One major drawback of taking your 3-and-a-half-year-old to the circus, is that the following day you will need to repeatedly prevent him from trying to balance a household broom on his forehead, whilst urging his little brother to climb up it. You will also need to advise him that his baby-sized trampoline is not to be used to try and gain sufficient height to attempt to jump over his little brother, and your heart will jump into your mouth when you hear the words, "Look at me, Mum, I'm nearly at the ceiling like the flying lady!"
For this reason alone I'm deliberating over whether to take him to see Kung Fu Panda for his first cinematic experience. Can you imagine the fallout when he starts practicing his Kung Fu as well as his circus skills?
I was a little perturbed about exposing him to the, um, choice dress of the European travelling circus ladies. I spelled out a word to describe them to Dada and it rhymed with cooker. The questions he asked throughout were hilarious, and amazingly insightful. "Mama, why is that lady wearing a dress that is too small and showing her booby thing?" Fabulous question, no? I had no idea how to answer.
I’d just got home from a 2 hour driving lesson to find the house deliciously silent, when three noisy boys came crashing through the door. They were sunkissed, sea-sprayed and sand-swept, and they came bearing hurleys and a leather ball, something they’ve longed for for ages, and which Dada finally couldn’t resist. We headed straight onto the front lawn to practice when half the street started pouring out of their houses and along the road. The circus. Tonight was opening night so all seats were £7 instead of the usual extortionate £18, so on a whim at bedtime I dragged The Boy up the road for our first ever circus experience together. It was magical and fabulous and odd, and we loved it. There were heart-stopping moments when a small boy’s acrobatic routine went rock and he landed on the 6th in a row of horses that he was trying to jump over. Another trampoline acrobatic routine ended with a guy crashing through the barrier and nearly landing in the lap of a 4 year old girl. I spent more money on They Boy’s slush puppy and popcorn than I did on his ticket, and felt like a meanie when I refused his pleas that I also buy all the plastic tat that was on sale for a fortune. But when his slush puppy melted and his popcorn fell through the slats in the floor of the big top, I relented and bought him a stick of candy floss, which made his eyes light up almost as much as the dancing elephants did. The animals all looked forlorn and made me feel bad about having paid to keep them in their life of misery, and the whole thing had the strangest vibe and atmosphere to it, but still I loved it because to him it was pure magic, and it just felt like a whole different time and place. The clowns were musical geniuses, literally, and made me laugh like a loon. Fabulous. Baby Brother apparently mourned our absence and point black refused to go to sleep in his cot, insisting on sleeping in Big Brother’s bed instead. That doesn’t bode too well for next week when Big Brother will be away from home for 3 nights on a big adventure. But now, how to persuade a kid who is jacked up on sugar and suddenly obsessed with acrobatics that it’s way past his bedtime, and very nearly past mine too?
]]>...of setting yourself up as an expert in entrepreneurial enterprise, whilst not being able to actually get your butt sufficiently in gear so as to finish your business plan.
I'm not a fan of the edits on this, but here's my latest gig.
]]>There is so much good stuff out there in the blogosphere. Words that feed my soul, connect with little pieces of my heart in ways that make me feel giddy.
Sometimes I feel as though I’m tumbling through my life. I long for the capacity to capture moments, to somehow live that little bit more deeply so that entire days don’t disappear in unthinking ways. I know that everyday is not a holiday, and life is not all about the magic moments, but I do have a longing in my guts to create something special for these boys, and I feel hollow at the thought that I might be wasting moments. Of course they are grace personified, so they don’t judge. They are forgiving in the extreme. They are content to torture ladybirds on the back step while I sweep the floor of days and days of sand, and wonder if I’ve got the balance wrong.
We shouldn’t beat ourselves up, I’m reminded, and the words shine like a sunbeam straight through my heart. Oh yeah. I keep forgetting that.
Now would be a great time to run away and join the circus. It has set up camp right behind our house. We can hear elephants while we eat our breakfast, and from the garden we can see the big top being pieced together. It enthrals me, the idea that people work and live in a travelling circus community in this day and age. I want to take the boys, and suspect it will be a bitter sweet experience, and one that might be frowned upon, but it’s the circus, and it’s behind our house, of course we have to go.
Do you ever feel as though you’re not really here? I said that aloud to strangers once, and then bumped into them some months later. “So are you here today?” said the guy, smirking, and I was taken aback, unsure if he was being sarcastic, and wondering why on earth he remembered that I’d said that. I stuttered in reply and didn’t answer the question. Today, laying the boys down for a nap, I wondered why I do that. Because they need to sleep? Or because I’ve grown accustomed to the little pocket of space that comes with naptime? I don’t want to exist between the margins, I want to absorb the full chaotic glory that motherhood is, and embrace the lack of space and luxury of so much time with little budding hearts and minds and souls who won’t always be content to torture ladybirds on the back step while I sweep the floor. I want to feel like I am more fully here.
Incidentally I explained about not torturing God’s creatures but I suspect it was too late when I arrived to inspect the damage. Let’s just say that the ladybird is probably grateful for small mercies in the shape of little ladybird legs, because her wings weren’t fit for getting her out of there anymore. And I should add that Big Brother is like Dr Dolittle and wouldn’t harm a fly. Infact as the ladybird crawled over a crack in the concrete and momentarily teetered on the brink of the chasm, he winced and whispered “I felt that,” a phrase I’m sure he’s never heard but the only thing that he could say to articulate the empathy that sometimes weighs heavy on his little heart. In contrast Little Brother brought a bright yellow matchbox car crashing down upon the ladybird, shrieking “BASH!” and as I helped her to a place of safety I heard him whisper something insincere by way of consolation.
We had a weekend of good connections and easy relaxation; it felt like a holiday and I longed to capture a little of that spirit and find a way to invest it into every day. Fishing with nets in rockpools, sliding down sand dunes on body boards, laughing at the perfect logic of three-year-olds. Winning card games that I still don’t know how to play. Eating treats, making pancakes, baking. Marvelling at boys who fell asleep, exhausted, at 6.30pm, and slept right through until 7am.
I read good words and feel strangely heart-sick. I want to write like that, I think, and then I squander naptime on mindless blogging and beating myself up about not being the sort of mum that I aspire to. And what I do write seems to lack a kind of grace, and I realise that there are too many pieces of the real me in it, and that it would expose too many other people if it were to see the light of day. I take it back to the drawing board and wonder where to go from here. My guts tell me there’s another path, one that just weaves a little something through the words until they live, but that seems too good and I’m afraid to touch it incase I can’t capture that.
The sky today is a particular shade of baby-blue that speaks soaringly to me of limitless possibilities. The sky’s the limit.
I hover over the business plan, that one that won’t go quietly away into the ether, and I ask myself about who I thought I would be by now, and how this life measures up to the one I thought I’d have. It’s like stretching a canvas to fit a frame. I’m trying to squeeze ever-more from the life I live and the me I am, and sometimes it seems a futile task, but I can see the bigger picture, the canvas stretched, ready, blank, and daring someone to make the first bold brush stroke.
This afternoon we’re heading up to Dada’s place of work, to languish on the grass and soak up the comfort of having Dada near, something to alleviate the tiny touch of the blues that always descend when visitors depart. This evening we’ll eat tea together on the back step, and talk about the circus, and plot for the summer days to come.
I think this sounds melancholy when I read it back, when in truth I’m not. I’ve been afforded the luxury of appreciating with gut-wrenching gratitude the goodness that overspills all around me. I’d change nothing, I know that with conviction, and yet there’s this whisper of a little something extra that I can’t ignore. There’s more to this world than we see, I know that, and I think I hear a voice that tells me to run after the little glimpses of it that I get. I realise as I write this that we’re in the throes of a divine game of hide and seek. A sing-song voice shouts out from my soul, here I come, ready or not!
]]>Ahhh, the priceless deliciousness of days with small budding souls, one hungry for words and desperate to read, the other just plain hungry.
We had a bed-time cry-a-thon the other night. Big Brother outshone himself with the most incredible display of gracious Big Brotherliness:-
“Dada, I need to speak to Z,” he said, in earnest tones, mouth pulled into a matter-of-fact expression, hands gesturing wildly, palms upturned for extra effect. Then;
“Ssshhh, Z, go to sleep. That is the point. Then you can grow bigger, and bigger, and bigger, just like me. And then you can come to Mrs L’s class!”
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There is much talk of getting a kitten. I wonder if we’re insane. At bedtime last night he said “Daddy, I really want a kitten. Can you go downstairs and talk to Mummy about it, a little bit loudly.”
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Friends came to play today – 2 boys and a 9 month old baby sister. She sat on the carpet and played with baby toys, and both my boys were enthralled. “Baby!” shrieked the not-that-far-from-babyhood-himself one endlessly, stroking her head and tickling her feet. Big Brother cuddled and fussed around her, bringing her the best toys in the house, and cracking us up by calling her ‘sweetheart.’
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We abandoned naps today; one fell repeatedly into crying hysteria, convincing me once and for all that tantrums are mostly about kids not having enough sleep. The other passed out cold on the sofa with a chunk of apple in his mouth, and couldn’t be woken for love or money. When he eventually shocked himself awake by nearly slipping off the sofa, he looked momentarily startled before a look of surprised pleasure passed his face, and then he went right on chewing the piece of apple that had been squirreled away in a cheek while he napped. No wonder Nannie calls him squirrel chops. Cute though the nickname is, I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve had to tell Big Brother not to call other kids that, incase they don’t immediately get that it’s a term of endearment.
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I had a driving lesson that mostly consisted of 2 hours of chatting and gossiping with my instructor, and about ten minutes of actual instruction, most of which could be summed up as ‘Your driving’s fine and your last examiner was a meanie.’
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This evening we walked in the woods in the rain, enjoyed a two-way conversation with a sheep, and learned that wool is used to make socks and jumpers and blankets, and not milk as was originally thought. Tonight we sat by the fire and mused over the gate that is small, and the narrow way that few find but that leads to life. We burned our ticket to easy street, and wondered what it means to seek first the kingdom of God...? Then we drank tea and ate ginger nuts.
]]>If you ever need a reason to be cheerful, try telling a 3-and-a-half-year-old the story of the day he was born. Our noses were practically pressed together, snuggled in his bed in the darkness. His eyes were so wide it was comical, and he giggled in such delight at the details that I thought my heart might just implode right there and then. Tomorrow I’m going to dig out the home movie we have of the day we brought his brother home, a story he loved almost as much as the re-telling of his own arrival. I had to peel myself away. Those are the BEST bedtimes, when lights out comes with a reluctant sigh on both our parts, and I momentarily consider keeping him up just because he’s some of the very best company I know.
As I crept down the stairs he called after me softly; "Muu-uum?”
“Yes, honey?” I said, over my shoulder, wondering which tactic he would use to delay sleep for as long as possible tonight.
“You are so, SO blee-utiful.”
That right there is a Kodak moment of the soul.
]]>or at least of my day.
So far we've survived the lurgy day by relaxing all the rules; strewning toys all over the living room floor, watching more TV than usual, and grazing on pancakes and fruit and toast instead of sticking to proper meals. Both boys had a huge 2 hour nap (that’ll be to make up for the sleepless misery that ensued from 4.30 this morning, then) while I did not much at all. It’s actually been deliciously relaxing and I am really beginning to love the lazier pace of the summer holidays so far.
Anyway things were j-u-s-t beginning to teeter towards the fraught end of the scale. I’d planned on baking a pineapple-upside-down cake with the boys this afternoon, figuring that they’d love the mess and creative mayhem, plus there’s nothing like a bit of retro stodge to cheer up a rainy, lurgy-filled day.
Except The Boy suddenly decided it was time to play on his body-board, which in itself was fine, except he clearly intended to use it to surf over the bucket of toys that we’d upended on the living room floor earlier. I stashed the board out of reach and insisted on a tidy up before he could get it back. He whined and moaned and showed no signs of willingness to co-operate. My head began to pound and I could see the baking adventure going by the wayside in favour of some brain-numbing, whine-silencing TV.
And then, lo and behold, the doorbell rang and the tell-tale absence of anyone visible through the glass in the door heralded the fact that wee Jamie had come to play. “He can only come in and play if you tidy away all the toys from the living room floor,” I said. “Let’s go!” said Jamie, ever keen to please and do whatever I command in order to ensure getting in the door and access to the glory of the playroom. “Wooooah,” he said, at the sight of the floor COVERED in toy vehicles. “You’ve had a busy day. My Mummy NEVER lets me leave my toys about the floor, this is amazing.” And then he pretty much tidied up my kids’ mess while I urged them to do at least a little of the work. And now I’m about to put my feet up and read my book with a steaming cup of tea while Jamie takes the boys off my hands for an hour, listening to the sound of them playing harmonious in the glory of the playroom. Genius.
]]>He’s kneeling in his favourite spot on the sofa, wedged up beside the arm, on which he’s perched my filofax. A small green pencil is poised in his hand, in perfect writing mode. He shoots me a hurried glance as I come into the room, fresh from singing little brother to sleep, but feeling anything other than fresh. The lurgy has got me again. It feels like the same old bug, recycled every few weeks, leaving me feeling just that little bit worse each time. Swollen glands, stiff neck, scratchy throat, thumping head. What I wouldn’t give for a duvet day, but as every mother knows, there’s no such thing as calling in sick. My bed taunts me, Egyptian cotton sheets still smelling like clean laundry, a book that I’m deliciously engaged in. Instead I haul myself around the house, fixing comfort pancakes and drinking too much coffee, sneaking in a spoon of sugar in the hopes it will pep me up.
“I’m doing your diary,” he says, in a tone so endearingly grown-up and nonchalant that I wish I could press pause and freeze him in this very moment, so full of character and fun. Bursting with imagination, charming in every way. This kid makes you want to be his friend. I’d like him even if he wasn’t mine. I say like because love is a given in parenthood, whereas sometimes I’m a little less inclined to like them, but just now I like them in ways that are more profound than even loving them.
“My diary?” I say, holding back a smirk and keeping the laughter out of my voice. If there’s one thing he doesn’t appreciate just now, it’s being laughed at. It happens every day, random strangers notice something cute and laughter flutters out around him, but he’s just being him, so it confuses him and he doesn’t like not understanding the dynamics, so he shouts “Not funny!” and sometimes even spits – his way of fending off the admirers and ensuring they don’t get too close. We naughty step him for the spitting and make him apologise, but inwardly I know it’s nothing more than a little toddler insecurity, the equivalent of a dog barking at a stranger. He’ll grow out of it, and probably even learn to milk the laughter and attention.
“Yes. To remember what you need in the shops. Some eggs and toast.” There is nothing he does not see, or copy.
He scribbles ever so carefully on the note pages of my diary. I used to be so precious about my things, especially any of those related to words or writing, but now I gladly offer up the accoutrements of a grown-up life to little souls who see them as they best kind of playthings. He pauses, mid-shopping list, and slides the pencil behind his ear, in classic builder-style.
“I can put my pen behind my ear, look!” he says, eyes wide, and then quietly, to himself; “Just like my Dad,” (who is not a builder, but is woefully prone to losing his favourite pen.) Then he continues with the task in hand, “Toast... and eggs.”
We learned this morning that he can zip up his hoodie by himself. I was amazed and I don’t know why. Now I think about it, it seems like something a three and a half year old should be able to do, but when he learns these things without my input they always take me by surprise. I’m reminding myself to hold back more and more these days. Sometimes it’s tempting to do things for him that he can do himself, like getting dressed or washing his hands, because it’s quicker if I do it, but it’s such a boost for him to have these little independent victories, so I hold back and watch him reach further and achieve more every day. And quick is over-rated anyway.
Likewise, little brother can count to ten and I don't feel I've even tried to teach him that. Everywhere we go people make a fuss of his skills with a ball, and I smile and refuse all credit. He tries to swim in the bath, and in the pool it feels for all the world like he could swim right out of your hands and start doing lengths, if only you'd stop holding him back. He's all about being physical in every way, even sleeping with a football, while it's all about the words and creative imagination for his brother, who asks to sleep with a football too, because he doesn't like to be left out, but he'd rather play rescue helicopters or racing cars than anything as dull as kick a ball.
Together they weigh 4 stone 4 lbs and though I still sometimes perch one on either hip, I’m reminded every time I lift them that they are growing up. Their drawers are full of clothes that do not fit, and I feel a strange response to see The Boy’s wrists poking out from the sleeves of t-shirts that that are too short. His clothes at half mast make him look vulnerable to me, and only accentuate the rate at which he’s growing. I want to take him shopping, replace the babyish tracksuit bottoms that were the mainstay of his playgroup days with more boyish jeans and hoodies. This week I bought him Spiderman crocs and at first he was appalled, refusing point black to go anywhere near them, eyeing the spiderweb prints with a mixture of fear and loathing. On the way home from a party, while he was high on juice and adrenalin, I told him they were special shoes, and that when he wore them he would be able to jump really high, just like Diego. He couldn’t wrestle them on fast enough. Once at home I played him clips of the Spiderman movies and he was enthralled. I’ve been trawling ebay for the animated DVD’s and can’t wait to share the superhero world with him.
I notice as I write this just how much I’m motivated to spend money, which is infuriating. I hold back from impulse-buying Spidey films and brand new jeans, or running shoes to make my efforts smoother. I scold myself for considering a take-away for our date night, feeling disinclined to cook. I shoot from the hip, dreaming up schemes without due thought, trawling job ads and wondering how to change our status quo, biting my nails and letting anxiety in, forgetting that there’s another way, that’s counter-intuitive and means seeking other things, trusting that as we do that everything else will be taken care of, in ways that can't really be explained. And then, he sidles up beside me and says, out of the blue, “It’s so nice to have you home with us, Mum, and for Daddy to go to work for us,” and in a heartbeat all our choices are re-affirmed, no matter how unsustainable they sometimes seem. And I remind myself that this is not forever, that things will change and they will keep on growing, and we’ll find ourselves in a very different place. What matters is the responsible decisions, the firm grasp of reality, but most of all the seeking of those elusive ‘other’ things. And I realise as I sit surrounded by toys and the debris of my daily life with toddlers, that many of those other things are here beneath my feet, and that by investing here, I’m storing up treasure that can't be stolen and won't decay. I know I prefer that kind of bling any day.
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I had my first real twinge of home-sickness today. I mean I’ve missed people consistently since we moved here, but never before had that sorry-for-your-self-nothing-will-quite-put-it-right longing to be home. I don’t even know what I mean by home – not necessarily my parents’ house, and definitely not any particular address we had in London – more an overwhelming sense of nostalgia for the people and places that were special to us before we started life here. I soooo wished I could have called my Mum and popped over there for some cake and a cuppa, and it’s not like I could EVER do that when we lived in London, because we were too far away for that kind of dropping in, but I just had the strongest desire to drop in. And then kept recalling all the mornings I spent hanging out with my dearest friends, our kids usually killing each other while we tried not to lose our rags and struggled on valiantly with the effort of enjoying our coffee and chat. It’s so definitely not that I want to go back to London, and it’s nothing to do with how I feel about being here, I still absolutely love everything about life here, and wouldn’t go back if you offered me a million pounds or a lifetime of free shopping at Top Shop. Ok well maybe I’d think about it for that. But seriously, then it dawned on me that home-sickness is a positive thing in that I think it can only surface when you’re truly planted somewhere new. I think I’m ‘free’ to indulge in the odd bout of home-sickness now because goodness gracious my first born is about to start school here, and for that and a million other reasons we are as ‘at home’ here as I think it’s possible to be. I can’t explain what I mean, but it’s a good thing. And I bit the bullet and ignored some of the cultural differences and just called up all a bunch of friends and arranged a day at the beach all together tomorrow – the perfect antidote to home-sickness. And then. Then this gloriously good woman sent me a ginormous pack of PG Tips and my stash ran out yesterday! In fact I suspect the home-sickness might actually have just been the normal reaction of a woman who has run out of her must-have teabags. I nearly cried with happiness, and as ever a nice cup of PG has made everything better. Thanks SM, you rock.
]]>So used to say my Grandparents on their flying visits, delivering free food from Marks and Spencers that had reached its sell-by-date. They distributed it to homeless guys but we used to get a mercy crate just for us enroute to the great unwashed. That seems wrong, now I think about it, that those delicious iced yum-yums that I LOVED should actually have been making some (literally) poor soul happy, but oh well. Anyway. There is a point here somewhere. Ah yes: there are never enough hours in the day so I can’t stop for long... I’m trying to nail my weekly aspirations to write and exercise, so something’s got to give and it is apparently blogging and laundry. My word count and the milometer on the treadmill are going up most satisfactorily, though, so thems the breaks. Can’t remember when I last mopped the floor either, actually, and it’s starting to taunt me.
It feels like such a juggle - to press through to actually make some progress on the things I daydream about, it seems like something else has to go by the wayside. I’m stretching to embrace that, trying to understand what living in the moment means, without going too yogic. Trying to make time for the important things and learn to work with the frustration of not enough time for the other things. Feels like we’re still trying to work out how to be grown-ups too, and adjusting to the fact that somewhere along the line we became parents with all the responsibilities, pressures and blessings that that entails. Sometimes I think we’re literally teetering on the brink of financial ruin; other times I’m amazed at how much we have, and how happy we are.
We had a day like something straight out of the Famous Five today, complete with walks along the river, unexpected spotting of wild deer in a field, and more ladybugs than you could imagine could fit on a single leaf. Plus splashing in the fountains and getting the bus home, sopping wet. Bright blue, bubble gum flavoured ice lollies. The Boy got his first sting from a nettle and was enthralled with the docken leaf remedy. The sun shone fit to split the sky. We laughed, were in fabulous company, and got dragged into a neighbours for coffee and brioche on the way home. Delightful. More days like this please. And a few more pennies in the bank and hours in the day, while you’re at it.
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