Fright Night

There are shadows in here, beside the curtains, underneath the chest of drawers.

The door is kept open a few inches more, half way, the light shining on carpet, respite from inky horrors. She's tucked in, arms around ted.

'Don't go,' she says, 'Mummy, I need you.'

I remember this. The drawers needed checking. The wardrobe, shutting tight. The door, open, safe exit from monsters, the things of fright.

'I'm sacred of the shadows,
is there a man on the roof?
Will a burglar come in?'  

I tell her, no, she is secure, hidden from harm, mummy is here, in the next room.

'Mummy?'
'Yes, darling?'
'I'm a big girl, but I'm a little girl just now, I feel sad.'
'It's okay to feel that way - sometimes mummy feels very small too, and sad, like a tiny, crying acorn.'
'I need a hug.'
'You can have the biggest one my beautiful girl.'

There is no escape, not yet, we must sing another lullaby, hold hands again, and again. I don't mind, it's what I must do.

'Mummy?'
'Yes, darling?'
'When I go away from you, my heart stops, when I see you again my heart works.'
'Mine too. But when Mummy is away, she never stops loving you. Ever.'
'I love you Mummy.'
'I love you too.'

She is sleepy, ready to turn over with ted. The shadows are forgotten, the beasties in her head.

'Goodnight Mummy.'
'Goodnight.'

#One Week - Autumn '13 - Champagne

A walk over the ploughed flats of Norfolk. Brown and grey. 

Cracked clods of earth underfoot, thick and heavy from harvest. 

The dog bounds off the leash, after sticks, after birds.

And here we all are, to bid farewell.

A goodbye in the wind.

Granny says, 'she said the air was like champagne up here.'

I adore that description. Champagne.

Bubbles through the yellow leaves. Fizz through the sloes.

And onwards, a thoughtful walk, on dirt track, 

under canopied boughs, and mossy floor.

Here we are, journeys end, her resting place. Only us.

A pond at low ebb, ferns and reeds bent over.

One bench.

She loved to walk her dogs here. In the champagne.

I liked her. A lot.

Straight and sturdy (if you discount the broken hip).

Honest to the bone.

A fierce wit.

Out comes the jar and spoon. Sacred dust.

Like course granules. Chalk white.

Powder in the grass. Particles of a life well lived.

Ashes and atoms.

In the air.

Away and beyond.

Little A says, 'Bye bye Great Granny.'

Little A says, 'Great Granny has turned into a star.'

Life and death in one burst.

Flesh and bone between her fingers.

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

A foot note: This was Little A's Great Granny on Younger Dad's side of the family. She passed away over a year ago, her ashes scattered this September.

This is the first day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next three days (Monday till Wednesday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn '13. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three 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>

Welcome

Damn. The entire hob needs replacing - the back rings aren't safe, they're worn down like weathered fossils. The tiny electric shower head coats water like flour through a sieve, light and drizzly. Damp pock marks the pink wall in Little A's bedroom. Why hadn't we noticed this during the viewings? Today the sink flooded the kitchen floor. At the moment, I can hear the drip, dripping into the bucket underneath the piping.

When one rents, the property usually works.

When one buys, well, like a treasure hunt of errors, there are often lots of niggles to be found.

Welcome to our new home.

We wanted a project. And now we have one.

And I absolutely love living here.

At long last Little A has a garden. I can watch clothes floating like tethered kites on the line, drying in a mid afternoon breeze. It's such a novelty living in a house, not a flat. I walk upstairs to bed. I walk downstairs to breakfast. The kitchen is on the same floor as the living room - in our old flat, the kitchen had been carved into the attic space, casseroles made with wide views of tiles and chimneys from the small roof window.

The move. Sweat and dust, lots of dust. The men in blue t-shirts arrived at 9.00 am, climbing stairs, carrying boxes, a line of worker ants. In a matter of hours they were done, their lorry filled with the complete history of our family of three. Then, potential disaster, "Mummy, mummy, I can't find Peso." Peso is Little A's rabbit, her favourite teddy. "Don't worry, he'll be in a box somewhere." "But mummy, I want him NOOOOW." Think. Think. Think. Solution. Fast. Younger Dad doesn't like my idea, but it's the best option. On our way to our new home, I take a detour into Chiswick, to a toy shop on Turnham Green, a shop with an entire row of Peso's. "Oh s'ankyou mummy, I'm going to call this one Pinto." Now she's a happy bunny for the forty minute trip up the M40 and beyond.

The first evening Little A's bedroom is assembled, our bed made, old curtains loosely hung over the bay window rails. Peso is recovered from a card box box marked essentials. We eat fish and chips soaked in ketch-up out of the paper. We share a thick melting chocolate ice cream in the back garden. A swig of cool beer straight from the bottle tastes so good.

In bed that night, something irks Younger Dad, like an itch on the ball of a well socked foot tightly laced in a walking boot. "You've got to be kidding me... why hadn't this come up on my research... this is totally doing my head in." The echoing neeeeeoooooows are unmistakable. We have moved under the flight path of airborne traffic headed north east of Heathrow. It just so happens tonight is particularly busy, a neeeeeoooooow every five minutes. "Stop laughing would you....." I think it's hilarious, a home from home, a reminder of our life in West London.

The kitchen is unpacked. The living space made homely by a few choice paintings, the all important mantel piece looks inviting - the 'welcome' cards, the wedding present by my best friend, H, taking centre stage. We have shifted the many remaining boxes against a wall in the lounge - there are big plans afoot, projects that are likely to begin this year - an extension, maybe a double, at the rear, a master bedroom in the loft.

Of course there are repairs that need immediate attention, but we are living and breathing and functioning in our wonderful new home. And the best part is that Little A is settled and happy - she's really enjoying her new preschool, her new friends. She sculpts faces, makes puzzles out of the tawny pebbles covering the patio and pathway areas of the garden. She glides up and down the laminate flooring on her scooter. She looks forward to play dates with her little cousins, a five minute walk away.....

I think we are going to be here for a long, long time.  


Amazingly, unbelievably, I have made the shortlist of the Britmums BIBS Awards under the category, Lifestyle. I am so ruddy grateful to everyone who voted for Older Mum in a Muddle. Now if you would like to see me in the Lifestyle final six, then please, please, please vote for me one final time. The champagne is on me if I make it this far...... (nominations close on 12th May)

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.

The Drill

Every night the whole thing simply drags on and on, minutes extending, rolling into essential blogging time with yet more demands, more requests. Sometimes there's no foreseeable finish line, no slices of orange at the end of a vertical climb, no free pass through the bedroom door, until she's past out, finally stolen by sleep.

I made a thirteen point picture plan artfully illustrated with hand drawn symbols on yellow card -complimented with stars, and hearts, and triangles - for each stage, so that she'd unequivocally understand the drill...

1. Rubber Duck. (bath time).  Little A often plays with Lucy, her blue kitchen fork, whisking up a frothy froth of pretend hot chocolate in a bright orange beaker. She will empty the entire contents of her bath bucket into the foam; ducks, boats, crocodiles, whales, colliding, struggling to keep afloat - it's like the aftermath of titanic, except the water's warmer.

"It's time to wash your hair and face Little A."

"No thank you mummy, you can do it tomorrow instead."

"Little A.....?"

"T.O.M.O.R.R.O.W. I.N.S.T.E.A.D."

<sigh>

2. Grow Bag. (nappy, pyjamas, grow bag). But all of a sudden I have a little fairy on my hands fluttering and dancing as nature intended with a pair of blue wings and flashing wand.

"I need to do magic and running first mummy."

<sigh><sigh>

3. Toothbrush. (brushing teeth). On account of the challenge of brushing those threenager molars, we have three toothbrushes, offering *ahem* choice and partial control. There's Tina Toothbrush (pink and yellow), Timmy Toothbrush (blue), and Tuber Toothbrush (green and blue). Little A keeps her family of denture polishers in a Gruffalo bath bag that's hidden away in her Gruffalo Trunki, which, as a matter of fact, I won for this. Every evening, I head a solemn procession to the bathroom with Little A and Trunki, shuffling and rolling behind. What follows is an exact order of unlock-open-unzip-choose toothbrush-apply toothpaste-open wide-wider-brush-teeth together-brush-good girl-rinse-zip up-close-lock....

"Choose which one please."

"I want Timmy."

"Okay."

"No, Tuber... no mummy... I want... I want Tina."

<getting impatient>

4. Teddy Bear. (the good night teddy song). This is my favourite bedtime ritual. We veil Little A's kingdom of teddies, dollies, fluffy cuddlies - dumped on the teddy bench - with a red blanket while heartily singing the following verse....

Good night teddies - Good night teddies - Good night teddies, 

We've had a happy day

Hooray

Good night teddies - Good night teddies - Good night teddies, 

We've had a happy day

We've had a happ-eee day

Hip hip hooray

<a calm, charming interlude>

5. Book. (story time). She has one story but somehow manages to flick through the entire book again when I've made it firmly, but kindly clear, it's three pages only. Maybe I should refrain from checking the inbox on my phone.

<annoyed at myself>

6. Dog. (kiss Truffles good night) Truffles is a big, shaggy dog flopped on newly washed carpet at the head end of Little A's cot (yes, she's still behind bars - I'm working on it). She sleeps with a furry ear - yanked lovingly through the cot bars - in her left hand. Don't think the dog appreciates this.

<why is this part of the routine? she goes to kiss Truffles, returning to me on the futon, ergo moving in the wrong direction of the cot.>

7. Mother and child embracing. (cuddle time). (a) Sitting down cuddle - Little A will oft explore my nostrils, kneed my cheeks like stiff dough, and ruthlessly observe my teeth as dirty and yellow. (b) Standing up cuddle where my forehead and chin are raspberried and licked by a pudgy tongue.

<tired - i'm not a fan of saliva>  

8. Child behind bars. (in the cot). I.N. T.H.E. C.O.T.

< at last, nearly at the end>

9. Light switch. (lights out). First, I turn the light out. Then it's Little A's turn with either Doggy, Monkey, or Teal - a rag doll - tucked under her arm.

"Mummy, can you turn the torch on? Just one time?"

"Little A, that's not part of the routine. Light's out."

"I can't see..."

"Don't worry, your eyes will get used to it."

<it's so dark, where's the cot...bump> 

10. Book. (mummy's story) This is where I play Jack-a-nory, telling Little A a home grown tale. It's her choice.... and it could be Little A and the Octonauts; Little A and the Mermaid; Little A and the Octonauts and the Mermaid; the Dragon visits nursery; Little A, Mummy, Lucy - the fork - and the Dragon fly to Chiswick; Little A and Abney and Teal.....

<ooooh, this is fun, but keep it short, keep it short>      

11. Toilet. (a trip to the lavatory). A quick sit on the throne while I check my phone.

<like the appendix, the black and white TV, and Truffles, there is no definable use for this - it doesn't add anything to the routine, save to see if I have any comments>

12. Hand On Child's Back. (gentle back). A back rub, affectionately known as gentle back - for her highness, followed by a cuddle, and a few sips of water.

<hang in there, it's nearly over>  

13. Moon and Stars. (sweet everythings). Our final parting gesture as I stand, staring into freedom, from her bedroom door....

Night night by far, 

Sweet dreams by far

I love you

I love you to the moon and stars and back again

And I will see you in the morning

Night night by far

Sweet dreams by far

Love you - night night.

  .... and she repeats every line after me - heart meltingly wonderful.

<huzzah, laptop here I come> 

Only, not quite, as here's what usually happens next.....

More gentle back, want a cuddle, want some water; spilt the water mummy - I need a new grow bag, done a poo, need more water, can't get to sleep, want a kiss, done another poo, want to start all over again (the routine), not ready to say night-night by far, want another cuddle, more water, just one more time....   

... and the tears and tantrums as boundaries are reluctantly reset.

But like the British winter she persists, and persists, and persists.

How long is your bedtime routine?
How do you manage with two or more children?

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.