Posts (page 2)

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.

Lunch plans; cancelled, for the second time. A new friend struck down with more than her fair share of bad luck and poor health. I drive right past her house on the school run so on a whim I picked up Lucozade  and Beechams, grapes and a trashy magazine. I rang the bell but closed curtains implied she was feeling worse than her breezy, apologetic text implied. I hovered on the doorstep, debating the idea, weighing the pros of passing on a pick-me-up against the cons of appearing a little over-zealous. I’d be thrilled if someone did something like that for me, but I’m constantly reminded that we’re in a distinctly different culture, and I sometimes feel like my intentions might be misconstrued. Instinct was feisty this morning; it kicked in promptly, insisting that was mostly paranoia, so I hung the shopping on the door handle and drove away. She texted later and I was so glad I’d gone with my gut.

Hurried catch-up phone chat with a friend in the car park while avoiding being early. The realisation that we’ve both entered a different phase of life – no longer companions at mums and toddlers, but burgeoning working mamas, forging futures in small, budding ways, and trying to make space to keep our friendship while our lives branch off in new directions. Realising that this is the difference between new friends and old – experiencing some kind of change together, and allowing our lives to journey on, still touching. A resolution to meet up every Friday, and a settled sense in my stomach; that I’m no longer working up to befriending people, but have a sense of permanence and connection with people I’ve known for a year now. The smallest possible sense of ‘history,’ but history nonetheless.

Creche! For the Little Dude who Does Not Do Separation From His Mama! He astounded me. The venue for my session was unexpectedly closed, so we sought shelter in the venue that was the site of his early horror at the idea of being left at crèche without me. Being locked out meant a steady stream of friendly well-wishers, popping in to spoil him wish biscuits or just lavish attention on him and remark on how much he’s grown since we last hung out here, about a year ago. The shyness is subsiding. I joined the session – a somewhat random connection with Latin America and international conflict (!) and enjoyed meeting other mums and drinking coffee, uninterrupted. Cheesy as it sounds so much seems inspiring – even while watching a film about a project linking Irish mums with addiction problems and Mexican mothers dealing with civil war (! again!) I was thinking of features, writing, words.

‘Well Mrs, what’s the craic?’ seems to lead seamlessly to easy chat which turns into the possibility of new commissions. People act as if I’m a dark horse, as though had they known they’d have been putting work my way for ages. It’s so surreal. Learning something every day about the freelance process.

A hasty dash to collect The Boy from school, before depositing him in the crèche with his little brother. At pick-up time the crèche worker gave them both glowing reports, full of delicious detail that shows how much she’d engaged with their little souls, rather than just babysitting while they played. Lo and behold, the Little Dude’s first words on seeing me were ‘I have SO good fun in here!’ and I could have cried with happiness. Nursery in September suddenly seems like a less unlikely proposition. He also came out of crèche with a perfect local accent, made particularly bizarre later on at home by his sudden switch to speaking Spanish thanks to a library DVD of Diego, with our very own real-life Spanish friend to watch it with. The boys insist on calling her Dora, which makes her giggle in the most infectious way.

An impromptu visit to the bakers for a luxury loaf of still-hot bread, and a pair of pink smartie-topped cupcakes. More random coincides: the Spanish friend / session leader / friend through Dada’s work needed a lift to Belfast just as Dada called to say he was about to jump in the car and head straight there – so then an unexpected house-guest and a hastily-assembled lunch, glad I’d stopped off for the extra bread. A glimpse and squeeze of Dada as he flew through the house, scattering kisses, looking out laptop leads and picking up our lunch-friend and his car companion.

And now, no plans, but sunshine, and the vague idea to head out for a walk. 

Little Dude: Mama! Look up at the moon!

Mama: Wow! Isn't it beautiful! Would you like to fly up there and see the moon?

Little Dude, rolling his eyes exactly like his big bro: Noooooo! I not got any batteries, can't fly up there see the moon!

"Is it a thesis you're after writing?" he said, setting down my coffee and fixing me with a quizzical look.

With those words, a door of opportunity swung open so extravagantly that I lost my balance for a moment, blindsided by the apparent ease with which dreams sometimes sail out of dreamland straight slap bang into the middle of your reality.

We chatted a little, and I – caught entirely off-guard by the impromptu opportunity to pitch – was more real and grounded than I would have been had I worked up to the moment.

It’s an amazing buzz; the first time you say aloud the things you’ve only really pondered in your head, but better still is watching authentic enthusiasm creep its way across the expression of a stranger. So good to make an attempt at an expression of yourself, and find it makes itself at home with someone else. If words were rainbows I wasn’t sure I had the colours that I needed, but I started painting anyway, and found he had the ones that I was missing.

Before I knew it we’d made a date, and today the three of us huddled into sofas and forged our way around what they need, and whether I can help. I ordered coffee and they refused to take my change. Ideas fluttered forth, without any real effort; natural, free, and words turned into real connections and it felt like together we cleared a path where before there had only been possibilities, which though exciting, aren’t much good for walking on.

I can’t really relay the full transaction without falling into gushing glee. If I could have picked my perfect client, I would have felt I was aiming far beyond my reach in naming T&E but here I am, writing their proposal, feeling as if I find something that I wasn’t sure I had.

And with this comes such a sense of settling in at a far deeper level. They asked intently how we find the town, whether we would stick around, and we bonded over a shared sense of being strangers to this place and yet feeling so at home. It’s been a week like that so far, and it’s only Tuesday! Such good connections at a toddler group; feeling sought out and so understood; for once not the one chasing the connections, but free to sit back and enjoy being be-friended. A chance meeting that led to an invite round to lunch tomorrow, and a phone call drawing disparate strands together, giving more opportunities to settle in and find my place here. The offer of joining something in the town, complete with creche, and the chance to finally get time with someone I’ve long since wanted to get to know. Proper playdates: inviting school friends round for lunch, without their Mums! Big boys, now, or so they tell me. And then a random comment from someone having seen my name on something on the paper. “Giving to the community like that, such good signs,” or something, and I half expected her to rubber stamp me with a local seal of approval.

Today was hard: immunisations for The Boy, and I made the mistake of fore-warning him, thinking it might help. Oh how very wrong a Mama can sometimes be. A long, protracted hour at the Dr’s, pushed from pillar to post, awkward moment after awkward moment, ‘un-co-operative’ said as if he ought to have willingly obliged with an unexpected eye-test, and then screaming so loud and blood-curdling I thought I might dissolve into hysteria myself, but we survived, though I think we might all be scarred forever by the experience. A small grey cloud in an otherwise blue-sky day.

I've been starved of light, it seems.

A combination of grey days, cold spells, and a persistent urge to never be too far away from my laptop (sad, I know) have had me cooped up indoors to way too long. We were eating a late lunch / early dinner of toad in the hole when the last shards of sunlight spilled across the kitchen table, and my heart leapt at the inward sound of a soft, familiar call.

In minutes I was on the beach, car abandoned on the grass verge of the golf course because the world and its mother had all taken the same idea.  I jumped off the bottom step and sank instantly into sand, soft and forgiving, so different from the resistance of concrete and heels.

I walked away from the sun, convinced I'd already missed the best of its setting. Then gradually everything was distinctively illuminated and I turned to see the best was yet to come.

I walked a wee bit further, letting my pace and my breathing slow to match the rhythm of the tide rolling in, and then settled on a rock to eat a fresh sugared doughnut, washed down with a hot flask of strong, sweet tea.

In all the amazing efforts of mankind, I still don’t think we’ve bettered creation. Specifically, the beach. No place like it.

The water was calm but the tide rushed in, making me feel at the edge of the world and at the same time reminded of how much is out there, beyond.

My face has a sun-kissed sting, and I’m incredulous that I don’t do this so much more often.

I brought back pebbles for each of my boys, and imagined a collection; one for every time we walk by the sea, a piece of beach-art for the garden.

I love the way my mind explodes on the beach; a high-adrenaline rush of ideas, and instincts, and always this almost over-zealous urge to use my words, to wrap explanation around every part of the experience.

I resolve to buy garden furniture this summer, and spend much more time outdoors.

Driving back through town I’m excited and nervous about this week’s meeting; the chance at last for some local work, the rooted feeling that the very idea of it brings. And other words and work and writings surface; so much to be tilled, and so energised by this space.

“I made that for you,” I thought I heard someone say as the beach receded out of view, and I laughed out loud at the absurdity, arrogance even, of such an insane idea.