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.

Limbo Land

Everything is still. Waiting. Quiet. Even the opened daffodils - big, loud, yellow trumpets - stand silently in the thin cylindrical glass vase on the kitchen table.

The fruit bowl's contents are over ripe and ageing. A pear has a squashed bottom like it's wearing a sodden nappy. Three bananas are blemished with leopard spots. There are apples - Eden's rejects - beyond temptation, their wrinkly skins predicting dry, unappetising first bites - their cores probably browning with unflappable demise.    

And I'm sat in a kind of limbo - not quite here, not quite there.

In fact we all are - Younger Dad, Little A and I.

I try to ignore the peevish whispers from the bookshelves 'pack me, pack me, pack me.' And I know how they feel - it's time to leave - to move into the new chapter of our lives, a brand new home for our family of three.   

When will the contracts exchange? It's just paper twiddling and signing dotted lines damn it. 

I am not made of patient stuff.

And Little A is both excited and confused, vacillating between 'mummy I'm going to live near my cousants (cousins)' and 'mummy I don't want to leave our flat.' There have been numerous nocturnal awakenings, although I suspect I layer her with too many warm blankets - it's hard keeping track with this mild-cold-mild-freezing weather. Then there is her concept of moving, 'mummy, can I take my toys with me when the big truck comes?' 'Sweet heart,' I reply, 'you can take ALL your toys and ALL your teddies,' reassuring her with dramatic emphasis on ALL. 'Oh sank you (thank you), sank you so much mummy!'

Yesterday, I invited her to join me in a spring sort out of her toys. Save for a few baby board books, a wooden boat, and plastic hammer and nail set, she refused to relinquish anything. Can't say I blame her - it wasn't good timing on my part. At the moment, Little A needs familiarity around her, even if it's the comforting relics she's neither seen nor played with in over two years.  

But I know she's going to be just fine...

'Hello, I'm Little A, what's your name?' She asks a platinum blond forty something woman - maybe I should go that colour? - sat to her left at the only che' che' cafe in Croxley Green.'What are you having for lunch today?' The woman turns to the little person on her right. She smiles warmly, taken aback by Little A's chutzpah, and engages my daughter about the weather and her slice of cake.

Already winning friends and influencing people.

'Mummy - loooook - I'm doing dressing up and drawing,' a shrill voice calls as I'm filling out the registration forms at her new pre-school - only a minute walk from our new home. Those contracts better exchange soon. When I look up, my eyes work hard at locating her. Ahhh there she is. I spot her in a pirates outfit painting yogurt pots alongside the other children.

She's going to enjoy living here....    

'We're seeing three childminders today,' she says to the first childminder we meet, 'can I do some painting now?' Paint brush in hand, Little A makes a colourful mess at a table in a sunlit conservatory. I carry on with the interview - she's very friendly, flexible, loaded with qualifications. Half way through, a little voice pipes up, 'can you read to me now?' The minder chooses a Barbie book - not my preferred choice - and proceeds reading about the size zero doll's morning routine.

She's not backwards in coming forwards.

'Can I have some lunch - can I have cheese on toast too?' Only ten minutes earlier, we'd arrived at the second childminder's home just as she was preparing food. 'Of course you can - settle yourself in a chair,' the minder replies. Little A sits herself at the kitchen table. She's accompanied by a baby in a high chair and the minder's very wilful daughter - same age as Little A - strapped in a booster seat. Little A is presented with beautifully cut melted cheese triangles - an alternating combination of cheddar and red leicester - positioned just so, overlapping, around the edge of the plate. In the middle, there's a delicate arrangement of salad  leaves, tomatoes and cucumber like the air is carrying them. These are toddlers you're feeding. A heated exchange erupts. 'You're strapped in... you're strapped in.... potatoes bobatoes...you're strapped in.' 'No I'm not, I'm sitting in a normal chair,' retorts Little A. 'You're strapped in.... You're strapped in.' 'No I'm not,' Little A dismounts her chair and walks to the other end of the table, 'See, look, I'm not strapped in.' The minder and I are thinking the same thing - this clash can never happen again. Ever.

She can stand up for herself.

--------------

So we have much in place - a preschool, a childminder*, the removal firm - preparing Little A for her new life as a home counties girl. But until we have the keys to our new home, we're inhabiting a sort of a domestic no mans land. Hurry up solicitors, get a blinking move on would you!

In the mean time, I'll water the daffodils and buy some fresh fruit.

*We chose the third childminder - the one with an extra assistant, well selected books and mellow pre-schoolers.

SOLD

Selling our flat has been a rather push-me pull-you undertaking, one that has involved the wrong paint, a brand new rug and dog poo...

The long winding road to SOLD began during the initial weeks and months of 2012; every room, crack and crevice was cleared of clutter - including a rather dusty 1970's coffee percolator - then shipped, and dumped in bungalow-sized containers labelled 'glass', 'plastic', 'cardboard', 'clothes'. The percolator was abandoned on a wobbly trestle table in the rain. I hope it found shelter in an antique shop, made good and over priced for resale, or now proudly displayed in a museum cabinet of note. Sadly, it's probably rubbing shoulders with soiled nappies and rusted spoons in landfill.

Then things went quiet....

June. The porch and path were re-tiled, and a brand new front door fitted and painted - I'd chosen a medium teal but an altogether different colour was mixed, applied, and our street - every other door a blue, red, or black - had to contend with a brilliant lilac entrance. As anyone - potential buyers, the postman - would run a mile from a door that remotely resembled the portal to Justin's House, I requested, nay demanded, that the builders repaint it. This time, it was coated in a-sort-of-teal-but-really-it's-blue colour. Why can't paint shops mix the correct shade?

Then it went quiet again....

October. The boiler stopped working. Once. And. For. All. There was no way a potential buyer would accept the old boy in its current stuttering state. Hands in pockets, a new boiler was grudgingly purchased. But hey, we had a warm home, viewers would be flocking in (or not) from the cold.

A brief pause....

Last week of November. In a freak flurry of spontaneity, we viewed a few properties that needed some work, placing an offer - after a second viewing - on a light, spacious three bedroom home we really felt drawn to. But our flat wasn't yet on the market. So the local estate agent was promptly ushered and hastily instructed.

Now we were rolling....

December. In one week shelves and spots were removed from walls, files and books boxed, carpets cleaned and the lounge, kitchen and Little A's bedroom repainted in neutral colours - not a whiff of lilac in sight. A feature wall of duck egg blue and cream flowers was added to detract from the rigorous amount of caramel brown in our bedroom. I dressed our bed properly with throws and cushions, and purchased a green rug - brightly woven with caterpillars and carrots, and according to Little A, a cabbage girl - for Little A's bedroom floor.

And our home was ready for sale.

No pause.

January. The first three Saturdays in January were spent foraging for a new burrow in Croxley Green and Rickmansworth. Our highest tally, I think, was nine viewings in one day. The offer on the home we had our hearts set on fell through in a very dishonest way. Post major disappointment, and to add injury to insult, the very same agent showed us around another property where I had an accident involving a ladder (said estate agent is now being sued). Back at our place, viewers arrived in all shapes and sizes; couples, single men, retired women, parents hunting for an investment, and the guy who wanted to construct a dubious ramp for his feline friend from Little A's bedroom window...

Then, last weekend, when we thought we'd exhausted our search, we inspected a home that had just come on the market at a great, within budget, price. It was proportioned well enough and had potential for an attic conversion and extension at the back. Younger Dad and I made knowing eye contact - it was the one - and without hesitation, made an offer there and then. No second viewings, we wanted this property. The very same day our estate agent phoned with a decent offer on our flat. On Monday morning we accepted, and that afternoon our offer was accepted too...... sometimes, things really do happen for a reason. (the chain, only small, had better not fall though).

And that was that. SOLD, subject to contract.

And the dog poo? Well don't tell Younger Dad, but after a viewing, I found a nasty brown smear on our hallway carpet. So much for the shoes off policy.... yuk.

NEVER Trust Estate Agents

"Would you like to view the boarded out area in the loft?"

 "YES!"

"I'll just lower the ladder then..."

Bernard, the estate agent, opens the attic door and lowers the ladder into position. No one checks to see whether the joints have correctly secured in place, it is presumed the ladder is solid, fit for ascending into the headier regions of this home. Besides, as Bernard reminds with vexing salesmanship, there's already been a steady stream of potential buyers who've safely climbed into the roof.

This attic has been partially converted. From the floor, I can make out wooden beams and storage space and a lone, high wattage strip light. I place one trainer on the first rung, gripping the frame with both hands. Behind me, a concerned little voice makes its self heard...

"Be careful climbing up the ladder mummy."

"Don't worry, she's absolutely fine," Younger Dad says reassuring Little A.

One foot in front of the other, pulling myself up, neck craning, the loft interior reveals its secrets rung by rung; I can see more storage alcoves and the angled crossing of beams.

I reach the middle.Then. SNAP. The ladder collapses in two. Without any time to comprehend what is happening, I fall to the floor landing on my back, banging my head against a cupboard. But it's my left leg that takes the brunt - it's entangled in the fallen heap of metal. Apart from a faint hint of the prickly electricity of pins and needles, my lower leg is numb from the knee down. Later, Younger Dad tells me how my left leg shot forwards through a rung as the ladder gave.

Shock. Total shock.

ARGGGHHHH, HELP, HELP, ARGGGHHHH...

...And then the tears. Big, fat distressed tears.

The ladder is promptly removed. Bernard is frozen, pale-faced. Little A cuddles my shoulder as I writhe, clutching my left leg, on the in-need-of-a-serious-rinsing cream carpet. Younger Dad is worryingly asking where it's hurting, he thinks I've damaged my back.

But I'm quite oblivious to the caring attentions of Little A and Younger Dad. My eyes are focused on the black coat and white mop of Bernard. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm currently horizontal, I might have given into a visceral urge to return him a left hook. But of course, I don't - I couldn't - my exterior is far too polite for such a gut response. I imagine clocking his expressionless face one instead.

Sensation eventually reignites my left calf. With adrenalin flooding every cell, I'm able to stand. On both legs. Phew. Nothing broken. Bernard offers a tepid mug of tap water, muttering some kind of apology. And then? In the best of British, we carry on with the viewing. I'm not keen on the downstairs living space, the rooms lack the fluidity required for a family of three. And the pencil thin garden? Well where exactly would we fit a swing?

When we leave Bernard behind, the tears reappear with amplified flurry. I feel strangely embarrassed by the accident, the kind of humiliation I might have felt if I'd publicly fainted. I'm clearly still in shock. I've also decided that Bernard is plain bad luck - this is the second viewing with him, the first - another house we loved, placed an offer on but consequently lost - left a bitter taste on our tongues; Bernard, with the slipperiness of a blackened banana skin, wasn't the slightest bit transparent as to the sold or not sold status of this-much-desired property - he kept us hanging on for over a month....until he finally mentioned in passing that it'd gone to the vendor we were competing with, the one with no chain.

I DO NOT WANT A THIRD VIEWING WITH BERNARD.

At home, the adrenal glands abate, leaving pain and swelling in their wake. When I sit down, my coccyx reminds me where I fell on my back, the purple blue hues of bruising appear above the knee, my calf and foot are stiff - ligaments and muscle feeling very hard done by. Pain killers are promptly administered.

As I say goodnight to Little A, she advises me with the straightforward concern of a doctor who's seen it all before, 'not to hop on my left leg.'

The following morning I'm invited to play a game she's named estate agent dragon.

I politely decline, offering TV instead.

Linking up with The Monday Club.