#One Week - Winter '13 - Park Life (the wait)

Where's our bench, the wobbly bench?

They've dug it up and tossed it away.

The wobbly bench was our special place, where we ate mini croissants and mango slices, and told stories, and played Piggy (me) and Bunny (Little A).

No more.

They closed our local playground for refurbishment at the beginning of November. Four weeks we were told. But it was still out of bounds beginning of January, covered in soil and lonely looking rides.

So what did we do?

We played outside of the playground of course! In the park itself.

"Mummy shark, look at me, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

"Baby shark you're going very fast on that scooter." 

"Yes, cos I'm a big girl now."

Round and around she goes.

"Can I take a photo?"

"Stop that mummy shark, I'm scootering."

And the week it snowed, we padded through untouched snow as fine as powder, throwing snow balls, playing chase, as icy flakes landed atop coated shoulders and woolly hats.   

And then one day they came....

Jacketed men who laid down turf, attached new rides, rolled out hot, sticky tarmac, made grassy mounds from the earth that had been dug up, scattered wood chips, planted strange wispy things in the new flower beds that look like floppy spider legs, and....

Returned the park benches.

"Mummy shark look.... there's new swings, and slides, and look, it's daddy car, and baby car, and the seesaw." 

Finally on 15th February, the big mesh barriers were taken away, and our playground reopened.

We tested the benches.

Neither wobble.


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

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#One Week - Autumn '12 - Park Life (or not)

This is our bench. The wobbly bench. The bench Little A and I have shared many a ham sandwich and blueberry muffin picnic on. It sits between two large trees in the playground of our local park. The wobbly bench is a place to relax, to wonder, to dream, it's a rickety station from which to appreciate all the running, chasing, jumping, clamouring, and the very special place where our alter egos - Piggy (me) and Bunny (Little A) - come out to play.

Until a couple of weeks ago, that is, when upon returning to our favourite playground after a brief hiatus - I don't enjoy being coated in damp drizzle - we were greeted by this post apocalyptic sight...

Apart from a lone climbing frame, everything had been excavated, dismantled, removed. The toddler swings. Gone. The big children swings. Gone. The round-a-bout. Gone. The small climbing frame. Gone. Our wobbly bench. Obliterated. All that was left were heaps of upturned tarmac and rubble.

"The swings have gone Piggy."

"I know Bunny."

"Look, the big slide is still there."

"For the moment."

"Are they going to build new ones Piggy?"

"I hope so Bunny. I hope so."

The workmen eyed me with suspicion upon clocking my taking photos of their bombsite.

"Can I ask what you're doing love?" A fluorescent jacketed workman asks taking large strides in earth covered boots towards me.

"Erm, I'm just a mum, I, err, I'm taking pictures for my blog" I reply sheepishly.

"No worries, we sometimes get dodgy types taking pictures."

"Oh, okay. Fine." I'm left wondering why a 'dodgy type' would take a photo of a building site.

The playground is under renovation, which is a good thing, but according to mister workman, a job that was supposed to be completed within a month is now - surprise, surprise - taking longer than originally anticipated. Apparently the council is averse to footing the bill for digging up the tarmac. I just hope we have a new playground by next spring.

In the mean time Little A and I will have to kick leaves in another park.

R.I.P wobbly bench.


This is the first day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next five days (Monday till Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of autumn '12. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter, and comment on each others posts...

Badge Code ...

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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.

#One Week - Summer '12 - Park Life

This is our bench. The wobbly bench. The bench we've enjoyed many of our summer picnics on, when the weather has held, and the rain-laden clouds haven't indiscreetly shared their bounty. The bench sits between two large trees in the playground of our local park. It's the bench where Piggy (me) and Bunny (Little A) come out to play .....

"Would you like a ham sandwich Bunny?"

"No Piggy."

"Oh."

"Can I have a Frube instead Piggy?"

"I guess so Bunny. Here you go."

"Can I have some crisps too Piggy?"

"Are you going to have any sandwich Bunny?"

"I'll think about it. Can I play now?"

"What about lunch Bunny?"

"I'm all full up Piggy."

"But you've hardly eaten anything."

"Come Piggy (dragging mummy from the bench). Watch me scooter."

<sigh>

I'm rather attached to our wobbly bench. Just a shame I'm not sat on it for longer than five minutes .....

This summer has seen Little A grow in her physical confidence. She was a late walker, preferring to shuffle around on her knees and all fours, until she was nearly seventeen months old. She's over two and a half years old now but has only just mastered running, albeit slowly. With her elbows tucked under her armpits, she comically resembles a little old dear as she canters across the playground tarmac. She isn't skilled at jumping either, taking shy bunny hops as an alternative leap. I see younger children with greater motor skills than hers. There's a nagging worry at the back of my mind that Little A is lagging developmentally. Do I need to be concerned? I keep reminding myself that she was a very early talker, that she's always been physically cautious, and that she will eventually catch up. Nothing is wrong I say to myself. Nothing.

Anyway, to help with her coordination we bought Little A that much desired first scooter. Initially, she was guarded in her endeavours, taking small tentative pushes, but after practise, practise and yet more practise (thank you Younger Dad), she learnt to glide with ease. It's a good thing when you no longer have to schlep the buggy to the park - just the shoulder bag and little person on the scooter.

In turn, with her new scootering credentials, Little A has tackled the municipal climbing frame with sharpened aplomb. "Go away mummy, I can do this on my woone (own)," she orders as she plants each foot and hand assuredly, and climbs up the net ladder. "Look at me mummy, I can balance on this," as I take a fat gulp while she straddles atop the highest slide...

This is the first day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next five days (Monday till Friday) I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of summer '12. Take a peep at the details here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days. And don't forget to add #oneweek on Twitter.

Badge Code ...

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