#One Week - Winter '14 - The Turn

This year I remembered; I bought a bright red sledge. It lent against the hall way wall for weeks and weeks. Sad. Unused.

'It's not winter yet Mummy, it hasn't snowed.'
Only wind. Only rain.
'I'm hoping it will,' I replied, silently cussing the clouds, 'there's still plenty of time.'

Is there? Do you think so? I have since transferred the sledge to Little A's garden play house, the bulbs and blossoms arriving early; pinks, blues, oranges, yellows... I'm not complaining, it's really truly lovely; but winter isn't winter without one thick dumping of white the stuff, and anyway, I'm rather partial to icicles.

I had hoped to take Little A sledging on the gentle inclines of Cassiobury Park... Scarves, woolly hats, three pairs of socks. Misty breath. Catching snowflakes in gaping mouths, on nose tips. Cold pink cheeks. And desperate times called for desperate measures; so we satisfied ourselves with indoor snowball fights - fake snowballs, crunching like the real thing, bought for Little A's birthday party - bouncing off face and limb, scattering over the living room floor. Snowballs that can be bagged and saved for envelopes of boredom...

But it's all so beguiling. It could all change; turn so suddenly. Apres ski in April anyone?

#oneweek winter '14 has proved to be such a challenge... I have struggled with ideas for posts, and the words haven't flowed easily, inspiration sorely lacking; its been such an unusual season...


This is the third and final day of the seasonal linky One Week. I wanted to say a big, big thank you to all those lovely bloggers who joined in, and those who commented, and tweeted, in support of this project.

One Week will return in spring, dates TBC. So get your cameras at the ready and imaginative hats on! For more details about One Week, take a gander here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full three days...

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#One Week - Winter '14 - Drip Drip

Indoors looking out. Everyday another shower. Every hour a deeper puddle. The rain bounced off the grass, the wind howled down the chimney; dirty pebbles bouncing through the vent in the bedroom wall, charcoal smudges on the carpet. I found myself stuffing cotton wool in my ears before going to sleep; anything to silence the wailing wolves.

'Mummy, can we play in the garden?'
'No.'
'Mummy, can we go to the park?'
'Not today.'

With the outdoors making a nuisance of itself, all noise and clatter, I forgot to have my camera at the ready. I have no pictures of the rains and floods; only a few raindrops here and there, and that's when I remembered. Will it be like this every winter? Wet and windy? Now there's a slight understatement... was a bit more than blowy, a little more than drizzle or down pour. Monsoon teardrops. Roaring tempests. Boiling seas. Breaching waters. Shakespeare would have been so so proud. Squally and riled are my descriptors for winter 2014.

We turned the corner on our way to preschool, and there it was, in our way, a flood across our road; lapping over curb, licking garden walls, rolling down mossy drive ways. We couldn't go over it. We couldn't go under it. We had to go through it. I picked up Little A, I picked up her scooter, and waded through our reflections. A car passed through, the driver's face apologetic, sending cold waves splashing against my ankles; soaking boots, soaking hem. 'Mummy, you'll have to change your trousers.' When I returned for Little A, the water still stood, flat and grey, no sign of relent.

Later that afternoon, we were caught in the body of a long long jam; a tail back that wound its way beyond a round-a-bout behind us, and down a hill in front, rear lights flashing secret code. At the bottom were clusters of bright yellow jackets, and a policeman's poker face, his arms flagging the traffic in the opposite direction, back the way we came. The river had burst. A deep sheet of water blocked the main thoroughfare into town. A large hosepipe was failing. Sandbags were being piled against doors. Frantic. Desperate. Another storm predicted the following day... Winter's ruin.

'Mummy, can we go to soft play?'
'Sorry sweetheart, it's knee deep in river.'

The garden. Well it took a battering. The fence to be exact. Half blown away in October's great storm. The rest torn by February's teeth. It's definitely our fence, Younger Dad checked. Odd having such a transparent view of our neighbour's garden; I'm sure she feels the same. A new boundary is required. Windproof. One with concrete foundation. In preparation, I spent the other weekend digging up all the plants and bulbs, transferring them to another bed; either destroying them or delaying their growth. A necessary evil I guess.


This is the second day of the seasonal linky One Week. From Monday till Wednesday I'll be posting a photograph(s) and a few words that diarises and distills my experience of winter '14. 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...

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#One Week - Winter '14 - In The Basement

This is my world. Inside another.

A favourite place.

This was my third time.

For her, a first.

Earth. I'm quite fond.

Of lava, carved away,

amber and bronze.

She prods a rock with her stick.

Outside is sun. It is hot. Blue.

Down here is a constant. Warm.

Hollow and echo.

'How deep are we Mummy?'  

I want to bottle IT, 

whatever IT is.

Unbroken. Endless. Now.  

She wonders, in awe of drops, of holes. 

You hear drums and silence.

Rhythm under sole.

Resonance in soul.

She bends beneath scarred tunnel.  

This is winter.

Underground. In the basement.

What I love. Where I should be.

'Mummy, I'm bored, can we go back up now?' 

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 winter '14. 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...

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Winter Sun

'Mummy, don't be afraid, flying is fun.'

And when I looked out of the window, down below seemed very, very far down indeed; shades of weak tea brown, white spots, threaded black lines. Over a Spanish mountain range I thought I saw a giant alligator etched in its peaks. Shapes in the earth, not in the clouds. I was nervous. Over an hour in I was still wearing the seat belt. This was my first flight since the honeymoon. It didn't matter then, it was just Younger Dad and me. Now there was Little A to consider; all week I'd worried about the plane crashing, that sequence from Flight on auto replay, over and over. I couldn't be sure if the pilot steering our plane - flight something, something, something, bound for Lanzarote - had the same skills as Denzel Washington.

How would I save Little A?

And I wasn't ready to die. My novel wasn't finished, not even the first draft.  

On the toilet, the plane hit turbulence; one hand clung to the sink, an elbow propped against the opposite wall. Balanced. Just. I couldn't concentrate, that annoying ping-pong sound and red - red for danger - image of the seat belt sign.

I returned to my seat shaken. Certainly not soothed.

'Don't worry Mummy, it's just a bit bumpy.'

And if in panic, boiled travel sweets are the best remedy by far. Half the tin had disappeared by the time the plane circled over the volcanic land of seal skin grey. Welcome to Espana.

Lanzarote is made for moon people. If you took a small jump, you might float in the air, weightless. The villages - tightly clustered, their low lying white buildings brightly off set by their dark, arid surroundings - like the out postings of an interplanetary mission. There is an other worldly beauty and grace here, empty of complication, naked, a severity of truth.

We stayed on the blustery north east coast in an eco retreat, a finca, consisting of varying sized yurts and villas. Ours was a family villa originally converted from an old water tank. The lounge housed the most ornate day bed. In fact, throughout the entire property such exquisite detail had been paid to all the decoration and furniture. There was a donkey called Molly, and well over a dozen chickens, their fresh egg yolks like baby suns.  

I didn't write. Instead, I read, flopped in the sunshine, enjoying the simplicity of words, or I spent precious time with my family, burying our feet in cool, wet sand, splashing about in the water with Little A. The temperature was perfect, like an English summer's day; it was the end of November, winter, and the time of year didn't seem real. On the afternoon of my birthday, we paid a visit to a Cactus Garden set in a circular walled enclosure. Hundreds of varieties. Aliens. Unsure of the prickles, Little A admired the various forms and shapes and colours, 'that one's furry Mummy, a silly furry cactus.'

It was an easy holiday. We woke up late, spent most mornings in our pyjamas, the odd morning scrambling a bag of essentials together for a spot of sight seeing; the Timanfaya National Park was a favourite, Little A's face pressed against the window, jaw dropped, 'WOWSERS, look at the volcanoes Mummy and Daddy, they're AMAZING.'

The afternoon's were enjoyed either on a beach - not all the sand was midnight black - or by the pool side back at the finca,Younger Dad, his teeth clenched, taught Little A how to swim in the not so solar heated water. I rediscovered the art of deep relaxation; a reflexology session and a yoga class kissed my worries away. I had forgotten, had become addicted to the tension held in every sinew and muscle. My body sighed with the release, the relief. And I remembered.

On the return flight home, I was too relaxed to care about dying.

And in the fortnight after we'd arrived home, I revived my yoga practise with gusto, and bought Little A her own mat, and DVD.

Breathe In. Breathe out...

#One Week - Winter '13 - Cold End

What I wanted was a slow, reflective winter, one of calm and stillness. A season where I could stand back and appreciate the things around me - sit bundled up, cosy, on a sofa, sinking into a good book, and a warming mug of cocoa.

What I got was anything but, and actually #oneweek this winter has been a challenge, I've hardly had chance to stand still. I've barely noticed the snow flurries. But I have felt the cold.

And at times I've lacked  the inspiration to get out and about - winter isn't my favourite season.

The last few months have been swallowed by the move - selling our flat, buying a new home, and not forgetting, the accident. Now we have the task of clearing and boxing. Contracts are set to exchange middle of March with a moving date - fingers crossed - during the first week of April.

But it has been a time for gathering ideas, and writing - lots of writing. I've made a promising start on my first novel, Four Gigs, and have begun a new blog - I'm completely insane - to help track my progress, or is that just a canny ruse for procrastination? Younger Dad has accurately observed that blogging is 'my new job'. I'm writing everyday, and I guess I'm really beginning to feel like I am a writer, a proper one. I've even booked a one day writing retreat in the East End on 10th March. Yes, that's Mothers Day, so I wanted to hole myself away somewhere quiet and do what I love the most - apart from being a mummy - writing...

And there's a lot to feel positive about my blog at the moment. It was short listed as a blog to watch in 2013 by A New Generation, and nominated in the MADS - delightful compliments!

The other day I was strolling in the park, Little A gliding ahead of me on her scooter, when I came across a blanket of yellow and purple crocuses, a reminder that spring is only weeks away. Or is it? Come March, a tug of war will commence between winter and spring - last year winter emerged the decisive victor. But the shoots are here, the daffodils early....

....oh spring, you are such a tease.

This is the final day of the seasonal linky One Week. I wanted to say a big, big thank you to all those lovely bloggers who joined in, and those who commented, and tweeted, in support of this project.

One Week will return this spring for another five days, 3 - 7 June. So get your cameras at the ready and imaginative hats on!

For more details about One Week, take a gander here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days...

Badge Code ...

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#One Week - Winter '13 - English Beauty

The other week I watched one of my favourite films, American Beauty. It doesn't matter how many times I watch this film, it always has the same impact on me. I remember, aged twenty-nine, sitting in the darkness of the Barbican theatre with my best friend, H, profoundly captivated by one of the most beautiful scenes in cinema.

It's the scene where Ricky, the compulsive film diarist, shows Janey - his new girlfriend - the most perfect thing he's ever seen; a plastic bag dancing in the wind, whirling amidst tossing leaves.

Every time I watch this moment, my soul both sings and cries. It's actually hard to describe the way this scene makes me feel, but the combination of words and music lifts me from the mundane into the very heart of truth. And there are always tears. Always.

And it's the scene where Ricky's character is transformed from superficial weirdo into poetic observer of life....

....and his words are so sublimely compelling;

"It was one of those days, when it's a minute away from snowing. And there was this electricity in the air. You could almost hear it. And this bag was just .... dancing ....with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. That was the day when I realised that there was this .... entire life.... behind things. And this incredibly benevolent force who wanted me to know that there was no reason to be afraid. Ever.

Sometimes there is so much .... beauty .... in the world. It's like I can't take it. And my heart is just going to cave in."

Sometimes, I can't contain the grace that lies inside.

Sometimes, it's so unbearably beautiful, it's painful.

Do I deserve her?

The way she puckers her mouth against my cheek. The way her arms wrap around my neck like I'm the last person on earth. The way her eyes shine at my smile. How she forgives my mistakes. How she trusts everything I say and do. How she's so happy I'm her mum.

My English Beauty. Her love releases me and kills me at the same time.

Then I remember to breathe and savour every precious drop.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once and it's too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold onto it. And then it flows through me, like rain. And I can't feel anything but gratitude."   

Lester Burnham's final thoughts - American Beauty. 

And here is the plastic bag scene I love so much...

This is the fourth day of the seasonal linky One Week. Until 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...

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#One Week - Winter '13 - Individual

Winter is such an individual. No one does it like her...

Trees that stand alone like forgotten soldiers. Buds frozen, waiting in line. The earth exposed.

There's no enmeshment of leaves and life.

I've never really considered December a part of the cold one, there's too much anticipation of candles, and wrapping paper, and mulled wine.

Then January arrives, stark with anti-climax.

But if you look closer, then closer still, there are details and clues in the drab and the dreary.

Branches that point like compass points - the new year, full of direction.

There's emerald green holly, coloured glass impressed on painted bark, a friendless pink flower that shouts, "oi, over 'ere mate, c'mon look at me!"

There's yeti prints in snow, icicles like daggers, and feathery frost on dried leaves and pointed shoots.

And then there's an exposed tree trunk - a kind of park totem - that's wrapped in glazed papier mache rings, each one a committed memory of a political hero or an ornament to the dead. 

I realise there are rings both inside and outside the bark. I wonder how much longer the external bands will age before disintegrating into paper flakes, carried on a whisper in the air. Of course the tree won't notice, will carry on regardless.  

Winter the individual, just like my daughter, who's decided she'd prefer to address her parents by their first names instead of mummy and daddy. I don't quite know how I feel about this. And I've had a few raised brows from friends, 'she calls you by your name?'

I've tried to persuade Little A otherwise but to no avail. It's first names only.

But I've convinced myself there's something quite radical, quite liberating about being addressed by my name. It releases me from the narrow confines of 'mummy' - I'm a whole person and my daughter's friend. Our bond is loosened, made flexible, creating, for me, a healthy respect for our separateness. 

Still, I blame Little A's rebellion on the winter, the season of her birth, and that she's an Aquarian -  independent to a fault.

Please call me mummy. Please. 


This is the third day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next few days (until 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 - Winter '13 - Departure

Winter.... I'm not so sure.

The dark. The cold. The emptiness.

No bird song.

Just silence.

But then...

The outlines. The silhouettes. The mystery.

The honesty. The reassurance. The solidity.

Raw, frozen earth.

Stripped away. Bare.

A love letter to the underworld.

A hug with death.

Little A asks, "what does passed away mean?"

A neighbour has just informed us about the departure of the old boy two doors down. 

He was 92. Taken by hypothermia. 

Known to all on our street. Full of stories and history. 

Independent until the winter claimed him.

"It means he's stopped working. There's another word for it - to die...

 when we get very, very old, we die, we stop working."

"Will you stop working?"

"One day when I'm very old." 

"Will I stop working?"

"One day when you are very, very, very old."

"I don't want to stop working mummy." 

"I know darling, I know."  

This was not a conversation I wanted to have on the way to nursery. 

I wasn't ready.

But Little A was. She accepted it, as children do. 

Winter forces the truth.

We cannot deny it. 

This is the second day of the seasonal linky One Week. Over the next few days (until 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 - 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...

Badge Code ...

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For Sale

Offered to anyone - ANYONE - is this curiously presented and never before seen first floor, lovingly converted two double bedroom period flat. This property retains many of it's original features like doors, windows and a tiled roof. There are plug sockets and a cooker if you should so feel domestically inclined. This charming property is centrally heated. However it's always a good idea to keep a scarf, mittens and thermal undergarments on hand, as you never know what might happen when those bitter easterly winds gust through the rafters. This rare to the market property is surrounded by transport - cars, taxis, buses, bicycles, prams to name a few, and the local skies provide wonderful opportunities for plane spotting, day and night.

So shall we take a look inside? And if you aren't partial to brown, beige or cream, here's a pair of tinted glasses to help obscure any offensive furnishings. Remember, keep an open mind, it's all about the space inside.

Take off your shoes first please, you wouldn't want their soles sullied by the glue and snot melded on the woollen mix cream carpets now would you? Attach these plastic bags to your feet, and here are some elastic bands to keep them firmly in place. Don't worry, they won't obstruct your blood flow.

So first we have this double bedroom. This is currently where the little nipper sleeps. As you can see, there are four walls and a window. Unfortunately, this property doesn't come with the spotty chest of drawers. If you look closely at the carpet you can just make out the toddler's delightful artwork, she's really created quite a subtle abstract effect with about 20 mls of calpol. See those swirls right there? I think this adds character and real depth to this property.

Next is the bathroom. Now if you don't like the clean look, and would prefer a more organic feel, just rip the whole lot out and house a bucket in the corner. You might want to keep the tiles though, stripes are apparently this season's fashion must.

Now don't you just love this master bedroom? Ah, I see you are wearing the tinted glasses. Yes, there is a lot of brown in here, but I think this gives a cosy, nay, almost muddy waterhole feel of bathing with hippos. Don't you think this really transports you to another world? Ah, a poker face I see - but I bet there's lots going on underneath? To your right, the dark caramel walls are offset by this very commonly used feature wall. Some advice - don't stare at it when you're inebriated.  And see that fireplace? An excellent spot for housing deodorant or hairspray or your alarm clock even.  

Now this is the property's W.O.W factor - this very spacious lounge. Still wearing those tinted glasses? Good for you - a sense of humour I see! Now there is so much potential here. What you could do is go completely open plan by knocking through every wall, apart from the exterior of course, erect some vertical supports - a few strategically placed columns of heavily bound cook books should suffice, we don't want the roof falling in - and create one big happy eating, bathing, sleeping, toileting space for all those wonderful memories you are sure to manufacture in this welcoming home.

And if you turn around you'll see a stair case. That's your exercise sorted. No thrombosis. No heart attacks. This flat has it all! Now would you like to accompany me upstairs?

I hope this snow flurry isn't putting you off. It's only seasonal. Remember what I said about keeping a spare set of thermals on you? Just wait till you see what this kitchen does in the summer! Now as I've already said, there's plenty of great potential in this property. If you climb out of the kitchen window you could transform an unpretentious area about three foot long and thirty inches wide into a neighbourly look-out that will accommodate one person standing, binoculars, a cup of tea and a medium sized house plant. This could indeed add further value to this property.

(There's also a fully boarded loft area, home to a hungry and constantly flatulent Gruffalo.)

As an added bonus, the sellers have agreed to leave all their take-away menus, a few freezer bag clips, the BT phone book, and a hand written address list of local cake shops in what could become your personal messy drawer.  

So how does this property grab you? Still a poker face I see. Well I need to let you know that I will be expecting a number of competitive offers come Monday morning, so you might want to have a good, hard think over the weekend.

And before you leave, please could you return the tinted glasses, plastic bags and elastic bands - I have another viewing in ten minutes.

Colour

When October showed her frostier side, it was time to brave Garmentia, Goddess of the flat pack wardrobe.

"Where have you been? When was the last time you had a clear out? Why am I still expected to house your old maternity tops, and you still think you can wear shorts?"

Garmentia had a weighty point to make. And she went on...

"Throw it all out NOW," she demanded, "I have never ever felt so humiliated, so debased! I'm from IKEA you know, I deserve better." (this wardrobe definitely has ideas above its station)

So I opened the doors and rummaged through the items on my shelf. Well it wasn't so much of a rummage, more of a cursory glance - it isn't exactly piled high with clothes. I was shocked by the lack of knitted seasonal warmers.Winter is coming and I only have two workable jumpers, and other than these sorry limp looking maternity tops, I have no long sleeve vests, or blouses, or sweat shirts, nothing.

Don't ask me why but until last week, I was still braving the damp air, icy droplets, plummeting temperatures in summer t-shirts and a thin cardigan shielded by a nearly warm jacket.

As I said, until last week, when I set out on a focused shopping expedition with just one item on my list; jumpers. Equipped with my debit card and a handbag sized bottle of water, the Westfield Centre welcomed me with open arms, and I went to work on mission woollen-chenille-cashmere mix. Now usually I have a miserable time shopping for clothes; my legs are too short or The Pendulati, my cumbersome breasts, make everything look plain wrong. Not on this occasion. Garmentia must have had favourable words with the other shopping Gods, Nextonia, Gapeodite, Markus-Spencus. There was an abundance of items and colour to choose from, and ... and I frivolously blew my savings, birthday money, Younger Dad's hard earned cash on not one but seven jumpers.

Now I tend to clothe myself in muted tones but this time I ventured into unknown territory; splashes of pink, orange and red highlighted the usual blues, greens, purples and greys. It felt good to have dipped my toes in new, brighter shades. And as you can see, I bought stripes, lots of cheery, cheeky stripes.    

Spot the odd one out

When I returned home I folded each jumper neatly upon the alter of Garmentia. She sighed approvingly...

"I feel like a wardrobe again. Thank you my dear!"

And I felt sweet relief that this winter I will neither feel drab nor dreary nor cold.

Linking up with The Gallery - this week's theme is colour.  

#One Week - Autumn '12 - And...

One Week pushes me into paying greater attention to the world around me; the colours, the changes, the unnoticed detail. But this project is turning out to be something else entirely, more than just a nature trail, it's becoming a kind of rite of passage - a personal festival - marking the events, crystallising my reflections, honing my intent throughout the wheel of the year...

This autumn, Little A has cuddled and demanded and lashed out and cuddled some more. She's rough and tumbled and tip toed and danced. She's learnt the difference between 'like' and 'not like', and used her new found understanding as sharpened weaponry with divisive aim. The other day, when I frustrated her with another "no", she retorted with, "I don't like you any more, I want my daddy instead."

I didn't take it personally, it's to be expected, but I was quite taken aback all the same.

As she races towards three, I suspect a new era is approaching, the dawning of a parental favourite...

'The age of daddy' 

I'm secretly hoping this is the case, it might let me off the hook for a while. I might capture some time to read that book, to buy that jumper, to watch that box set, to write that novel...

Meanwhile, I have written and written and attended Blogfest and caught a cold and made casserole after casserole and dreamt and laughed and moaned and upped my medication and had my greedy fingers in the biscuit tin and seen wonderful friend after wonderful friend, and realised..... it might be a rather good idea to chill my boots and indulge myself in a few worthwhile things, like reading a good book, like having a hot bubble bath, like seeing more friends, like going to the cinema, like S.T.O.P'ing and enjoying the moment with a fine glass of wine.
  

As winter beckons with bare, frozen arms, I turn to autumn to thank her for showing in such simple, fluid, colourful ways, how to reestablish my equilibrium and enjoy the fruits of this year.


This is the final day of the seasonal linky One Week. I wanted to say a big, big thank you to all those lovely bloggers who joined in, and those who commented in support of this new blogging project.

One Week will return next winter for another five days, 25 February - 1 March. So get your cameras at the ready and imaginative hats on!

For more details about One Week, take a gander here. You can join in for one, two ... or the full five days...

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_c1a4245128_m.jpg" width="225" height="169" alt="one week"></a>

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.