have both, now I have to finish the shopping, you decide which toy you want as we go around the aisles." Of course, the situation escalates, "but I want both, I want both mummy." I plough ahead with the formidable task of calmly continuing the shopping with a mini volcano following behind.
In dairy, she pulls and pushes against the trolley, tears flying from her angry blue eyes. In wholefoods she is violet with rage, screeching, wailing, channelling her fire into physical strikes against my right thigh. We find ourselves obstructed by a brown tower of stacked crates, and in turn we frustrate a lady behind us. As she passes I notice her severe silver bob, her strong jawline, her ankle length black coat, she's tall but stoops over her trolley. Could she be 75? I don't know but there is something rather resilient about her, clearly made of tough stuff. She reminds me of a hawkish buzzard or vulture. Then she stops, turns to me and says with her nose in the air, "look how angry she is, what an angry little girl, totally out of control, no discipline, you need to discipline her."
The stooping buzzard continues her shopping as if she's just handed me a bouquet of flowers. But I am rendered speechless. And I feel terribly mortified, totally judged and inept. Why do some people think it's acceptable to publicly judge a parent? It's like the modern day version of medieval stocks. Maybe they should hand out tomatoes and potatoes and cabbages so shoppers can lob them at will at unsuspecting mothers.
Little A continues her frustrated onslaught. I feel every eye in the supermarket. At both ends of the aisle I can see customers and shop assistants staring - some smiling sympathetically - in our direction. And then, like passing through the eye of a hurricane, the eerily calm centre of a storm, the tantrum simply stops.
"Mummy I want a cuddle," she says between quiet sobs,"can you put me back in the trolley?" With Little A fully cuddled, nestled in the plastic seat, I turn my back to her pretending to choose a bag of wheat free penne slumped on a shelf while hot self conscious tears roll down my face. I just can't let Little A see that I am crying. I try making a phone call to Younger Dad - sorry I can't take your call right now, leave a message and I'll get right back to you. Frustrated, I take few deep breaths, and a few more still, and one final breath to steady myself. I'm ready to take on frozen foods.
"Little A, I have come to a decision," as I place the petits pois on top of the pork, "because you lashed out at me, and the trolley, you won't be getting any treats this afternoon. And when we get home you are going on the thinking cushion."
"But mummy, but mummy, I want the skipping rope. Waaaaaah."
And so it begins again. The storm continuing apace. I calmly wheel Little A to the baby aisle and place the skipping rope back on the shelf. And then I calmly wheel the trolley to a small checkout queue, my face parked in neutral.
"Look at you - I feel just like that when I shop at M&S," A kind voice interjects behind my back, and it has the effect of slowing down Little A's latest tirade - her shyness dampening the blaze.
I turn around to face a warm presence. Her cheeks are ruddy from tiny broken veins. In her hat she wears a miniature fresh daffodil. She's dressed head to foot in green and brown. A mother hen. And then she says something that's so reassuring, so comforting, that administers an antidote, some happy medicine for the earlier poisonous criticism,
"You're doing a brilliant job mummy, keep it up."
And I wanted to hug her. To say thank you, oh thank you, thank you once again.
I don't think she'll ever realise how much she made my day.
How did you handle a public meltdown?
Have you been publicly criticised for your parenting?
If you enjoy reading Older Mum in a Muddle, please spare a thought for me in the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards - The BIBS - there are sixteen great categories to chose from but I think I'm best placed in the writers category. You can click on the badge below to take you through to the nomination form on the Britmums page - there's only one week left to nominate..... Thank you! X.
Sunday, 24 March 2013
Snowed Under
It's time for a spring clean - ironic really, given the snow flurrying outside, that I'm wearing an extra pair of bed socks, an additional woollen maternity cardigan hanging over my stripey jumper.
Should it really be like this at the end of March? Younger Dad doesn't seem to think so. But I can still remember the long, extended, snowy winters of my childhood - the 1970's - white Easters with big fat wet flakes settling on the lawn, hiding the purple crocuses, confusing the migrated birds - home from sunnier climes.
And so to the clean up.... not my wardrobe, or Little A's toys, or Younger Dad's pile of Which magazines, but my on line mail. For the last year or so, I've woken to the bold black list of numerous unread emails choking my inbox, a stress inducing sight first thing in the morning - How many are there to read today? Where will I find the time? - over a-would-be calming bowl of porridge (with added fruit). But today I completed the changes I've been making over the last few days - there will be no more posts raining on my yahoo account screaming READ ME, READ ME. I love the blogs I've subscribed to but it was becoming overwhelming - like piles and piles of homework. So I've moved all my reading over to Blog Lovin - please don't be offended if you see I've unsubscribed to you, I'm now enjoying your posts over there.
This evening my inbox was like a freshly mown lawn, trimmed and tidy. Now I just need to deal with the few unexpected weeds - those requests from PR's and marketers asking for endless plugs that are totally at odds with the theme of my blog. Can you see 'How to Improve Your Financial Savings' nestling along side Once Upon a Time and One Week? No. Neither can I.
And that, sadly, apart from two delightful evenings spent in lovely female company, has been the highlight of my week. My inbox. You see, I'm stressed at the moment - very stressed. I've taken to resting as much as I can for a mummy and eating one too many M&S chocolaty bites. The house move is taking it's toll, and there has been other unfortunate news too. The move was set to take place the beginning of April but the date of completion is slipping ever in the wrong direction. And we are in the dark as to what is happening further up the chain - Have their mortgages been fully approved? Have all the surveys been completed? Our seller's solicitor is being vague with our solicitor, our buyers worry we are going to pull out, we are stressing the same of them, our seller is being unnervingly quiet - I think she's stalling, I fret about the chain staying intact... and so it goes on and on.
I dearly want to move into our new home. I love the area we are relocating to - the family connections, the schools, the slower pace of life.
If the upper chain falls apart - please, no, no, no - we have decided to sell our flat, up sticks, and rent in Croxley Green. In the meantime, if the completion date moves beyond the 12th April, I will be ferrying Little A forty minutes back and forth to her new pre-school - I've already decided I'm going to plant myself in the nearby library and write while my daughter paints and dresses up with her new friends.
I want to start sorting - organise those books that will go into storage, and the unread paperbacks that will sit on the bookshelves of our new home. I want to start packing, to hear the stretching sound of masking tape on cardboard as our memories are squeezed tightly within the boxes. Limbo. Limbo. Limbo.
Blimey, I'm wound up like a spring at the moment - which brings me back to today's unseasonal weather.
Spring - where are you? Please come soon. Come brighten up my day. Bring us hope and a house move with your sunshine. Please...
If you enjoy reading Older Mum in a Muddle, please spare a thought for me in the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards - The BIBS - there are sixteen great categories to chose from but I think I'm best placed in the writers category. You can click on the badge below to take you through to the nomination form on the Britmums page..... Thank you! X.
Should it really be like this at the end of March? Younger Dad doesn't seem to think so. But I can still remember the long, extended, snowy winters of my childhood - the 1970's - white Easters with big fat wet flakes settling on the lawn, hiding the purple crocuses, confusing the migrated birds - home from sunnier climes.
And so to the clean up.... not my wardrobe, or Little A's toys, or Younger Dad's pile of Which magazines, but my on line mail. For the last year or so, I've woken to the bold black list of numerous unread emails choking my inbox, a stress inducing sight first thing in the morning - How many are there to read today? Where will I find the time? - over a-would-be calming bowl of porridge (with added fruit). But today I completed the changes I've been making over the last few days - there will be no more posts raining on my yahoo account screaming READ ME, READ ME. I love the blogs I've subscribed to but it was becoming overwhelming - like piles and piles of homework. So I've moved all my reading over to Blog Lovin - please don't be offended if you see I've unsubscribed to you, I'm now enjoying your posts over there.
This evening my inbox was like a freshly mown lawn, trimmed and tidy. Now I just need to deal with the few unexpected weeds - those requests from PR's and marketers asking for endless plugs that are totally at odds with the theme of my blog. Can you see 'How to Improve Your Financial Savings' nestling along side Once Upon a Time and One Week? No. Neither can I.
And that, sadly, apart from two delightful evenings spent in lovely female company, has been the highlight of my week. My inbox. You see, I'm stressed at the moment - very stressed. I've taken to resting as much as I can for a mummy and eating one too many M&S chocolaty bites. The house move is taking it's toll, and there has been other unfortunate news too. The move was set to take place the beginning of April but the date of completion is slipping ever in the wrong direction. And we are in the dark as to what is happening further up the chain - Have their mortgages been fully approved? Have all the surveys been completed? Our seller's solicitor is being vague with our solicitor, our buyers worry we are going to pull out, we are stressing the same of them, our seller is being unnervingly quiet - I think she's stalling, I fret about the chain staying intact... and so it goes on and on.
I dearly want to move into our new home. I love the area we are relocating to - the family connections, the schools, the slower pace of life.
If the upper chain falls apart - please, no, no, no - we have decided to sell our flat, up sticks, and rent in Croxley Green. In the meantime, if the completion date moves beyond the 12th April, I will be ferrying Little A forty minutes back and forth to her new pre-school - I've already decided I'm going to plant myself in the nearby library and write while my daughter paints and dresses up with her new friends.
I want to start sorting - organise those books that will go into storage, and the unread paperbacks that will sit on the bookshelves of our new home. I want to start packing, to hear the stretching sound of masking tape on cardboard as our memories are squeezed tightly within the boxes. Limbo. Limbo. Limbo.
Blimey, I'm wound up like a spring at the moment - which brings me back to today's unseasonal weather.
Spring - where are you? Please come soon. Come brighten up my day. Bring us hope and a house move with your sunshine. Please...
If you enjoy reading Older Mum in a Muddle, please spare a thought for me in the Britmums Brilliance in Blogging Awards - The BIBS - there are sixteen great categories to chose from but I think I'm best placed in the writers category. You can click on the badge below to take you through to the nomination form on the Britmums page..... Thank you! X.
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Rude Word
It happened a little over a week ago. Little A was having some quiet time in her cot. I was slouched sloth-like on the nearby futon - the cover in dire need of a clean (toothpaste gets everywhere) - reading a book and trying to ignore the fact that the passing time was anything but peaceful. This was noisy time...
So Little A was role playing with an assortment of in-house cot teddies... There's Mother and Father and Kitty Cat and Rowena. It's the game she usually plays, and I give her cursory glances as I turn the pages of my novel, settling into the thread of the plot as my daughter mediates a dispute between her furry family....
"Be quiet you silly buggers!"
Now that word commands my attention. I sit up, decidedly unsloth-like, alert as a meerkat, shocked at the words spilling forth from Rowena's stitched mouth.
"Pardon? What did you just say?"
"Be quiet you silly buggers."
"We don't say the word bugger. Where did you learn it from?"
"Saffron at nursery said it."
"I don't think she did. That's not a nice word."
"Silly buggers. Silly buggers. Silly buggers."
"Little A, I'm warning you..."
"Are you going to put me on the thinking cushion mummy?" She asks, her eyes goading, full of mischief.
"Don't tempt me Little A," as I wrestle every muscle intent on pulling 'the poker face' into a smile. This, I realise with eagle eyed clarity, is when a mother undoubtedly needs botox.
I'm treading on a knife's edge here. I mustn't laugh. I cannot collude with the rapscallion's behaviour. Secretly though, I'm on her side. This is hilarious. I love the way she articulates bugger with such phonetic roundness. And where did she learn it from? Not me surely? Soap hasn't been within an inch of my mouth apart from the aftermath of the ladder incident - but that was just a one off, a rogue island amidst a daily sea of well mannered diction...(honestly)
"Buggers."
"RIGHT! TO THE THINKING CUSHION!"
And after a tearful stint on the cushion that-must-not-be-named, Little A apologises for her rueful choice of words. And then there was no more of that word.
Until yesterday teatime...
Little A was playing witches and mermaids with a plastic IKEA knife and fork as I finished the scraps from her sheep-cow-pig themed plastic plate.
"Silly buggers," she mutters under her breath.
"Er, Little A, what did you say?"
"It wasn't me mummy, it was the sea witch."
"Really? I didn't think forks could talk."
"And it was my little finger too," waggling a small digit at me.
Little A smiles at her cleverness, her fait accompli at having accused both a fork and a finger of language most foul.
And I am stumped.
Do I draw attention to her words and make a meal out of it with sessions on the thinking cushion? Or do I just ignore it?
Calling upon all mothers, how do you handle the situation if your wee innocent bairn swears?
I apologise for the language used in this post, it was Little A, not me. I have since added soap to the shopping list. And Younger Dad thinks she may have picked up that word from Granny of all people - Cussons for her next Christmas....
So Little A was role playing with an assortment of in-house cot teddies... There's Mother and Father and Kitty Cat and Rowena. It's the game she usually plays, and I give her cursory glances as I turn the pages of my novel, settling into the thread of the plot as my daughter mediates a dispute between her furry family....
"Be quiet you silly buggers!"
Now that word commands my attention. I sit up, decidedly unsloth-like, alert as a meerkat, shocked at the words spilling forth from Rowena's stitched mouth.
"Pardon? What did you just say?"
"Be quiet you silly buggers."
"We don't say the word bugger. Where did you learn it from?"
"Saffron at nursery said it."
"I don't think she did. That's not a nice word."
"Silly buggers. Silly buggers. Silly buggers."
"Little A, I'm warning you..."
"Are you going to put me on the thinking cushion mummy?" She asks, her eyes goading, full of mischief.
"Don't tempt me Little A," as I wrestle every muscle intent on pulling 'the poker face' into a smile. This, I realise with eagle eyed clarity, is when a mother undoubtedly needs botox.
I'm treading on a knife's edge here. I mustn't laugh. I cannot collude with the rapscallion's behaviour. Secretly though, I'm on her side. This is hilarious. I love the way she articulates bugger with such phonetic roundness. And where did she learn it from? Not me surely? Soap hasn't been within an inch of my mouth apart from the aftermath of the ladder incident - but that was just a one off, a rogue island amidst a daily sea of well mannered diction...(honestly)
"Buggers."
"RIGHT! TO THE THINKING CUSHION!"
And after a tearful stint on the cushion that-must-not-be-named, Little A apologises for her rueful choice of words. And then there was no more of that word.
Until yesterday teatime...
Little A was playing witches and mermaids with a plastic IKEA knife and fork as I finished the scraps from her sheep-cow-pig themed plastic plate.
"Silly buggers," she mutters under her breath.
"Er, Little A, what did you say?"
"It wasn't me mummy, it was the sea witch."
"Really? I didn't think forks could talk."
"And it was my little finger too," waggling a small digit at me.
Little A smiles at her cleverness, her fait accompli at having accused both a fork and a finger of language most foul.
And I am stumped.
Do I draw attention to her words and make a meal out of it with sessions on the thinking cushion? Or do I just ignore it?
Calling upon all mothers, how do you handle the situation if your wee innocent bairn swears?
I apologise for the language used in this post, it was Little A, not me. I have since added soap to the shopping list. And Younger Dad thinks she may have picked up that word from Granny of all people - Cussons for her next Christmas....
Thursday, 8 November 2012
S.M.I.L.E.
Last week I decided upon a wee break from the blogosphere. And what did I fill the empty hours with? Well, playing nurse to a cranky little girl with a chest and ear infection, and bemoaning that I too had a blocked nose and spluttering cough. Maybe succumbing to a virus has been a blessing in disguise, as it meant an enforced break, to a degree, from this here blog.
So it's time to cheer away the Autumn sniffles, return to writing, and what better way than deliberating over the many silver linings from the past few days (and coming weekend).
Restyled, therefore I am. I really should have my haircut more often. A six month gap between visits to the local coiffeurs is a gap too long. As my hair flows beyond my shoulders, it's all too easy to tie it up in a knot and forget about the tangled growth. Ashamedly, and to the tut tutting from my late Grandmother, my scalp has rarely seen the tooth of a comb. So on Saturday, I removed the hair band, sat back with an out dated, over fingered magazine, and let the hairdresser sculpt my tresses. I never seem to finish the complimentary tea and Nice biscuit, my attention always seduced by the pages of Hello. Anyway, I was delighted with the results. Three inches taken off, my hair now bounces like a newborn lamb on a trampoline. A good hair cut always make me feel good, brand new, years younger. This morning, I dyed away the grey, and with that, all my neurotic worries about ageing, and my impending *cough* *cough* 42nd birthday wafted into the ether. Now all I need is a new pair of jeans (and tops, and jumpers, and shoes, and knickers)...
Blogging Conference. This Saturday I'm attending the Mumsnet Blogfest. It was a spur of the moment decision. I really, really enjoyed Britmums Live, and when I found that a number of my blogging buddies were going, I thought why the heck not? It's a date for me and my blog. And to anyone going, please hunt me down. I'm a very friendly, approachable sort of gal. I even have a nice S.M.I.L.E. Sold? I hope so! Additionally, I'm very much looking forward to meeting the faces behind some lovely new blogs I've had the pleasure of recently discovering; Grandad Came To Tea, The Pretty Good Life.
Novel Idea. I've had bursts of inspiration for tucking and tweaking some of the plot lines of my novel, Four Gigs. I find that it's really useful to let thoughts percolate in the background, and then ta daaa, my mind surprises me with improvements to the original story lines. I've also had a canny idea for developing my characters; a scrapbook on Pinterest. Instead of a lengthy exercise of cutting images from magazines, I like the idea of quickly collating all manner of character (facial, clothes, diet, hobbies), and location (streets, buildings, landmarks) details using a Pinterest board. I'm genuinely excited at how my imagination is shaping the story, how I find myself slipping into the shoes of my main protagonist, viewing the world as she does. I'm not ready to start the writing just yet, there's still some further research to do, but nevertheless, I'm raring to unleash my fingers on the keyboard...
To buggy or not to buggy. For nearly three years now I have pushed Little A around in a three wheeled Mountain Buggy. Given that I live in London and to my knowledge there are no mountains, in fact, not a whiff of a mole hill, I never thought this was the most practical choice of pram. I don't know why, but while I was pregnant, I handed over the most important decision on baby gear - the buggy - to Younger Dad and a battered copy of Which Magazine. I was hormonal. I was completely mad. But I wasn't totally wrong in trusting my husband's judgement either. The Mountain Buggy has been reliable, sturdy, fulfilled its purpose. It's also very, very heavy. This week though, there was a new arrival in our home. I am now the proud owner - thank you ebay - of a super folding, light weight Maclaren. At last, I can manage the crowds in Westfield. At last, I can tackle The Underground. At last, the escalator is no longer the enemy. At last, a whole new social panorama has opened to me.
A new blog. Last Friday spontaneity got the better of me, and I created The Adventures of Parsley Pug. It's a frivolous space for the sole aim of writing children's stories. Many, many moons ago, I conjured up the character, Parsley Pug, and Younger Dad has been pressing me to write the stories ever since. I doubt I will post that often, I don't expect many page views, but then I'm not that bothered, as this blog is personal, for me, my imagination, my sense of wonder, and fun.
One Week. This week, virus permitting, I've been gearing up for One Week, which begins next Monday. I've edited my photographs and somehow managed to pen a few words through the barricades of a fuggy head, tiredness and heaps of snotty tissues. So come to think of it, I haven't strictly had a break from blogging. Anyway, if you are at a loss for inspiration, please join in!
I'm linking up this post with Reasons To Be Cheerful, it's been a while!
So it's time to cheer away the Autumn sniffles, return to writing, and what better way than deliberating over the many silver linings from the past few days (and coming weekend).
Restyled, therefore I am. I really should have my haircut more often. A six month gap between visits to the local coiffeurs is a gap too long. As my hair flows beyond my shoulders, it's all too easy to tie it up in a knot and forget about the tangled growth. Ashamedly, and to the tut tutting from my late Grandmother, my scalp has rarely seen the tooth of a comb. So on Saturday, I removed the hair band, sat back with an out dated, over fingered magazine, and let the hairdresser sculpt my tresses. I never seem to finish the complimentary tea and Nice biscuit, my attention always seduced by the pages of Hello. Anyway, I was delighted with the results. Three inches taken off, my hair now bounces like a newborn lamb on a trampoline. A good hair cut always make me feel good, brand new, years younger. This morning, I dyed away the grey, and with that, all my neurotic worries about ageing, and my impending *cough* *cough* 42nd birthday wafted into the ether. Now all I need is a new pair of jeans (and tops, and jumpers, and shoes, and knickers)...
Blogging Conference. This Saturday I'm attending the Mumsnet Blogfest. It was a spur of the moment decision. I really, really enjoyed Britmums Live, and when I found that a number of my blogging buddies were going, I thought why the heck not? It's a date for me and my blog. And to anyone going, please hunt me down. I'm a very friendly, approachable sort of gal. I even have a nice S.M.I.L.E. Sold? I hope so! Additionally, I'm very much looking forward to meeting the faces behind some lovely new blogs I've had the pleasure of recently discovering; Grandad Came To Tea, The Pretty Good Life.
Novel Idea. I've had bursts of inspiration for tucking and tweaking some of the plot lines of my novel, Four Gigs. I find that it's really useful to let thoughts percolate in the background, and then ta daaa, my mind surprises me with improvements to the original story lines. I've also had a canny idea for developing my characters; a scrapbook on Pinterest. Instead of a lengthy exercise of cutting images from magazines, I like the idea of quickly collating all manner of character (facial, clothes, diet, hobbies), and location (streets, buildings, landmarks) details using a Pinterest board. I'm genuinely excited at how my imagination is shaping the story, how I find myself slipping into the shoes of my main protagonist, viewing the world as she does. I'm not ready to start the writing just yet, there's still some further research to do, but nevertheless, I'm raring to unleash my fingers on the keyboard...
To buggy or not to buggy. For nearly three years now I have pushed Little A around in a three wheeled Mountain Buggy. Given that I live in London and to my knowledge there are no mountains, in fact, not a whiff of a mole hill, I never thought this was the most practical choice of pram. I don't know why, but while I was pregnant, I handed over the most important decision on baby gear - the buggy - to Younger Dad and a battered copy of Which Magazine. I was hormonal. I was completely mad. But I wasn't totally wrong in trusting my husband's judgement either. The Mountain Buggy has been reliable, sturdy, fulfilled its purpose. It's also very, very heavy. This week though, there was a new arrival in our home. I am now the proud owner - thank you ebay - of a super folding, light weight Maclaren. At last, I can manage the crowds in Westfield. At last, I can tackle The Underground. At last, the escalator is no longer the enemy. At last, a whole new social panorama has opened to me.
A new blog. Last Friday spontaneity got the better of me, and I created The Adventures of Parsley Pug. It's a frivolous space for the sole aim of writing children's stories. Many, many moons ago, I conjured up the character, Parsley Pug, and Younger Dad has been pressing me to write the stories ever since. I doubt I will post that often, I don't expect many page views, but then I'm not that bothered, as this blog is personal, for me, my imagination, my sense of wonder, and fun.
One Week. This week, virus permitting, I've been gearing up for One Week, which begins next Monday. I've edited my photographs and somehow managed to pen a few words through the barricades of a fuggy head, tiredness and heaps of snotty tissues. So come to think of it, I haven't strictly had a break from blogging. Anyway, if you are at a loss for inspiration, please join in!
Now that was a shameless plug!
I'm linking up this post with Reasons To Be Cheerful, it's been a while!
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
Season(s) of Motherhood
The other afternoon, I found myself quietly watching and wondering from the rectangular frame of Little A's bedroom window. Her room resides at the back of our flat. The window looks out onto the neighbouring street lined with cars, fallen leaves, and the half eaten rejects, the only visible clues, of stringy, malnourished foxes. I enjoy looking out of this window. I love the simple past time of watching people go about their day. I just hope that no one spots my voyeuristic curiosities as they pass thirty feet below.
On this particular afternoon I view mothers and minders pushing rain coat laden buggies, frowning and smiling by turns, hurrying dawdling toddlers on yet another school run. The local 'old boy' is carrying far too many shopping bags than his stooping back will allow. Over the road two parents are unburdening their car of two dogs, three children, and a weathered buggy. This family have always intrigued me. Both parents work, and I assume are doing 'well', as they have not one but two live in nannies. Their children, all under five, are very close in age. Their little boy is only weeks older then Little A - I can remember his mother stepping out of the backseat, hobbling towards the front door, with the tell tale infant carrier in hand, my thoughts focusing on the scene - how this could be me in the days to come.
My eyes search the top of the road where it meets the main thoroughfare, commuter traffic quarrels, buses hum, cyclists roll by. Then my gaze is robbed by the trees. Their tops are painted in splashes of fiery colour that seem at odds with the seamless green below, like a hairdresser has dyed one half of his client's head. I am clearly reminded that it is Autumn, the season of reduction, that nature is effortlessly undressing herself, while I remain the same, untouched by transformation, fully clothed in yesterdays foliage. Is Autumn really here? Where's it all gone? What have I been doing?
Sometimes, I feel stuck in the same season. It's not Spring or Summer. They imply newness and life. It can't be Autumn. Too much colour. Too much change. That only leaves Winter. Motionless, never ending Winter. Days and weeks can feel like an undying loop of 'same'; same breakfast, same games, same park(s), same casseroles, same shopping list, same clothes line... I try to find sparks in the mundane detail, "look at that bright yellow car over there Little A", "let's go collect some leaves today," "does the dinosaur hamster live in that bush?" I do my very best to add colour to the daily routine; I play the googly eyed monster, I play giddy up horsey, I am most things Little A requires of me. But so often my enthusiasm is found wanting, caged by the monotony...
Some days, I fly away to a different destination, an alternate reality, a childless fantasy of career, sleep, and free will. I pine for the old world, a time bound place of structure and daily definition. A world where I wasn't constantly on watch. A world where I wasn't perpetually worrying about safety. A world where my head wasn't invaded by frightening thoughts of suffocation, abduction and death. I revisit the shades of grey I felt about having a baby. Do I, daring to say the word, 'regret' having Little A? No! Not in a million galaxies. Not in the space before time existed. A world without Little A is no world at all. I love her with blinding ferocity, from the furnace of my core. The ambivalence's I feel confuse, upset and coddle in guilt. I never realised the work of a mother meant embracing so many conflicting feelings - am I alone in this experience? I like to think not.
But when I look back upon the past, to the days before Little A, I also realise these too were filled with prediction, banality, and boredom. Was my life really more interesting, more stimulating, more fulfilling? In some ways yes, but in many more ways, no. The difference now, the burden of life as a stay at home mother, is the solitude, the lack of mature company. So recently, I dusted down my diary and filled our weekends with adventures with friends, especially those with children, in a bid to satiate my need for social connection other than my darling daughter. My blog is a great friend too but it's not the same as face to face chit chat over a slice (or three) of lemon drizzle cake and a cup of finely brewed tea.
I need to remind myself that although Winter might appear inert, fixed in silence, underneath the cold mossy bark, the icy mud, the sodden grey grass, lies dormant potential, the longing for reinvention. Soon Little A will leave her toddler years behind her. I don't want to wish these precious years away but I am looking forward to a new season, one where I flower again. Life may seem static, paused on red, but I also know that in this unmoving there lies a paradox; underneath my tired expression, underneath the faded jeans, the woollen jumpers, the ageing underwear, I'm changing, the person I once was is no more, can never be, but who I am set to become is for now a blank page...
This was inspired by a recent post by Sara Bran that really resonated with me.
On this particular afternoon I view mothers and minders pushing rain coat laden buggies, frowning and smiling by turns, hurrying dawdling toddlers on yet another school run. The local 'old boy' is carrying far too many shopping bags than his stooping back will allow. Over the road two parents are unburdening their car of two dogs, three children, and a weathered buggy. This family have always intrigued me. Both parents work, and I assume are doing 'well', as they have not one but two live in nannies. Their children, all under five, are very close in age. Their little boy is only weeks older then Little A - I can remember his mother stepping out of the backseat, hobbling towards the front door, with the tell tale infant carrier in hand, my thoughts focusing on the scene - how this could be me in the days to come.
My eyes search the top of the road where it meets the main thoroughfare, commuter traffic quarrels, buses hum, cyclists roll by. Then my gaze is robbed by the trees. Their tops are painted in splashes of fiery colour that seem at odds with the seamless green below, like a hairdresser has dyed one half of his client's head. I am clearly reminded that it is Autumn, the season of reduction, that nature is effortlessly undressing herself, while I remain the same, untouched by transformation, fully clothed in yesterdays foliage. Is Autumn really here? Where's it all gone? What have I been doing?
Sometimes, I feel stuck in the same season. It's not Spring or Summer. They imply newness and life. It can't be Autumn. Too much colour. Too much change. That only leaves Winter. Motionless, never ending Winter. Days and weeks can feel like an undying loop of 'same'; same breakfast, same games, same park(s), same casseroles, same shopping list, same clothes line... I try to find sparks in the mundane detail, "look at that bright yellow car over there Little A", "let's go collect some leaves today," "does the dinosaur hamster live in that bush?" I do my very best to add colour to the daily routine; I play the googly eyed monster, I play giddy up horsey, I am most things Little A requires of me. But so often my enthusiasm is found wanting, caged by the monotony...
Some days, I fly away to a different destination, an alternate reality, a childless fantasy of career, sleep, and free will. I pine for the old world, a time bound place of structure and daily definition. A world where I wasn't constantly on watch. A world where I wasn't perpetually worrying about safety. A world where my head wasn't invaded by frightening thoughts of suffocation, abduction and death. I revisit the shades of grey I felt about having a baby. Do I, daring to say the word, 'regret' having Little A? No! Not in a million galaxies. Not in the space before time existed. A world without Little A is no world at all. I love her with blinding ferocity, from the furnace of my core. The ambivalence's I feel confuse, upset and coddle in guilt. I never realised the work of a mother meant embracing so many conflicting feelings - am I alone in this experience? I like to think not.
But when I look back upon the past, to the days before Little A, I also realise these too were filled with prediction, banality, and boredom. Was my life really more interesting, more stimulating, more fulfilling? In some ways yes, but in many more ways, no. The difference now, the burden of life as a stay at home mother, is the solitude, the lack of mature company. So recently, I dusted down my diary and filled our weekends with adventures with friends, especially those with children, in a bid to satiate my need for social connection other than my darling daughter. My blog is a great friend too but it's not the same as face to face chit chat over a slice (or three) of lemon drizzle cake and a cup of finely brewed tea.
I need to remind myself that although Winter might appear inert, fixed in silence, underneath the cold mossy bark, the icy mud, the sodden grey grass, lies dormant potential, the longing for reinvention. Soon Little A will leave her toddler years behind her. I don't want to wish these precious years away but I am looking forward to a new season, one where I flower again. Life may seem static, paused on red, but I also know that in this unmoving there lies a paradox; underneath my tired expression, underneath the faded jeans, the woollen jumpers, the ageing underwear, I'm changing, the person I once was is no more, can never be, but who I am set to become is for now a blank page...
This was inspired by a recent post by Sara Bran that really resonated with me.
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