Death, distraction and dandelions

When Ida sleeps she usually flings her arms up above her head – It’s hard to describe but she has the air of a very relaxed hipster sprawled over a heap of stuffed animals like a Shoreditch dragon stretched over her hoard.

And yes – she’s back in the cot although happy enough in the lower bunk – that’s a whole other post.

I know quite a bit about her sleeping habits as I’ve taken to spending  time next to her whilst she’s sleeping. This is partly to remind myself how much I love her, easier to remember when she’s not trampling over me in her bid for world domination. Also it’s because I’m in a quite a reflective mood recently.

Steve’s dad, stepdad, passed away recently. He had Alzheimer’s and was quite frail but it happened unexpectedly after a fall and a bad reaction to general anesthetic –  and very, very – as anyone who’s sat by a similar bedside will recognise, quickly.

The death certificate says pneumonia but as we said to Zeph whilst stroking the back of his head – he was just tired and the springs had wound down.

Now I’m no stranger to the complexities of dealing with death, many of my ponderings I’ve shared here before; here and here but once again I find myself wrestling with big questions from my lovely boy.

In  a recent early morning he raged at me, pummeling and kicking in frustrated anger – demanding I promise the cancer will never come back. Which of course I can’t, especially since my particular, highly treatable, flavour is high recurrence.

I have to bear it, shoulder the anger – cup the punches and stroke his back keeping up the murmur. The I love you, it’ll be okay, even when it isn’t murmur.

I know exactly where he’s coming from. Don’t we all? The sudden overwhelming urge to gather up all the people we love and hold them still. To freeze them in this moment so they come to no harm.

So they come to nothing at all. No change, no  danger, no growth. No living – no life. Hard as it is you have to unclench that fist. Because death is not waiting for us at the end of a line – it’s traveling along with us. Being alive is moving through your days with death right next to you. The other side of the coin.

Still, it’s a big life event and as such is rippling my pond. Watching Steve dealing sensitively with Zeph while struggling with the legacy of losing his biological father at a similar age. Recognising his sadness at the loss of someone from his life and a piece of his childhood gone. Sadness for his mum and family and sadness at certain gulfs that line difficult relationships.

Remembering that his default position is to retreat and not talk and mine, after serious therapy, is to talk talk talk it out. That neither way is the right way although an ocassional meet in the middle is good for both our souls.

The funeral was last week and Zeph was very sure he wanted to go and so he came. It was a lovely service - fitting for a very quiet gentle man. At one point we listened to a recording of him singing a solo at a past christmas concert.

The poignancy of listing to his sure voice while he lay in his coffin at the front of the church was very nearly unbearable. At the end of the service Zeph and I went to sit in the churchyard to collect ourselves.

“It was my favourite bit and the worse bit” he said. I just nodded, feeling, as I do now, as I write about it, my eyes prickling painfully. Sometimes our digital age seems crudely cruel. Like magnets pushing at each other it seemed indecent to have hearing him and to never yet hear him brushing shoulders in almost physical collusion.

I try hard not to avert my eyes and talk openly to Zeph. He seems hyperaware of the frailty of life. Every day seems a balancing act of talking about it yet not obsessing about it. Making allowances and setting boundaries.

Mostly I feel not up to the task. Never has the mantra of being good enough is good enough been muttered more fervently as I spread myself ever thinner.

I also have taken to watching him in his sleep as well. Parenting sleeping children is a piece of cake. We’ve also been reading this picture book.

Death, Duck and the Tulip which I’d whole heartedly recommend.

As always most hours are filled with Beautiful Things. This weekend particularly has been lit by the most glorious sunshine. An afternoon of constructing a cardboard robot costume with Ida is hugely satisfying and baking brownies with Zeph soothing with a satisfying end result.

My peony is covered with fat buds and the garden is full of forget me nots and dandelions.

I am very fond of dandelions.

Drops in the desert and depression awareness week *waves pom-poms*

I really, really must break my blogging drought.

I’d like to break it with something pithy, witty or maybe a useful tute or recipe.

I fear this is unlikely…

I would like to share this link the wonderful Rachel from Growing Things and Making Things left in a comment. I genuinely think watching Henri has got me through recently – I regard it as medicinal. We’ve all started soundtracking any gloomy moments, I caught Zeph doing it while regarding his toothbrush this morning. Brilliant.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q34z5dCmC4M

It was  a brilliant week away – new foods were tried, museums and galleries visited. Plenty of bus and tube travel racked up – a fair amount of mooching. Nitro ice-cream was eaten. Zeph and I saw this;

http://www.auroraorchestra.com/event/peter-and-the-wolf-live-2/

Steve, J and Ida got to hang around on the Southbank in the rain waiting for us. Ida and Zeph threw tantrums. Ida sat down a lot.

I had some amazing cakes made for my birthday;

Lemon,strawberry and peppermint. Together – fantabulous. Honestly – you’re going to hear Heston chatting about them pretty soon I think…

In other news – did you know it’s depression week? – well more accurately, depression awareness week. For once I’m way ahead of the game. In case you’re not and you’d like to be more so this is a great link:

http://www.depressionalliance.org/

Depression touches all of us, I mean – you know more than five people right? - it is serious yet not the end of the world. There is help if you need it, as usual there could be more. Worst of all is the shame associated with all mental illness.

Speaking out and sharing is what scares the shame spectre away.

I live with depression, I suspect I will all my life. I am capable, strong and resourceful, my life has moments of immense joy and frequent flashes of happiness which I treasure.

I medicate and apply structures and routines that help me. I am grateful to still have my life, I value it. Depression is one part of me, it is not all that I am but I see no reason to be ashamed of it or hide that aspect of me.

The garden is looking beautiful, lots of fresh green and blossom. The showers mean everything is gleaming. The clematis that has clambered up the eucalyptus is turning its palest pink flowers to face the brief shards of sunshine. It twines serenely through the wind thrashed branches. My washed out bunting flaps wildly, we’re all waiting for sunnier days.

I’m sure they’ll be here soon.

 

 

Packing mayhem

Oh my life, I’m taking a break from packing.

Things should get easier now Ida’s gone to bed as I won’t have to keep fishing her additions out of the bags. So far this evening I’ve retrieved a rollerskate, a wooden spoon, the box of paints and Zeph’s wetsuit that no longer fits him. All useful items in some other scenario I’m sure but unwanted for five days in London with Julianne.

We’re all highly excited and I’m sure there’ll be tears at some point. I’ve tried not to over think stuff which is something I do a little. Maybe I went too far the other way as today has felt a little hectic.

Hectic but full of brilliant stuff and so many Beautiful Things it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. Mum and Dad came for pickled fish lunch today to plant out the potatoes and distribute easter and birthday presents like very Boho easter bunnies. It was a hugely happy afternoon and the sun shone bountifully on some very focused potato planting.

The potato race between the kids is becoming an established ritual. They each get a bag and the same amount of chitted treasure. When the plants are ready we harvest each bag with forensic carefulness and count up the bounty. The bag with the most tubers (regardless of size) wins.

We have ready, set and gone – only a few months to wait. Zeph believes he has this years edge with a sprinkle of ground volcanic rock mixed in with the compost. I reserve all judgement.

My mum dressed up in the gardening apron with the string pocket I made her last year and Ida spent a long while eyeing it up covetously. I’m thinking of running some up for the summer craft stalls.  String dispensing pockets are actually very useful.

Our lizard has been unwell so we’re glad to see him looking a bit more sprightly and eating more. I feel happier about leaving him for a while and Zeph has stopped checking he’s still breathing every hour or so. He shot into the bedroom earlier in the week at about 6.30 am shrieking he thought Sticky was dead. I leapt to my feet, raced downstairs half asleep, missed the last few steps and knocked my arm out of its socket on the door jamb. I was sick on the floor from the pain and Steve had to come down, avoid the sick, push it back into its socket, ice me up and clear up. All under the watchful gaze of a bemused lizard who’d been enjoying a nice nap.

I’ve been on full strength drugs all week and quite enjoyed the cotton wool cloud feeling. I know I can’t let it go on too long though so have brought my dosages down which has resulted in a bit of evening snappiness.

I think the kids were quite glad to go to bed tonight and I’m sure Steve would’ve liked to have joined them. Too bad beardie - we’ve got rucksacks to fill…

I think the blossom will be over by the time we’re home again. The plum-tree was frothy with white flower frills today but the liquid green leaves are overtaking it. There’s very little on the apple tree this year but the crab apple is covered in deep pink buds. I hope there’s some left on Thursday these crimson lake edged petals are thrilling.

The peony’s first bud is showing as well – I can NOT wait! I do love my  blowsy ephemeral peonies so much.

I’ve bought a phone to go away with as well. The cheapest I can find which is ten pounds.

TEN POUNDS. Honestly – I feel ludicrously old. How can a mobile phone – okay it’s hardly flashy – but it’s perfectly functional - be £10 and a stamp  is now 60p. Or a Snickers bar which is, in my mind, about 27p be 89p!! I nearly drop my purse everytime I’m conned into chocolate bar purchasing in our corner shop BUT a phone – a mobile, walking around, put it in my pocket, startrek future, phone is TEN POUNDS.

It all seems wrong. Is this because I’m old?

Anyway I’ve finally mastered how to answer it and we’ve uncovered our oyster cards. I’ve tracked down enough clean socks and hole less pants in case of road accidents for us all. We have toothbrushes and new paste. I’m having a minty fresh break from the salty stuff. Ida is over her horror at being presented with a tube of Hungry Caterpillar stuff. I thought she’d be pleased, she thought I was a monsterous, caterpillar grinding ogre. Surely this is all we need?

Look out Big City…

End of term and a pep talk

Easter is nearly upon us, how the hell did that come round so quickly?

Today is the last day of term which means a 2pm pick up. Now I have never actually forgotten to pick him up. Although I’ve had a couple of oh christ - I nearly forgot – quick!  out the door and run moments. For some reason these memories make me jumpy and I keep checking my watch and skipping from task to task making more muddles.

This morning we watched the screening of the Bollywood film Zeph and his year group have been working on all term. All their teachers had dressed up, they had chairs set out like a cinema and cups of popcorn. At the end they gave out Oscars. It was not without technical hitches but loud, exciting and joyful. Exactly how I think school should be. I came away hugely cheered and Ida hopped and jigged all the way home.

She can’t wait to go to school and I have to retrieve her from the going in line in the mornings. Very different to my school experience and long may it last.

Unsurprisingly the morning back here has been a bit flat – especially since I’ve tried to impose a little order. Not something you would glean from a quick glance. I’ve been reading a friends flylady progress and feeling the need to return to some of those structures. I’ve talked about my attitude to chores and tidying many times before and without being picky I can see the need for a bit of decluttering and imposing some system scaffolds in my jumbled corners.

I need to stop procrastinating and start a bit of doing. I managed to pull my arm out of its socket recently so am waiting for a bit of healing and keep telling myself that after that I’m going to GET DOWN TO IT!

Steve’s got some time off over easter so you’d think it’d be the perfect time but it’s so tempting to play hooky. We’re going to see a friend as well and do some big city stuff and that’s all MUCH more appealing. Although I know some DIYing and order solutions would have a much bigger day-to-day impact on my life.

It’s too easy to let the small inner voice tell you you’re lazy. Often I feel like an observer in my life instead of actually inhabiting my body. In these gray leaden days I anchor myself with the children. Playing, reading to them, cuddling in bed – singing songs and idly spinning stories. Everything else loses focus and importance.

As I feel less miserable and more hopeful I think I’m too quick to write all that stuff off. It seems like time-wasting when I could have done work that left a physical mark. Finally feeling clear-sighted enough to look around at what needs doing – it’s far too easy to slip back into the habit of castigating myself for doing nothing.

Bolstered my Rachel (my therapist and she has a certificate so is surely worth listening to?) I decide to be a bit kinder to myself.

Getting through the days is hard work. Remaining emotionally connected is hard work. Well done Laura, bloody well done to all of us who get to school, cook tea, do bathtime and bedtime or even leave the house whilst wrapped in a soul numbing blanket of misery. Fecking brilliant people who manage everyday fighting a rushing tide of physical pain. Two fingers up to anyone who thinks you haven’t accomplished much in your day. You’re still breathing at the end of the day aren’t you? Then it’s a SUCCESS. Whoop whoop and maracas, flash of gold and a big flourish. Well done all of us broken vessels.

Just the easy stuff to do now.

This and that.

So Mothers day has come and gone. It’s pretty low-key in this house but very happy and loving which is just the way I prefer it.

I had two mysterious homemade cards – Ida’s was full of her impenetrable writing which she importantly read out to me sitting on my chest at about 7am. It was full of have a loverleee day and I love my mumma but also a short discourse on woodlice and sausages. Zeph’s was in the shape of a butterfly, (that’s passed through a jet engine,) and although easier to read seemed to be congratulating me on having a son like Zeph. His logic had led him to the conclusion since his arrival had made me a mother it was in fact him who deserved recognition and thanks.

I genuinely fear for him, as a political career seems more and more likely.

I also got a pile of books and an opportunity to read some as all meal responsibility was removed from me for the day…(leftovers for lunch and a takeaway for tea – excellent kitchen action guys.)

During the course of a standard chaotic and haphazard sunday several things drifted through my mind, hasn’t the commercial emphasis on the day stepped up over recent years? Surely it puts lots of extra pressure on children missing a mum in their family set up and everyone who’s lost their mum – and all the mums mourning a child and the many women desperately trying to become mothers.

In the face of all this heavy emotion it seems painfully flippant that when Steve asked if I’d like to do anything for Mothers day the first thing that sprang to mind was some time on my own. Sans children for a few hours.

Oh the irony.

Part of my living in the moment plans include speaking my feelings more often and I feel reminded to do that – everyday and not just one a year.

I’m not sure either Zeph or Ida need encouragement to speak their feelings. To be honest at the end of every long day I wonder how it would be to hear a bit less of them .

In the usual attempt to beat back the madness we’ve been making stuff; cakes, 

parrots,

 

They are the fault of this,

Bane of my life.

Mind, it’s a great book. We’ve got several different types and I’m always glad when they turn up in wrapping paper and generally – pleased in the theory of them.

My problem comes when I try to convince the kids they’re a starting off point to making something and that it doesn’t matter when, due to material differences or lack of skill on my part or, swinging the other way, over-enthusiasm in a certain area, means the finished result doesn’t look a lot like the picture.

It enrages them. They feel cheated and let down. It leads to rancour. As though we needed any more of that.

It’s also the school spring fair this weekend and being a bit early for seedlings for the plant stall we’ve made these plant pots instead. Ida helped me transplant our plants into them today and there is still compost everywhere. It was only as we finished I wondered why we hadn’t done it outside. Ah well.

The finished pots look very cheerful in the colours of sugared almonds. Here’s hoping someone shows up to buy them. The last one wasn’t hugely well attended. I’m always impressed by the teachers ability to keep forging on enthusiastically in the face of apathy. I’ve done my part in begging my Mum and Dad to bring the kids while I man a stall so they’ll probably account for a big part of the take being totally unable to withstand the pleading eyes of the kids.

Do you know I started writing this on Tuesday and it is now, although only barely ten minutes in, Saturday. What has happened to my umph?

In other breaking news I’m flexing my embracing change muscles by trying a new toothpaste.

It’s salty. And brownish red. Every morning it reminds me of a slug. To be honest it’s not going well. Toothpaste shouldn’t be salty – should it?

Things to do with spaghetti and sausages

I refuse to slope off to bed yet again without managing a post.

There’s lots of stuff jumbling around in my head but it never seems to make it to the blank white screen. And, just as in the morning you’re left with a few tattered fragments of a hard nights dreaming,  now I’m here - the pithy and witty thoughts have fled.

It matters not as I’ve something really special to share from a lunchtime adventure. Weeks ago on a vomiting tour of Bristol I bought Ida a magazine from the Arnolfini bookshop. It’s called Okido and I can’t recommend it highly enough. It has held her attention much longer than many other things and I was charmed by the style and quality of it. Each edition is themed and this particular one was habitat – a word which I presently hear quite a lot of. Don’t get me wrong – I am glad, just a little weary…

Anyway one of the pages had this suggestion for construction play and I have been nagged to the edge of my, already perilous, sanity. Today I succumbed.

 

Try not to notice the playdough fingernails. We did wash our hands, honest to Mab.

Yes  – what we’re looking at here is building things with frankfurters and raw spaghetti. You can use vege sausages, they need to be hotdog style ones, whichever you pick.

 

 

I mean, I knew she’d enjoy it but who knew I’d get such a kick out of it as well?  

 They did end up more like odd DNA models than anything an architect would recognise..unless they’d trained at the Dr Seuss academy.

 It was the most joyful hour I can remember for a while. Turns out Ida knows what a tripod is and can construct one, how did that happen?

Then, once our creating thirst was quenched, we tipped the lot into a pan of boiling water.

 Do avert your eyes from the squalor. My kitchen floor is a flylady hotspot of ginormous proportions.

A scant eight minutes in the pan and DA DAAAAA

 I really feel I can’t fully convey the satisfaction in eating the deconstructed structures. I’m laughing to myself again at how much I enjoyed that bowlful. I can only urge you, with the zeal of a new convert, to go forth and build then eat your own sausage spaghetti wonder.

 

Sunshine

The sun is shining – I am ridiculously grateful. Even though it exposes the air in my home as thick with dust, the lift to my spirits is immeasurable.

Fickle and shallow as it may be, the BT’s are much easier to see in the open dazzle of sunlight. Ida and I did some park mooching yesterday afternoon, me reading a book while she clambered up the climbing nets and mountaineered up the slide (what’s wrong with going up the ladder?) I had a real whiff of long summer evenings which put heart into me.

Right now I’m taking a break from fashioning some giant gamekeeper style keys for Steve’s dressing up Saturday in the shop. Inevitably he is Hagrid - it would be a shame to waste the beard. Zeph begged him to be Edward Lear with his beard full of birds but he shied away from having an owl under his chin all day. Also he does gruff and uncouth much better than twinkly and genial. He may look like Manny but his soul is Bernard through and through.*  Which suits me.

The lighter days are encouraging me to put my head up from the path in front of me… and I’ve joined Twitter. Always on the cutting edge me.

I like it a lot but not sure it completely suits my skill set. I feel slightly struck dumb. There’s a feeling you’re shoving your way into things – I feel awkward but there’s so much to enjoy as well. Not least a sense of connection.

Reflecting on how brilliantly blogging has turned out for me I’m determined to try more new stuff. Zeph has clearly caught my internal resolution from the air. He’s just done a few climbing sessions which he really liked and joined football club. Tonight before bed he has chilled the blood of both Steve and I by casually asking if just anyone can do taxidermy.

The mind boggles. I am afraid to google.

*Black Books

Writing Workshop – Picture Walking

Why am I here? I have forgotten. My head is full of cotton wool, the sounds of the world around me muffled and far away as though I’m wobbling my uncertain backstroke down the big Barton pool, eyes fixed on the pockmarked concrete ceiling.

Her skirts draw me closer and catch my eye. Oh they are lovely, purple rustling taffeta and silk that begs to be stroked and slipped through fingers. They whisper as the wind tosses them and slither invitingly. Flap flap like the sheets on the line on drying day and I wonder if I could hide in there.

Diffidently I raise my eyes up the length of her body. She is taut and fully stretched. She doesn’t look at me, her luminous eyes fixed firmly upon the horizon but I feel her gentle welcome. Quickly child a soft voice writes on my heart.

Like a minnow or a sly puff of wind I dart into the amethyst folds. Gently, kindly, the fabric caresses my sore skin. Like mothwings it wraps around me, insubstantial as cobwebs but I feel as safe as though stone walls lie between me and the real world which tumbles on – somewhere else – around a corner. Out of sight.

Wriggling so my head lies on the pillowy warmth of her thigh, I look down the strength and length of her arm, twisted as a steel rope, to see what keeps my azure lady pinned to the ground. At the end of her satiny sleeve is a knot of flesh. A grinning demon has her held fast. His eyes flash maliciously at me sheltering in the lady’s petticoats. Ha ha, he laughs – do you think you are safe?

Look at me. I am the irresistible centre of the world. The black thrusting tower at the centre of everything. I am the unavoidable pinion, the scaffold to the events that unfold. And you, little thistledown seed, you cannot escape. The world is still happening to you Laura, even if you don’t look at it. 

Dark man with your lips beaded with blood. I do not see you man. I look up at the soft sky. I feel the silk on my skin. I see the endless lilac cloud and then the soft cloud behind that and further back I see the stars.

Hot white, blazing blue, burning yellow they trace time across the abyss. Always moving, tracing beginning and ends they turn endlessly. Giant, ponderous uncaring. They do not see us in their stately progress. Inexorable they move like the sea. Immutable, unconstrained. Unknowable.

I feel the lady’s tremble of laughter in her flesh. She knows too. She knows. I nuzzle my face into the milky white, blue-veined strength of her thigh. We will be the stars she and I. We will be the wind and the high wisps of cloud. We will be the delicate unfurling new leaves and the eroded brown skeletons, lifting from the autumn bonfire on a line of smoke in a wintery gust.

Look, look he says, I have laid out love for you on a cloth on the green green grass. Wine in a flask from the end of the world, iced cakes, sweetmeats laced with endearments. We can while away our lives here. Sweet in the dappled shade of the tree. I would hold you, shape you, love you.

Bang bang on my flesh, sharp insistent talons from the real world. Back there in the distance they scratch at my side. Shaking my head to dislodge their insistent gnat-like whine I look up. Up the sleek stretch of her to the resolute pale face with blooms set in black curled hair. She is so sure and beautiful. Lady, lady I cry with my eyes. Why are we still here? How can we be free?

Show me how to leave the sharp hard earth? Show me how to be free and safe for always in the billowing sky? I look down again at the tangled hands. Lady you are holding him as much as he holds you. You are leaning on his outstretched hand.

Now the fortress of silk doesn’t seems as secure as it once did. Lady are you not here to save me? Now I see a flicker round her eyes. Is it sadness and regret or just a speck of pollen from the sweet-smelling blossom? But she does not answer. She does not let go of his hand. The smiling wolfish man with the polished pleasing face and the burning eyes.  We do not fly away to safety.

Breathe, breathe the fronds of silk whisper against my hair. Wait, wait the wind plays on the china blue leaves. Not long, not long her stiff curls jangle. I will not save you sweetling says the resolute set of her spine, her muscles corded ropes of strength – waiting. Soon soon I will fly away and save myself.

Watch me, watch me.

Watch me darling and learn.

So for now I feel the breeze lick my face and cool the wet salty lines on my cheek. I breathe in the clean smell of her skirts like fresh bread and lavender. Consolingly her skirt tickles my back. It colludes in my hiding from the noise back there. The hot burning spit of it.

Breathe breathe until the world calls me unavoidably back. The lady will soon be gone, free from her laughing determined devil.

But the stars still wait behind the veil of cloud.

I joined in with Josie’s Writing Workshop prompt this week over on Sleep is for the Weak. As usual there’s a wealth of wonderful writing there – do hop over and have a browse.

Questions and Answers…and then some more questions.

The ever lovely Kate on Thin Ice has tagged me in this Questions and Answers meme. The idea is you answer the questions and then make a set of your own questions to ask another set of bloggers.

I like the idea of this a lot and appreciate the tag – as I’ve said before I love answering questions, despite my struggles with committing to a definitive answer – it justifies all that childhood imaginary interview make-believe.

1. If you could wave a magic wand and change one thing about mums’ lives today, what would it be and why?

I keep coming back to this one. Many things spring to mind. When I was working full-time - affordable, decent childcare and genuinely flexible working practices would have made an enormous difference to our lives. I feel that wishing for this is starting at the wrong end as it were.

As a feminist I’d say equality for all would lead naturally to these changes. Reflecting on the standardised equality message of feminism I can’t help feel we’ve gone astray. I don’t want a mealy-mouthed homogenous version of equality that requires us all to conform to a prescriptive identity. I want our differences to be respected and valued. I want to be valued as an individual. I want us all, regardless of our chromosomes to be valued and equally able to access education, good healthcare and opportunities. I want more talking and less war. In short – I’d like a star trek future.   

I think what would change most mums’ lives is the kind of world they want for their children to live in. As usual I think the practical key to these kind of changes is education of oustanding quality available to all. Which makes the current governments approach to education and initiatives like the surestart programme so truly heart breaking.

*steps down from soapbox, shuffles feet, coughs apologetically*

2. How many hours or minutes of housework do you do per day?

Ha! This is like one of those trick questions like – how often do you change your sheets? – where you are allowed to admit it probably isn’t weekly but saying, ‘when someones sick on them’ will cross the invisible line. I often find in groups that it’s hard not to try to stick to the middle of the pack. Surely it’s a pack biological-urge throwback? To conform is to belong to a community. Whatever the uniform is, it has to fit.

Some days I do not do a spot more than is needed to feed us and get us through the day. My most vigorous days of housework come just before an event – where OTHER people will enter the house.

I’m aware that my standard of cleanliness and tidiness don’t match other people’s. I also know that regular tasks like making sure the washing up is  kept on top of make life more pleasant. That when the house is tidy, hoovered and at its lowest clutter point I feel more serene and ready to do stuff.

I have systems that work well – places where library books are kept to avoid hysterical last-minute searching. Pots of pens by Z’s homework folders. An art cupboard so stuff can be found quickly. Tubs for clean clothes/dirty clothes.

But it really doesn’t bother me if I haven’t hoovered for a week and fluff is building up in the corners. If the washing up needs doing after tea but I’d rather sit and play a game before bedtime then finish the book I can’t put down . The washing up can wait for the morning – although it’s nicer to come down and do sandwiches and breakfast in an uncluttered kitchen it’s hardly the end of the world if the dishes are still on the side. On wednesdays I sit and chat to my parents for the hour they have before they leave instead of clearing the table. I do not own an iron.

I remember going to an antenatal class when I was pregnant with Zeph and the midwife lecturing everyone on the importance of letting things go a little when the baby came. About making time to nap by not hoovering everyday and thinking – hoovering EVERY day?

Counter intuitively – when I’m feeling really low I tend to clean more. It comes from a fear of slipping into the very deep depression I was in before when I had no idea how bad the state of my house was. I have a web of safeguards that I put into place that include housework. Of course that was before having kids, now a certain level of efficiency has to be reached to ensure hot meals, clean uniforms, lunch boxes etc.

Also I freely admit there’s something dangerously addictive to the cycle of dreadful mess then pleasing harmony. At least it really shows when I finally clean…

3. If you could change careers, what would you change to?

I don’t have a career. I spend quite a lot of time thinking about stuff and trying to mend my fractured self and change the world. I work in jobs, that have not much to do with who I am, to pay for my living. I sell things I make.  I usually really enjoy whatever work I do although it is rarely paid well.

I am not the work I do.

4. What is your favourite cocktail?

I miss drinking. I think my favourite cocktail is icy cold and in a BEAUTIFUL glass – maybe a really thick heavy glass tumbler with lots of ice and fruit and a swirled glass swizzle stick. I’m drinking it outside under a summers starlit night with good friends and there’s a happy cheerful buzz of conversation all around us. It’s good to be cool after a long hot day and maybe my skin is stiff with seasalt and sand.  It could be a mojito - or a gin and tonic – or, last summer, I had a lovely bramble vodka drink at a pop up bar in multistorey car park.

I think the essence of a good cocktail is that you didn’t make it yourself. I can’t trusted with bottles of spirit actually in the house anyway.

5. What is your claim to fame?

Infamy more like. I was a child A.

6. What is the quirkiest object in your home?

Me!

7. Charity Shop Or Designer Boutique?

I suppose it depends. I am a charity shop queen and recycling, thrift and preloved run through me like letters in rock but I love the exciting uniqueness of good design. Craftsmanship and beautiful functionality make my heart sing. 

8. How many hours of the day are you away from your own house?

Depends. I do have an unfortunate tendency to reclusiveness. If it gets to the point where I can’t get across the step then that impacts badly on the kids so I usually try to force myself out at least once a day. School helps with that – and most days Ida go and do something in the mornings after we’ve dropped Z off. We’re pretty good at hanging out at free places, easier in the summer but still perfectly achievable in the cold.

9. What is your guilty pleasure?

Not leaving the house… PJ’s all day and a pile of books – chocolate digestives and bananas to eat. Oranges in bed.  Long train journeys completely alone. Books about wizard detectives and werewolves. Procrastination. Embellishing my own hide.

10. Retro or Modern?

Bread or water?

11. What is the one challenge you are most proud of overcoming?

Crossing the step every day. Believing the best of people.

Phew! If you’ve made it to this point well done!

Here are the rules.

The Rules:

You must post these rules.
Each person must post 11 things about herself on their blog.
Answer the questions the “tagger” listed for you in her post, and create 11 new questions for the people you tag to answer.
Choose 11 people to tag and link to them in the post.
Let each blogger know that you have tagged them.

I think question are much harder than answers… Also I am rubbish – RUBBISH at tagging so I’m going with some questions and if you feel the urge to answer them please consider yourself tagged – you are indutibly IT.

1) What was your last random act of kindness?

2) What do you always put off until tomorrow?

3) If you were buying yourself a bunch of flowers what kind would they be?

4) Imagine Mr Cameron popped round and said you could allocate the excess 10 billion the goverment have just stumbled across – where would you spend it?

5) Cinema or theatre?

6) If you could go back and change one thing, would you? What is it?

7) If you’re opening a tin for comfort food what would you choose?

8) Baking heatwave or snow?

9) What was the last book you read or film you saw that left a lasting impression?

10) Coffee or Tea?….or gin?

 

 

Mixed bag. Sick bag.

I think I’d have to sum half term up as mixed.

All the omens were good as Steve had booked some time off and we’d planned a couple of days in Bristol doing things that pleased everyone. Zoo, an art exhibition, a kids theatre show at the Tobacco Factory.

Valentines day was my usual dichotomy of glee at the opportunity to celebrate and decorate and dislike of the whole hallmarkedyness and idea that I’m being bidden to declare love. It’s a regular cardfest here as everyone makes cards for everyone – Ida refusing to be left out of any paint and glitter opportunities. My best card this year was from Zeph. A carefully rendered picture of a shark savaging a swimmer. I’m particularly moved by the entrails gracefully drifting down to the seafloor.

A biting indictment and perceptive summing up of love I’m sure you’ll agree. Especially from someone so young. *sigh*

These and the chocolate ladybirds Steve threw into the mix made for a cheerful morning piled into the bed which was probably the highlight of the day where I made an effort to de-mould the bathroom.

Our time away was lovely. I like that we’ve established some family rituals about train travel – like taking bagels for breakfast which we can’t eat ’til Cam and Dursley. Watching out for the llama farm and the field where there’s often deer watching the train pass with the seriousness of spotter anoraks.

The zoo was also its usual pleasure with everyone absorbed in their favourite routines. I’m pleased to see how the new stumpery, adorned with a lovely range of ferns, is blossoming and Ida spent the usual ludicrous chunk of time inspecting the ants. The sun shone as well, casting hopeful thoughts of spring and more garden time.

Although the camellia walk showed a sad array of frost burnt flowers there are plenty of new buds pressing through.

I may have attempted some kind of heavy life metaphor  if I hadn’t been shoved out-of-the-way and trampled by other people eager to get to the fruit bats. Nevermind – I always have you guys for weighty introspection eh?

There was the usual riotous joy at booking into the travelodge and then a really delicious meal out at a fantastic tapas place in the docks. Followed by a happy wander home through neon landscapes.

We went for breakfast the next morning at Bordeaux Quay on the waterfront. Gorgeous food, upmarket place – Zeph is desperate to do one of their kids cookery days. Well – he was.

Ida was explosively, spectacularly, slow-motion-horror sick right… in…the… middle of the restaurant… and then into my hair and down my back as I ran with her to the toilets. She was then sick in an art gallery, on a boat, by a boat, in Boots, at the bus stop, on the bus, in the train station, in a lift, and several times on the train home.

We arrived home – pale and wan. Everyone had sick in their hair. There was elbowing around the shower door. Never have clean clothes and the soapy scent of shampoo been more welcome.

Inevitably the rest of half-term was spent being ill.

*sigh again*

Zeph was incensed by recovering just in time to go back to school.

Still we fitted in lots of happy stuff. I finished an order that means the mortgage is achievable this month. We ‘ve had a lot of happy domestic stuff with Steve. PJ days with the papers and lazy afternoons playing board games that usually end badly, (show me one that doesn’t when there’s a three-year old involved.) Lots of story sharing and book mooching and some secretive present preparation for Steve’s birthday on Wednesday.

Also, actually a lot of strangers were very kind during what I have mentally christened; the grand vomit tour of Bristol. Thank you universe and thank you anyone who drops a pebble of kindness in the pool.