I am eating the remains of a New Year's curry. Me and her stayed in and ordered a saag bahji, saag panir, cauliflower bahji, brinjal bahji, a tarka dall, and chowed most of it down with a portion of pilau rice between us. Younger Dad, only not so young anymore (psst, he's 38 this year), saw in 2016 with his mates in Norwich. I don't do New Years Eve - give me a warm bed, a grand novel and my bed socks any day.
And today, the first day of the year, I've been rewriting this post over and over in my head, over being the salient word.
I'm throwing in the towel, taking the decorations down, closing the door. But carefully. I must take care to wrap the baubles in finest tissue, not to tread and crush out the fairy lights. Everything must be dismantled gently, stowed away with love, as I may need it all again, yes - I'm sure that I will... someday.
...this blog, this blog, what it has given me, or maybe I should rephrase that to what I've given myself.
Never thought to write, it was all a ruddy great accident at the time. But light is so often found in the darkest of corners - thank you post natal illness, thank you anxiety, thank you fear.
And I was in a muddle when I started this, when I wrote the first words. A mother to an eighteen month year old. A mother. A mother who had forgotten herself, saw the curtains drawn instead of the stars, who couldn't see beyond the bridge of her nose, the future and the journey.
One post followed another and then another.
And now... and now I am a writer, a therapist, a yogaholic. I have cut off my hair. Had a tattoo. Plan another. I am not sad or anxious. I'm in a pretty good place. I have finally made peace that I will only ever be a mother to just one beautiful child, but the decision feels right - no more doubt and vacillation, and anyway, my body clock has ticked on, and I have been lucky, so very lucky. I have clarity, the fog lifted on the road ahead. Illness has moulded and shaped me. The person I was before my daughter seems unfamiliar and unmade, just a different person I guess.
I don't call her Little A anymore. How can I? Little she ain't, the height chart, the marks on the wall confirming otherwise. She turns six at the end of this month, and I don't feel as comfortable writing about her anymore. Or maybe I've simply run out of ideas.
I am about to take a greater step back from the blogging community, a community that has supported and nurtured me and my writing. And this I do feel nervous about. I will try to read blogs when I can but I can't make any promises; time has become a squeeze, two enclosing walls - Han, Leia and Luke in the garbage room - and I must organise it wisely.
So I need to create room and sharper focus. I feel split having my creative writing divided between two blogs, and now I need to narrow this down to one.
Closure is important to me. It releases energy, expectation, while granting new ideas.
Thank you dear reader for reading Older Mum in a Muddle, for commenting - your thoughtful words and encouragement have meant the world to me. I wish you a wonderful 2016 and fulfilment in whatever projects lie ahead.
And if you wish to adjust your television set, you'll find me twiddling words on my other blog, Sadie Hanson. But never say never - a moment may arise when I'll need this space again.
My word for 2016? Bold.
Over and out.
Showing posts with label the end. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the end. Show all posts
Saturday, 2 January 2016
Friday, 15 February 2013
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....
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....
<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?
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 dayHooray
<a calm, charming interlude>Good night teddies - Good night teddies - Good night teddies,We've had a happy dayWe've had a happ-eee dayHip hip hooray
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....
.... and she repeats every line after me - heart meltingly wonderful.Night night by far,Sweet dreams by farI love youI love you to the moon and stars and back againAnd I will see you in the morningNight night by farSweet dreams by farLove you - night night.
<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?
Friday, 21 December 2012
Merry Apocalypse
Dear Angel of Death,
I nervously rolled up the blind this morning expecting to find rivers of steaming lava flowing
steadily passed the postbox. Instead, I was greeted by the sun shining so brightly, the scene before me resembled more the first dawn of existence than a destruction rendered in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Not a very dramatic start to the end of the world. Disappointed.
I enjoyed a light breakfast of cornflakes with rice milk. I didn't think it a sage idea having a full stomach when the earth quakes begin shattering our much-in-need-of-repair road into unnavigable rubble.
The doorbell rang. I felt hopeful. Could this be the shady Grim Reaper bearing his over sharpened scythe? No. It was the postman with last minute festive parcels. I duly signed for the items and as I stood on the door step, I heard a familiar sound of hooves approaching. The Four Housemen! It's happening! It's happening! But the clipperty clopperting on tarmac turned the corner to reveal the local constabulary on yet another crime busting round.
I even phoned the End Of Days hot line number 666, and not a single response...
So as I sit and wait for the end, it's given pause for thought, time to contemplate the last year of my life. Mmmm. Let's see... Breastfeeding finished. Potty training began. There was the introduction of the thinking cushion. A need for anti-depressants. A couple of blogging conferences. The Pendulati, my gravity challenged breasts, suitably rehoused. Maternity tops thrown out. Stripey jumpers bought in. Readers enjoyed my writing. My Once Upon a Time stories rocked (if I do say so myself). One Week took off. And I finally realised there really is a writer in me - shame the earth is about to melt into cosmic oblivion.
Anyway, I have packed the family bag. I thought it best to travel light, including only those practical items that should come in handy at the pearly gates of heaven - there's going to be a very, very, long queue there tonight! So, I decided upon a flask of camomile tea and freshly baked lemon drizzle cake for myself, Younger Dad's laptop - my understanding there's free wi-fi in the celestial planes - and Little A's blue teddy. Have also included toothbrushes, I don't care where I am, clean teeth are a must.
Right I'm going to dye my hair and hoover the carpets now in preparation for the final curtain call.
And if this doesn't come to pass, then I wish you all, my lovely dear readers, a very merry Christmas indeed!
OM XXX.
I nervously rolled up the blind this morning expecting to find rivers of steaming lava flowing
steadily passed the postbox. Instead, I was greeted by the sun shining so brightly, the scene before me resembled more the first dawn of existence than a destruction rendered in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Not a very dramatic start to the end of the world. Disappointed.
I enjoyed a light breakfast of cornflakes with rice milk. I didn't think it a sage idea having a full stomach when the earth quakes begin shattering our much-in-need-of-repair road into unnavigable rubble.
The doorbell rang. I felt hopeful. Could this be the shady Grim Reaper bearing his over sharpened scythe? No. It was the postman with last minute festive parcels. I duly signed for the items and as I stood on the door step, I heard a familiar sound of hooves approaching. The Four Housemen! It's happening! It's happening! But the clipperty clopperting on tarmac turned the corner to reveal the local constabulary on yet another crime busting round.
I even phoned the End Of Days hot line number 666, and not a single response...
So as I sit and wait for the end, it's given pause for thought, time to contemplate the last year of my life. Mmmm. Let's see... Breastfeeding finished. Potty training began. There was the introduction of the thinking cushion. A need for anti-depressants. A couple of blogging conferences. The Pendulati, my gravity challenged breasts, suitably rehoused. Maternity tops thrown out. Stripey jumpers bought in. Readers enjoyed my writing. My Once Upon a Time stories rocked (if I do say so myself). One Week took off. And I finally realised there really is a writer in me - shame the earth is about to melt into cosmic oblivion.
Anyway, I have packed the family bag. I thought it best to travel light, including only those practical items that should come in handy at the pearly gates of heaven - there's going to be a very, very, long queue there tonight! So, I decided upon a flask of camomile tea and freshly baked lemon drizzle cake for myself, Younger Dad's laptop - my understanding there's free wi-fi in the celestial planes - and Little A's blue teddy. Have also included toothbrushes, I don't care where I am, clean teeth are a must.
Right I'm going to dye my hair and hoover the carpets now in preparation for the final curtain call.
And if this doesn't come to pass, then I wish you all, my lovely dear readers, a very merry Christmas indeed!
OM XXX.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
