#Once upon a time - Alchemy. Part Two.

Once upon a time .....

I followed him up the stairs. He didn't smell too good, smelt of fags and ash; over his top lip, strands from his moustache - a fat wiry brush - hung, curling, tinted in a colour swatch of nicotine yellow. A long term smoker. Forty a day probably. Every other step, a cough and a wheeze, an asthmatic rattle all the way to the top. I remember only counting twelve steps.

'So this is it, ' he said, clearing his throat in the ball of his fist, 'take a look around.'

First a bed room, strange angles. Then the bath room, nice size, loving the position of the window. Another bedroom, this will be the master. And through a final door into a vacuum of space and light. That's when I knew, decided right there on the spot. Why wasn't Younger Partner with me?  The roof had been scooped out like a pumpkin; wooden beams crossed the ceiling and where suitcases and roof racks and boxes of bric-a-brac would once have been stored was a mezzanine kitchen. An eat-in kitchen in the roof? Now I loved that idea...  

A first property bought together. The first night; glasses of champagne, fish and chips out of the paper, a gift of chocolate cake from the neighbours downstairs. The joy of discovering a new area; Chiswick, Shepherds Bush, Turnham Green. The best Thai restaurant on Askew Road.

We lived here for seven years.

This wasn't any ordinary flat, this was a crucible made of magical stuff; where gold was fashioned from waste basket junk, where sapphires poured from the bathroom tap, where dreams bubbled in fairy wisps of kettle steam...

I shed my skin a dozen times. I ditched the DJ'ing, spent five years retraining as a psychotherapist. I never worked so hard; the late nights at college, weekend workshops, seminars, clients, personal therapy, essays, case studies; all juggled with full time jobs, those soul sucking rent payers. I found myself under proposition one warm July evening. A Friday. 'Would you marry me?' Younger Partner asked, propped on the edge of the chair opposite; his expression earnest, puppy dog eyed, a tad nervous. 'Pardon?' I replied, 'could you say that again?' 'Will you marry me?' he repeated, this time his cheeks burning lanterns, 'Er... er... yes, yes of course I will marry you.' I exchanged Ms for Mrs. Under the living room beams, early March gliding through the panes, my best lady and I were plucked, pruned, kneaded and painted; two wedding dollies immaculately sculptured for a big big day. I grew a bump, solid with fluctuation and hard movement. The day I carried her over the threshold, into the living room, it was if she'd always been with us; right from the very beginning. I battled the closing walls of post natal illness; our home a muted sunken place; my life pre-baby, a flaky shadow, alien, a distant memory. I began writing. This. A blog. A new existence; words, words, words... and I bade farewell to my thirties; hello to middledom and swathes of silver hair. (and cake).

There were parties; Younger Dad's infamous thirtieth. The beer stains. The bass. A five course New Years bash. A first birthday, a second...

And almost a year ago, after the sign said sold and the paperwork cleared, we moved.

So much change, different people.

If you like my writing, you could do two wonderful things for me (pretty please);
1. Vote for me in the MADS (best writer). 2. Preorder my anthology, Seasons Of Motherhood (published in March). Thank you.

Festival of The Middle-Aged

Well this took me back. At least I had an en suite shower, eggy but functioning. Back in the day it was the communal washroom, a corridor of fifteen or so lecture-hardened women legging it for the last dregs of hot water each and every morning. I never made it. I blamed my daily misfortune entirely at the door of the banana skins I'd smoked the night before. But when you're nineteen years old, tepid will do, and anyway, the hang overs were worth it.

And here I was again - de ja vu - a student for three days. Not stoned but brain addled from motherhood and middle-age. No tie-dye or kaftans but neutral woollens and lycra-stretch trousers. The comfort factor. For two nights, I replaced memory foam for bed springs circa '87. I. Felt. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. And did I mind? Absolutely, categorically no! You see, I was in attendance at The Writers Festival, an event I'd been looking forward to for months. It didn't disappoint. Wine. New friendships. Fine dining in the student refectory - the mango and brie filo parcels were heavenly, and of course, cake and biscuits - a writer's staple.

It was wonderful to spend a weekend in the company of other writers talking about, well, writing. But I wasn't fooled by the mini courses and workshops or the presence of agents and publishers disguising the real agenda of the Festival, that we were all participating in a giant meeting of WA (writers anonymous)....

'It's a drug, I can't control it, I've been doing it for years, sometimes in the open, brazenly, in libraries, in coffee shops, but mainly behind doors, when no one's watching, no one else understands, but you do, that's why I'm here, to come out, as an addict I mean, this is so hard..... my name is Older Mum, and I'm, I'm, a blogger/writer, writer/blogger. Don't shoot me.' 

The average age of the festival goer casually rested on forty five years young. Sedate. Relaxed. Apart from Pam that is, a silver haired, 70's+ party wagon. I loved hanging out with her. She missed out on the Saturday of the previous year, totally hungover, rollickingly drunk on red wine the night before. She told me - little miss innocent - that people kept plying her with booze. I raised a questioning brow.

Then there was Tor, my life saving anchor for the whole event. Isn't it lovely when you just click? And someone who was writing magical realism and another who'd spent five years writing her post second world war crime thriller and another who..... it went on and on. And when someone asked me about my novel I was left scratching my head, 'it's about a DJ who, er, loses her record box...' I really know how to rock a pitch (not).        

But as it turns out, I received very positive feedback on my writing from both an agent and a book doctor (big-up yourself Older Mum). And that's left me in a bit of quandary....

Now I'm ever so determined to finish the first draft of Four Gigs. End of the year is my goal. I'm in an uncomfortable situation where it's novel vs. blog. What do I do? All that consumes me is the next chapter and what my characters are doing. I've even caught myself talking like the main protagonist! This has left no head space for ideas for blog posts. It's completely full at the inn. And I have to participate in NaNoWriMo this November, it'll give me such a push....

....So I might have to blog a little less.

Please don't shoot me! 
     

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....

Mondays

No, not Monday again.

I breathe out, and try to accept the unavoidable ... another Monday morning.

In years gone by, an eternally dishevelled Bob Geldof lamented, "I don't like Mondays." I was eight years old, every day seemed the same, get up, go to school, watch Grange Hill, overlook Blue Peter, eat what's on my plate, in bed by seven thirty. I didn't understand Bob's angst ridden musings on Mondays. Why was this day so rotten, so heinous?

Then I grew up.

And I got it.

On Sunday evening, after the X Factor results, after fleeing into the hopes and aspirations - most rejected, a couple accepted - on Dragons Den, it dawned on me that, yet again, I hadn't made a plan for the week. No menu plan. No order of to do's. No ideas for fun stuff with Little A. Selfishly, the only content satiating the grey matter were flashes, thoughts, clever ideas for future posts...  

Mondays and Fridays are days both dedicated to general domestic toil. But they are diametrically opposed, sat at polar ends of the homemaking spectrum. Friday comes bursting with glee, all chores silver lined, there's a lightness, a playful frivolity when I waft the duvet into its bed cover, it's very nearly the weekend, Younger Dad will be home, I can taste impending rest, I am inches away from my Saturday morning lie in. The bells of Monday, on the other hand, toll the start of, well the start of the working week, and that's it. Monday is another reminder of how aimless and disorganised I can be. Unless it's a Bank Holiday, Fridays always win.        

This Monday morning I am on auto pilot. A pile of clothes need washing. The dish washer needs emptying. Younger Dad fills in the blank holes with further errands, a tie needs dry cleaning, a CD needs posting, his personal assistant needs a birthday present, could I look around for something suitable? I'm becoming a little flustered, there are other pressing jobs too. I consult my filofax, I review the Gruffalo themed calendar hanging in the kitchen, and a cohesion of linear activity unfolds. I have a plan.

Little A and I head into Chiswick. First stop, Turnham Green. I unload the car planting Little A, her scooter and various bags on the pavement. I ask Little A to wait, not to move from her spot. But while I'm bent down tying my trainer lace, I notice the scooter has gone. I look up to see Little A escaping up the pavement, hastily heading towards the main road. "Little A, STOP, come back here NOW." She startles, turns around, sheepishly rolling back towards me. I am cross. "Little A when mummy says STOP, you stop, when mummy says WAIT, you wait. Do you understand?" "Okay mummy." "So what do you do when I say wait." "I stop mummy." I think she got the gist of my lecture. I dismantle the pointing finger.

We drop Younger Dad's tie off at the dry cleaners, it won't be ready until Saturday the assistant says, apparently spot cleaning takes a few days. On to key cutting and shoe repairs, I need a spare set of front door keys, but the shop is frustratingly out of stock on one of the keys required. It seems silly to have replicas made barring one, so annoyingly, I decide to return another day. We drop bags stuffed with old muslins, baby towels and never used swim nappies at the children's charity job. Making our way back to the car, I intermittently continue my warnings about 'wait' and 'stop', Little A oblivious to my parental overtures, stares ahead, watching the trains passing on the overhead bridge.  

On to the supermarket. But first, a birthday card for a little friend, and to deposit an envelope of earnings at the bank. At the card shop, Little A begins relieving the shelves of their cards. At the bank, she insists on sitting on the chairs furthest away from me, those closest to the automatic doors. That scenario is definitely not happening. "Little A, I want you to sit on these chairs near mummy please, and wait there." "Okay mummy, I'm going to stop for you." She's getting it...

Monday morning is the big grocery shop, I want to get it over and done with as soon as I can. Little A is determined to walk but after wandering the length of one aisle she's had enough, and I squeeze her back into the trolley, much to my relief - after reading this post - so for now, I prefer her chained and padlocked to my side. I make sure to treat myself to a pain au chocolate, and Little A, an In the Night Garden magazine; the Makka Pakka plastic toy (and sponge) had already snared two little eyes before I had the remotest chance of any diversion. Great. More tat.

Monday is the day my purse is refilled with pointless coupons. I don't find these enticements brighten my day in any shape or form. '£0.82 off your next shop'. That's debit busting. 'If you spend £70 on your next shop, you'll get 450 extra points.' I never spend over £70 at this establishment, and I'm unlikely to ever fill the trolley with extra eggs, pasta, fishcakes, a new grater for some added points that will grant me another '£1.02 off my next shop'.

Back at home, I'm tired. Worn out. Little A, owing to the morning's lack of exercise, is offensively buoyant. Monday's have increasingly become a no nap day, today is no exception. She attempts to settle but those peepers ain't shuttin. No nap. No rest bite for me. I plan on later penning the beginnings of this post while Little A enjoys her 'just before tea time' allowance of CBeebies. But then I remember, Monday is bin day... the oogie poogie bin (food waste), the kitchen bin bag, the nappy bin, and the recycling...

And while I'm disposing the bags of waste, rotting food, cardboard, glass, plastic, paper, I realise that I'm feeling short tempered, a wee teary, and it's not just today, it's been for the last few days. My irritability could spell a slide into lower mood, I'm sensitive to the change in season, and I worry, will this mean I need to increase my dose of medication?

But today I awoke to Tuesday,  and it's been a brighter, more spacious day, and I felt fine.

After writing this, I sat back wondering what the point to this post was, then it became clear... I was writing about Monday after all.

What are your Mondays like?

It's very belated, but I'm also linking this post up with the excellent Monday Club.

The Slap

The art of discipline, I find, treads a delicate balance between draconian finger pointing and liberal indulgence. Between castigation and permissiveness. The (good) text books and psychologists applaud firm boundary setting, and I agree, for children feel safe and emotionally held when they buffet against the parental  limitations of 'no', 'I've already warned you once', and 'you do that again and I'm switching off Rastamouse.' Consequences teach the invaluable lessons of cause and effect, Hindus and Buddhists, I believe, call this Karma.

I like to think that I am flexible in my approach to boundary setting, that I pick my battles carefully, that daily raids of the fridge or an extra episode of Timmy Time aren't worth raised words. I like to think that if I give a little, my will full offspring might reciprocate in kind. And this seems to work (most of the time), Little A being hesitantly malleable to requests of 'socks off', 'shoes on', 'books back on the shelf' (please).

But yesterday afternoon was different. Yesterday, I had to dish out some 'proper' discipline...

The scene was set a squash and a squeeze before teatime. Little A sat perched on my lap, facing me, at the kitchen table.

"Mummy can I do some painting?"

"No, I'm sorry sweetheart, it's tea time in ten minutes."

And with my response, Little A's eyes began to water, her face began to redden, to contort with toddler fury, and then, without a blink, a small hand administered a stinging slap, nay, whack, that planted itself on my right cheek bone catching the hollow of my eye. BIG. ALMIGHTY. OUCH. I loudly mirrored (screamed) my displeasure at her behaviour...

"Little A you really, really hurt mummy. Say sorry."

"No!"

"Right, then it's time out on the thinking cushion."

"No! No! I don't want to sit on the thinking cushion."

"I'm sorry Little A, but that's where we're going."

So I packed her up, and took her forthwith downstairs, down to the cushion on the floor in mummy and daddy's bedroom. The thinking cushion only presents itself in times of physical outbursts - there haven't been many but recently Little A has begun testing her physical nerve, again.

On the way, there was a request for the potty. Mid flow, a sobbing Little A apologised in earnest. I wanted to say okay, to cuddle her with pants and trousers concertinaed around her ankles. But I knew I had to follow through. So I gently acknowledged that I'd heard her sorry. But, I had said it was the thinking cushion. So the thinking cushion we must go...

"Noooo Mummy!"

I firmly held a wriggling, resistant Little A on the cushion, wrapping my limbs around her body. She remained on the cushion for two minutes (she's two years old). Then I explained to her why we had done this. That we don't hit, nip or scratch other people (and certainly not mummy). That I could see I'd angered her when I said 'no' to paint. But that we still don't lash out when we can't have something. And that, importantly, she'd caused me pain, and must say sorry (again).

"Sorry Mummy."

And a big fat hug ensued.

In the aftermath I felt unsettled, upset, a bad parent. Although I know it's often necessary, it always saddens me when I have to play bad cop. Boundary setting and disciplining is a fine art, made all the more challenging by the anger it fires in me when Little A misbehaves. Sometimes it's like taming two beasts. It really is an aspect of parenting I don't enjoy, that I feel quite unsure about, that I will have to increasingly engage with, no doubt, the older Little A becomes... (minefield).

So how do you handle discipline?