15 posts from February 2009

... no-one's at home. I'm hanging up my blogging boots! Fear not, grandparents; the boys' adventures shall continue in another form, especially for you, but other than that I'm signing out. Bye bye, blogosphere!

I keep trying to remember the kinds of childrens' stories you can tell off the top of your head. But there seems to be a lot of sinister detail in everything from Hansel and Gretel to The 3 Little Pigs, and I have boys who are super-vivid dreamers. If you read them Aliens in Underpants at bedtime you'd better be prepared to go on alien watch at 3am, so wolves huffing and puffing and wicked step-mothers are all out. Anyway. I was making up my own version of the 3 Little Pigs during bath-time and The Boy's imagination was going haywire and he was getting VERY animated at the idea that he has a Mama who can Make Up Stories In Her Head All By Her Own Self. And then he declared himself to have a brilliant idea, and uttered this sentence, which I ADORE for how perfectly it captures the essence of what he sees as his parents' strengths:

"You and Dad could teach us everything you know! So Dad could teach us how to drive cars fast and you could teach us how to read stories! Wouldn't that be a brilliant idea?"

I concurred, and then asked what he could teach me in return, and there followed the most lovely monologue about all the many things he knows about, including trucks and Wall-E and Woody and aeroplanes and cars and running really fast. So that's settled then. We're going to spend the rest of our lives teaching each other everything we know. Not too sure what he thinks I've been doing all this time up until now though?

'Along the way you bump into people who make a dent on your life. Some people get struck by lightning. Some are born to sit by a river. Some have an ear for music. Some are artists. Some swim the English Channel. Some know buttons. Some know Shakespeare. Some are mothers. And some people can dance.'

Mama: Boy, you are ADORABLE.

Boy: Does that mean 'I love you and you're a bit funny sometimes?'

Mama: Precisely.

Boy: I thought so.

I was in the pool this morning by 7.30am, stretching limbs that do too little in the way of exercise these days. "This time is as much about relaxing as getting fit," I excused myself, clambering out of the pool and sinking into the jacuzzi before chasing off the last of the bronchitis in the steam room. The other women there were complaining that the water was colder than usual but even if it was I couldn't care. That's SUCH a good way to start the day.

By the time I was home Dada already had everyone dressed and ready to go, so we took him to work before the nursery school drop-off, and already at the time of the morning there was a hint across the sky of what was to come. I tried valiantly to work this morning but the time / identity pressure is a tricky one to wrangle and I didn’t make much progress. Then it was pick-up time and we detoured on the way home, gate-crashing the end of mums and toddlers at the irish school. Coffee and chat and decorating biscuits and such a sense of being welcome and known, and then singing in Irish and checking out the treasure of the state-of-the-art toy library bus before heading home for lunch. By which point the sun was splitting the rocks so we packed the lunch in our trusty nappy bag and headed for the beach. We trekked across the sand, aiming for the bridge out over the rocks. By the time we got there we had become Diego, Dora and Boots, and the bridge was our ship, and we were running late. We made it just in time to eat lunch on the sun deck and then we sailed away to Scotland, apparently, before returning to harbour. More trekking across the sand and then an impromptu game of jumping off the life buoy stand. The Little Dude was fearless, balancing precariously on a ledge, with an assured, instinctive feel for his own centre of gravity. The Boy was more cautious but just as adventuring in spirit. I tried coaxing him gently into letting go of my hand, but he was having none of it. “Jump!” I shouted in encouragement, and he sort of stumbled half-heartedly off the edge, both hands in contact with something stable all the time. “That wasn’t jumping!” I said, to which he replied with a customary roll of his eyes and said “No, it was falling in style!” and I laughed so hard I thought I was going to split my sides. Back to the car for our now traditional flask of hot chocolate, and now we’re at home with one bundled up cosy snoozing in the car, and the other languishing on the sofa.

I love days like this; I feel poignantly grateful that I’m the one sharing my boys’ days with them, and so, SO glad for the gloriousness of a beach in sunshine after so very many months of hibernation.

It’s not a fabulous film. I wanted to love it but I just couldn’t. It's like they were aiming for Forrest Gump but fell short.

Champagne in the post, a joke between friends. Laughing that I instinctively placed it in the fridge, expectantly, awaiting a reason to celebrate.

Rediscovering tea made in the pot, served in bone china cups. In family wedding china, no less. Bringing the precious into the everyday, making memories in the forgettable parts of daily life. Making a habit out of setting a tray and carrying it through to the playroom. The tray is distinct, a present from my Mum. I resolve to buy the accompanying china. Must start with the milk jug; currently the yoghurt pot full of milk is letting down the ensemble. Savouring the care and indulgence of tea like this, so much better than clutching a luke-warm mug.

Highly-strung boys. Unsure how best to accommodate their tiredness. Thinking a few days away would be nice. Pondering the possibilities for Dada’s week of leave that must be used up.

Invoices to be sent! Laughing at my lazy-ass ways about that, marvelling that I have income to claim for the month, that exceeds the hopeful budget we’d aim for, if I was making an effort.

Need to make an effort. Work to be followed up. Half-heartedness; energised by the realisation that I can earn a crust like this, but conscious that I have not a single formal hour of the week in which I am not responsible for the care and wellbeing of a little person. Stuck a little between a rock and a hard place. Suspect the best thing to do is keep moving, keep up the momentum, tackle the time challenge as and when they hit.

Throwing an egg at my husband in a public place. Being applauded. Laughing, embarrassed afterwards, and having to reassure little souls who don’t see much egg-throwing between their parents. Explaining that throwing eggs can sometimes be a way of showing affection. Anticipating trouble to follow. Promising an egg fight in the garden in the summer.

Making lists of intentions. Chimney sweep. Dentist. New fire grate. Storage solutions. War on plastic junk. Paint. Decent gloves all round.

Knuckling down to an evening of work, by candle-light, tea tray to hand, of course.

If I do not move, I do not cough. Hence, I am not moving.

It sounds idyllic but you need to be well to enjoy languishing in bed. Sick-beds are no fun at all. I fight the urge to get up and dressed. Even when the boys were tiny I was no good at the mysterious art of resting. It bores me and being restless makes me grumpy. But the thing that proves to me that I’m unwell is how willing I am to lie still in bed, not even reading, just trying not to cough. I can't even rouse myself to tackle the pile of commissions that I'd normally jump at the chance to sink my teeth into.

It’s a beautiful day to be on the beach but I know I wouldn’t make it to the shower before the burning spasms in my lungs would send me scuttling back to bed. So instead I’m admiring the blue sky from my bedroom window. It’s glorious out there; turquoise brushstrokes across the sky contrast with a looming snow-dumped mountain peak. The snow has been so peculiar here. We’ve had swirling maelstroms that seem to last forever, but the snow never settles, except on the hills which hem us in like henchmen breathing icy air down upon us.

The sight of Scottish hills across the sea has been breathtaking, groaning under the weight of several days of snow. “Can we see Nanny’s house from here?” says The Boy, reminding me that He Does Not Forget A Thing, and recalling to mind the random beach-side photo shoot we did some months ago, and how I tried to talk the boys into keeping their eyes fixed firmly out to sea to make sure the photo stayed anonymous. We discuss ways to get to Nanny and I address the misconception that she’d be standing on the beach if only we could get across the water. We agree that being far away from the people that we love is sad but that it also means we enjoy a special relationship when we get together. He gets this instantly, and already has a sharp sense of ocassion for one so young. “But I still do miss Nanny very much,” he adds quietly from the backseat, and I know it’s not just words, you can hear the yearning in his little heart.

The week was good, despite the growing rattle in my chest and weariness in my bones. I hung out with a friend the other night and stepped into a deeper sense of being known. It’s strange how building new friendships reminds me of old ones. It’s as if I instinctively assume life can only accommodate a finite number of relationships. I realise that’s not true, and have so enjoyed the feeling that I’m no longer forging new connections but letting friendships weave themselves into easy being. I sense I’ve made a friend for life; it’s like we’re in the process of catching one another up on the stories of our lives thus far, and it’s both weird to recount who I’ve been, and strange to try to pull the past into my sense of the now, in order to paint a picture of who I am. We drank red wine out of china tea cups while our husbands, back home at our house, supped beer from bottles and went for the altogether more manly pursuit of watching an action film.

I’m trying to say that I’ve felt connected to this place this week, far more than I’ve felt before. I’ve always known a sort of soul connection to the place but I’ve missed the pull of people that make you feel like you belong. That feels like it’s all around us now. Still new and budding, but I love the spring it puts in my step and the confidence it seems to trickle into my daily life. I feel quite at home.

There’s never a smooth way to start a sentence about your therapist, but here it is. My ‘therapist’ has been morphing into something of a friend. He used that word, not me, and I shifted comfortably in my seat and felt agreement. He hints at having known deep loss and sorrow and I wonder if our new ‘friends’ distiction makes it ok for me to ask him about those things? He asked me, tentatively, gently, if I’d consider bringing in some pieces of my writing next time and inwardly I laughed, because I’d been wondering if it would seem arrogant to offer them to him. Another fleeting thought had skittered past, about whether he’d ever meet the three fine boys in my life, and then he raised it as a small idea, and I was pleased. And yesterday I felt he stepped out from the sometimes-benign role of therapist and volunteered a stronger sense of personal opinion than I’ve known him share before. I’d spilled my guts – a clutch of triggery moments in the week had caused angry thoughts to erupt so I went armed with every single one, determined to put them out there once and for all, but not daring to expect a verdict. Instead he made his clear and it made me heart sing. He’s rooting for a man he’s never met, encouraging me to live out the hope and grace that sometimes twinkles (dully!) in the depths of who I am, and persuading me to believe the best and live as exuberantly as I know how. There are other options, and he steers me gently from them. Strangely I find his opinion matters more than any other. He’s a sweet man who reminds me of my Grandfather, Poppa, and who on first glance might not fit your expectations of a ‘therapist’ but I love that he sees fit to speak with such direction into my concerns, and most of all I love that he says what I hoped to hear, but didn’t think I would.

My husband orders that I stay in bed. He brings me episodes of Greys Anatomy that do my spirits good, and offers tea and toast and boiled eggs. I could get used to this.

Bronchitis. OUCHY. Nothing more to say.

Buying a bouncy ball for your 2 year old, the exact shape and size of an egg, is not advisable. Specifically, it's not advisable to make said purchase and then leave a box of actual eggs within reach. D'oh. Messy is not the word but oh how it must have felt good. I can only imagine the synapses firing durning that little science experiment. Does this one bounce? No. This one? No. Let's try one more. No. And one for luck. Ah well. Mommeee! Eggs are broken! They not bouncy, they go CRACK.