June Journals #23 ~ Battle Fatigue and Being Kind

Death Stare

I ran into a friend in the supermarket yesterday and we got to talking about our darling daughters (both 7). It was a relief to hear that having a seven-going-on-seventeen year old storming round the house, eye-rolling, huffing and stropping is not unusual.

But oh my it’s tiring.

After our less-than-perfect dance lesson, when my daughter was rather intimidated by the older girls, I looked for a different class locally. Found one, arranged a taster lesson and told my daughter, expecting her to be as excited as she was before.

Ha!

Me: “I found another dance class that runs at your school. Would you like to go for a class next week, just to see if you like it?”

Daughter: “No! No, I’m not going.”

Me: “It’s just a taster.”

Daughter: “No.”

Me: (after ten minutes of biting my tongue) “I’m sorry, but your attitude stinks. I arrange these classes for you because that’s what you want, and then you’re so rude to me. (Plus a bit more ranting I’m not prepared to confess to.)

Daughter: [Death stare]

This is just a snippet. She had a trip to Rockingham Castle yesterday. She wrote a shopping list of what she wanted for her lunch. I got all but one thing, which made me the wicked witch of the west. And when she woke me at 5.30am and asked if she could make her packed lunch – and I said no – I moved up to Pol Pot.

I know this is all normal. I know that. But I hate arguments. I don’t want to break her. I like that she has attitude, that she fights back. I like that she has stopped trying to please everyone all the time. But good lord it’s exhausting. And I do find it hard to rise above and remember I’m the parent. I can carry the anger around all day like my own private rain cloud.

Thankfully I read a great post last week that has helped. Unfortunately, despite searching for half an hour when I am meant to be making the kids’ breakfast, I can’t find it. But the gist was a mother who had fought with her son. When he’d stomped out the house she sat in his pit of a bedroom fuming. And then she started to clean his room. Because she realised that it wasn’t all about her: that her son had things that worried him – friends, school, studies. She could be angry or she could be a parent and treat him with love (I’m paraphrasing!) She could give him what he needed rather than what he deserved.

So yesterday I rearranged my daughter’s room so she could have a den under her bed. I painted an old wooden box purple so she could put her toys in it. The whole time I knew she’d probably see it and be angry, unhappy or just quietly disapproving.

Actually she loved it. And later, when I saw her sleeping peacefully in her den, I knew I’d done the right thing, however hard it was.

Happy Girl

After bedtime, hubby said that he and our daughter had had a good chat. She’s frustrated at school with friendships and with managing envy of one particular friend that she doesn’t want to be jealous of. Big stuff when you’re forty never mind when you’re seven. In fact, being nearly-forty for me means no longer caring about all that ‘what the world things of me’ stuff. I have to try and remember that it was world-ending before.

It doesn’t make the eye-rolling and the sass and the nastiness any easier to handle, but it does give it context. I’m the safe place. She can be nasty to me and I will still love her, I will be her friend. I won’t always put up with her crap, but I will always always forgive, and hug, and try to rise above.

And then open the wine.

June Journals #22 ~ Write Relief

Has Potential

I’ve always been prone to bizarre, convoluted, vivid, epic dreams. I don’t generally remember them, but since having children I often get woken up right in the middle of something Spielberg would be proud of, if he didn’t mind plot holes the size of the Mariana Trench and a story with zero logic.

Writing helps to alleviate the vivid dreams.

It’s as if I have this pot of words, ideas, images, characters, and if I can empty that pot during the day there is less available to furnish weird night-time sagas.

Since I stopped writing a few weeks ago, I’ve gone back to having blockbuster dreams.

I wake up exhausted, restless, out of sorts. The emotion of the dreams leaks out into the day, and the lack of sense, of cause and effect, leaves me feeling antsy. It’s hard to describe. It’s like an itch under the skin that I can’t find or scratch.

So today I got back to writing. Well, not writing, but authoring if you will.

It’s always been my intention to do something with Dragon Wraiths, (which incidentally, came to me in a dream!) The novel had such promise, but I rushed it, sent it out into the world prematurely, and have been too afraid to put it right.

The fears are many. Firstly, I’ll have to re-read what I’ve written. I make a point of never revisiting a book once it’s ‘out there’ in case I realise it’s rubbish. Secondly, as it came to me in a dream, I don’t really know how it ends, which means, thirdly, there is a lot of work to do to fix it. I mean a LOT of work.

I hadn’t even heard of ‘Save the Cat‘ four years ago. And, although I read a heap of stuff on structuring a YA romance and editing your novel, I didn’t have a plan (it was a proper Pantser novel) and absolutely no concept of beats or loglines.

Original Cover

When Dragon Wraiths was long-listed for the Mslexia award it wasn’t even really finished. I had to send off a complete manuscript, and that’s what I did, but the last third at least was utter shite. I’m not surprised it didn’t make the short-list.

A couple of years ago I revisited the novel, to enter into the Chicken House competition. Cut that last third out like a gangrene-infected limb and pretty much put ‘To be continued…’ 🙂

But it didn’t even get long-listed, so I stuck it to the back of my mind under ‘Failures I’d like to forget’.

And yet…

I love that book. I love the characters, I love the first 80,000 words. Just because I didn’t finish the world building, or the story, or even really know how it all should end, doesn’t mean it can’t be done.

So I spent the day going back to basics with my friend (!) Blake Snyder, author of ‘Save the Cat’. I worked on a logline and beats for book one, and then started playing around with where book two and three could go.

It’s a bit like limbering up at the bottom of Ben Nevis. The climb looks scary, storm clouds are rolling in, and I don’t know if I’ll make it even half way to the top. But I’m closer than when I was back on the couch dreaming.

And it felt good to be working again. Whenever I think I’m not cut out to be a writer, I take a break and realise that, whether I want it or not, I already bloomin am one.

June Journals #21 ~ Soggy Start to Summer

Son’s Giraffe

So it’s the start of summer.

Apparently.

You wouldn’t know it, based on the weather. It has barely stopped raining long enough to mow the lawn, not that it matters as the kids can’t get out in the garden without risk of injury, or possibly drowning.

Yesterday was a classic example. I ironed for most of the day as fence-staining was so not happening.

I just managed to walk the dog in a light drizzle and hoped to do the school run without a coat. It might be raining non-stop but it’s still too darn humid for appropriate clothing.

In hindsight a brolly might have been a good idea.

Soggy School Run

Despite parking as close to the school gate as possible, I managed to get drenched to the skin in the ten minute cloud burst that graced pick up time. It happens so often – the weather god has a warped sense of humour.

By the time we got home it was sunny again and blue skies reigned until bed time while the humidity crept to raid-the-freezer-for-ice-cream unbearable. To think, four months ago I bought a humidifier for my son’s room!

British weather: you gotta love it. Unpredictable is an understatement.

Hama Bead Horse

Still, at least I only got wet for a short while, and could change my sodden jeans straight away. My husband went to watch his Italian cousin play Ultimate Frisbee in an International tournament in St Albans and it poured.

So much for Summer Solstice.

But it’s okay. I quite like the rain.

We sat and did hama beads between school and Rainbows, and I’ve got to the point where I’d much rather do craft than watch cartwheels. 😀

June Journals #20 ~ Sleepy Sunday

Father’s Day Card

We had a lovely father’s day yesterday, doing what we do most weekends: basically, nothing!

I love reading that it’s good for kids to be bored, and to not over-entertain them. Hurrah. Because weekends are about letting all of us just be.

Okay, mostly the children spend the two days staring at one screen or another, but as long as they’re finding ways to occupy themselves, that’s fine with me.

We also went out to lunch to our favourite restaurant, Pizza Express, with my mum and step-dad. The one we visit is just lovely, although when the (rather dishy!) waiters nod and smile in greeting when you arrive, you start realising you might go quite a lot.

We love it for lots of reasons.

It’s great for kids, with a simple and affordable kids’ menu that they actually eat, plus colouring sheets and crayons (although we always take our own). They employ loads of waiting staff that smile lots and are there when you need them. They always serve fabulous food and particularly delicious desserts. Plus it’s such a light and airy restaurant where no one notices if your kids are being a bit loud, probably because they can’t hear over the sound of theirs.

Fabulous.

Yummy Lunch

Then we bumped into friends at a mini-festival in the park. Thankfully we’d spent every penny leaving a tip for lunch, so it was easy to say no to the kids who wanted ice creams and bouncy castles, despite polishing off a three-course meal five minutes before.

My friend reminded me (because she’s one of those amazing people who just remembers stuff) that it’s my big year. My big fat 40th birthday, our 10 year wedding anniversary, and ten years since all the other stuff: graduating, moving house, losing my father.

And whenever I feel guilty for crawling into bed to watch the tennis with my eyes shut (ahem) I tell myself I’m doing it in memory of my dad, whose favourite pastime was listening to Test Match Special in a dark room, with a cup of tea or a cold shandy.

Our Sleepy Sundays are important. Lazy, decadent, wasteful. They lead to rather stressful Mondays sometimes, when I realise laundry isn’t finished, uniform isn’t ironed, or homework not done.

But we survive. And I think (I hope) we all do a little better for some downtime.

June Journals #19 ~ Striving to Grow

Well, they passed.

Despite my daughter’s tears starting before we left home, and increasing to sobs of ‘I’m NOT doing it’ as we stood outside the exam room, she did her exam and passed easily.

Not so easily for my son. He passed too, but I suspect only because Sensei was being kind. Actually, kind is the wrong word. Apparently he ‘yelled’ at my son for getting his kata turns all wrong (which he did, and totally deserved being told off, because he refused to practice).

Unfortunately, my daughter came out even more terrified of Sensei and even more determined not to take another karate exam ever. I suspect she’ll calm down, but it didn’t help that I’d portrayed him as a nice bloke for two weeks to calm her fears.

Anyhoo. They passed. And now it’s decision time.

I watched the next belt exams today, and I think they’ll get through those fine too, with some practice. But I’m not exactly sure why they should.

The more I think about it, the more I think it must be hard for karate to be a passion at this age. It’s a bit like learning times tables and spelling all the time.

Because the exams are every four months, a large chunk of their lesson time is spent on revising for exams. And even up to the higher belts, it’s all a matter of remembering punch combinations and kata routines.

There’s no particular skill.

Now I’m probably going to be shot down in flames for that statement. Let me quickly clarify that I wanted to do karate with the kids (they wouldn’t let me – too embarrassed) and I’d still love to do it. There’s a thrill in feeling the muscles perform a perfect punch or getting my leg up into a kick. But I saw quickly that I wouldn’t have the memory for it.

Too much of school is about remembering stuff, rather than learning, enjoying, being excited. Growing, stretching, expanding. And karate feels a bit like that.

If I can just wander off at a tangent…

I was following the kids across the park the other day after school, carrying all their bags, listening to them squabble, wondering what it was all about. You know, life.

Beech Tree

There’s a huge beech tree in the park. It’s gorgeous, with it’s red/black leaves and majestic sweeping branches. I looked at it and wondered where I was going wrong. Why couldn’t I be a tree. Just be.

And then I had a mini-epiphany. A tree doesn’t just exist. It grows. It strives. Its sole aim in life is to get stronger, taller, better, and to pass that on to its offspring.

Grow.

That’s the point. The point in life is to grow. If something isn’t making us grow – as a person, as a family member, physically or emotionally, then we probably shouldn’t be doing it.

I watched my children playing this afternoon. My son sparring with the mini boxing gloves I bought him. My daughter cartwheeling along the wooden ‘beam’ we made her, over and over and over again until she landed one on the wood. They were growing. Their skills improving. And the joy in their achievements was palpable.

I think my daughter’s right. I think she’ll grow more as a person doing gymnastics and dance; grow more confidence in herself and her body doing the thing she loves, than she will at karate.

My son still has a lot to gain from martial arts. The discipline, the listening, the learning to control his muscles and his temper. But is karate the right one for him? I’m not sure. I wish there was a Kendo class nearby. He gets his passion from football. Perhaps what he still has to learn from karate is humility. He didn’t think he’d fail today, and didn’t seem all that bothered when he nearly did. Sometimes I admire his self-belief, and sometimes I can see it landing him in hot water.

And me? I still have a lot to learn about this parenting and being an adult lark. Never mind growing, I’m still trying to grow up.

June Journals #18 ~ Exam Day

Karate Kids

Today it’s my children’s karate exam. I said back on day 5 of my June Journals that I didn’t know how I was going to get my daughter to do the exam when she was adamant she wasn’t.

In the comments I suggested a cunning plan of inviting Granddad to watch. It worked. Eventually.

To begin with, she cried and wailed when I said she had to do the exam because Granddad was coming. It felt like walking a tightrope. I hung in there through the tears and eventually we got to the bottom of her fear.

In the last exam, Sensei – the head of their particular club – came and ran through the bit of the exam my daughter finds hardest, the kata. It’s a sequence of moves (20 for hers) that have to be done in order. For the adults, it has to be done completely from memory, but the juniors have a ‘count’ and an indication of what comes next.

But Sensei was a little disappointed with their group and wasn’t afraid to show it. And if there’s one thing my daughter hates, it’s disapproval.

I’m afraid to admit (in case anyone who knows our karate club reads this!) that I put an image in my daughter’s head to ease her fear. An image of Sensei in a pink tutu and red heels – because for their last exam their examiner was a woman in high heels, who kicked butt doing the moves despite her footwear. And my daughter loves shoes!

I managed to get her laughing (rickety rope bridge across crocodile infested waters conquered!) and she admitted that she did really want to do the exam she was just scared.

That was a revelation for my husband and me. After the tears had passed, it seemed she wanted the push, she wanted to be made to do it: to have the decision taken from her. So, Miss Fanny P, you were right – sometimes you do have to shove them out their comfort zone.

My NZ Skydive

It reminds me of when I did a tandem skydive in New Zealand. I’m terrified of heights and was palpitating long before we reached 15,000 ft. If I hadn’t been strapped to the front of a person who had every intention of jumping from that plane, whether I wanted to or not, I would never have done it.

I was only in the plane in the first place because I’d met an 80-year-old granny who’d done it the day before.

It was amazing. I couldn’t breathe by the time we came out of free-fall, and I wouldn’t do it ever again if you paid me millions of pounds (well, possibly then), but when I landed I felt like I could conquer the world.

Fear. It’s a funny thing.

Perhaps my daughter and I need to read ‘Feel the fear and do it anyway’.

June Journals #17 ~ Loss and Empathy

I try not to engage with the news on this post. It becomes political – always – no matter what you say. So, for the sake of my family, I try and keep my opinions below the radar.

Whether it’s the fact I’m a Liberal Leftie with a Monarchist lean, or that I’m a Bremain with a hope for reform, or that I’m a non-Christian who lives and upholds (most) Christian values. It’s really no-one’s business but mine.

But I can’t write a trite post today. I can’t share pictures of my finished Jester or brag about running nearly 5k or talk about tennis. I just can’t.

There has been so much sadness this year. So much. The mind can’t take it in.

Famous people, icons, people that inspired me, taken too soon by illness.

Right-wing newspapers vilifying people fleeing war and oppression.

A handful of [redacted] so-called football supporters ruining it for the majority.

Gorilla’s dying. Children dying. Decent people ranting and pointing the finger.

Orlando.

I. Just. Can’t.

I have to stop reading the news. I actively avoid it most of the time, because my heart breaks open. I despair for the world my children will inherit.

Instead I gather my news from Facebook.

I watch videos of a man rescuing drowning kittens or a group of boys saving a dog. I look for the positive, humanist stories that keep my faith in humanity.

I hang out with my liberal leftie friends who are all for staying in the EU, who care about the environment and fairness and believe love is love is love. Whose hearts also break at every tragedy and who don’t immediately blame and judge.

I follow Jeremy Corbyn for heaven’s sake. You don’t get much further left.

And then he posts this:

JoCox

I didn’t know who Jo Cox was before today. As I say, I’m not overtly political and I don’t follow the news. But reading this, seeing this picture of the kind of politician I wish we had more of in this country (the world), I felt bereft.

Perhaps because she’s about my age, with two young children and a husband who will mourn her. Children who will ‘grow up without their mum’ (this made me choke). Perhaps it’s the honest goodness she radiates, or that she is everything I wish I could be. Whatever it is, I feel her loss acutely.

Most of all, I am touched that Jeremy Corbyn remembers her first as a person. The comments underneath are not so kind: immediately they are political, immediately they are blaming and hateful, disrespecting the values this woman clearly represents.

I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of the hate and the trolling and the virtuous do-gooders so quick and ready to have – and share – an opinion even if it isn’t appropriate or even valid.

I’m sick of the blame, and the need to be right, and the refusal to even attempt a shred of empathy.

Empathy.

What ever happened to that? One thing my kids have learned from having a mother with depression and an inability to hide her emotions is empathy. I will cherish it, nurture it, encourage it, even if it means they’ll feel pain. At least they’ll feel.

If the world took one second to try not just to see something from another person’s perspective, but actually live and feel their thoughts and emotions, we wouldn’t be so polarised. We wouldn’t be so quick to judge. There is no ‘other’.

A post that sums it up perfectly (but is too long to share in its entirety here) was published by 4BoysMother – Melissa Fenton, Writer on Facebook today, in relation to the boy snatched by an alligator at a Disney Resort. Here’s an excerpt.

4BoysMother

This is what empathy looks like.

June Journals #16 ~ Fox Poo and Funny Weather

Almost Done

Yesterday the weather forecast reported humidity at 80-90%. I think I understand my lethargy now!

It gave me the perfect excuse to sit in Waitrose – in their air-conditioned café to be precise – and do some of my study. And sew up some more of my son’s jester.

It’s a laborious process but it is fun seeing the final toy come together, even if it doesn’t much resemble the picture.

In fact I spent most of the day sewing. Except for the short time when I walked the dog – choosing a route through waist-high grass so she wouldn’t get all muddy on our normal route.

Big mistake. Big. Huge.

I could smell something awful as we reached the end of our walk, and thought I must have trodden in something. But, oh no, it was the dog, who had rolled in fox poo.

It stinks.

And it lingers.

Thankfully I saw on one of the kids’ TV programmes that tomato ketchup is good for getting rid of the smell. Even though the dog managed to shake tomato ketchup all over me, it did seem to work on the stink. Thankfully. Although the phantom smell will linger in my nostrils for days.

Amazingly, despite a dismal forecast, the torrential rain stayed away for my son’s cricket training. The sun shone hot on the pretty little ground, while the ominous grey clouds circled around the edge and grumbled to themselves like cantankerous grannies.

Thankfully I don’t have children in the later classes though, as it began to pour at 7pm. And thunder too, I suspect, although I couldn’t hear it. But our dog, who hates thunder, paced around like a lost soul until bedtime.

Stunning Weather

It’s a shame, because the rain is a blessed relief. As the first few drops fell, a cold blast burst through the window like the bringer of joy.

It reminds me of my short stay in India. One of my housemates ridiculed me for going in August – the monsoon season – but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

Yes it was hot and sticky and yes the rain was torrential like I’d never seen before (but have seen plenty of since), but if I hadn’t gone I would never have truly understood the exhilaration of walking in a dress and sandals in a downpour, happy to be drenched to the skin.

The weather saved its finale for the bedtime hour. Sullen storm clouds still dyed the sky purple, and rain fell in buckets, but streaks of sun lit up the trees as if they glowed from within. And a double rainbow shone, as if to say, ‘hang in there, it won’t rain forever.’

Stunning.

June Journals #15 ~ Run Rescue

Image from Pixabay

Goodness me, I’m halfway through my June Journals. Thank goodness for daily blogging or I might be going a bit bonkers.

I’m just so tired. Ever since a crazy day on Saturday, when I did two runs as well as painting a load of fencing, I’ve been exhausted.

I don’t think I overdid it: My two runs probably only amounted to about ten total minutes of running, and I’m used to clocking up 10-15,000 steps a day.

Even so, I can’t stop yawning.

Perhaps it’s the humidity. Although it’s rained non-stop (or perhaps because it’s rained; although this isn’t the Indian Monsoon season it feels pretty near), and the temperature is only 18C to around 22C, it feels hot and sticky and horrible.

Maybe it’s being premenstrual. Sorry, it has to be spoken of. I do slow down and get sluggish. And eat carbs. And chocolate. And drink lots of coffee. But I’ve been trying to eat plenty of fruit and drink water. Honest.

It might be a bug. My parents have had the horrible flu I had at Easter and I wonder if I’m fighting it off.

Or maybe it’s ennui*. Or hayfever. Or depression. Or laziness.

Whatever the cause, I feel like a cat in a sunbeam. I. Just. Can’t. Move.

Image from Pixabay

I had a nap today, if four hours in bed counts as a nap, and felt 100% worse. Usually I’m good at naps. I wake up a bit groggy but full of energy. Today I had bad dreams, those half-awake sort, where you’re not quite sure whether you’re really shopping with your daughter and spending £100 on a pair of jeans in Topshop or it’s actually just a nightmare.

When my alarm went off to walk the dog I couldn’t open my eyes. Just couldn’t.

It was awful.

So I pulled on my running clothes. I don’t think I actually thought I’d manage a run, but I couldn’t walk the dog in the rain in an East dress (the coolest thing I own in both senses of the term!).

Then I strapped on the iPhone. And opened the app. I’m in week 4 of the 8-week Couch to 5k and I don’t want to stop now.

And then I ran. Like a slug. Slower than I normally walk, with those shuffley steps that aren’t really running. Week 4 starts stepping up the running time, and it was hot and sticky. Plus the fields are so overgrown it’s like doing mini-hurdles, getting over nettles and cow parsley.

But I ran.

Troll. Pixabay

And afterwards I felt better. I had some energy. I stopped yawning and almost felt awake.

Before you super-fit people start gloating, and nodding, and thinking, ‘We knew it. Exercise is always the answer,’ it lasted about half an hour.

By the time I’d done the school run in the rain, cooked tea and fed the dog, I was crawling back into bed, dizzy and yawning and with eyes half closed.

I slept for two hours.

I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe I’m a troll. Like in Terry Pratchett Discworld novels. Perhaps I only function when it’s cold.

Unlike the flesh and blood Troll of Scandinavian folklore that turn to stone only when exposed to daylight, Disc trolls are stone all the time, but become dormant and sluggish during daylight. […] Though apparently unintelligent, this is due to heat negatively affecting the conductivity of their silicon brains – Wikipedia

Whatever the answer is, I wish it would just sod off. I liked the energetic productive me of a week ago. And, while we’re at it, the rain can sod off too. It’s cricket Wednesday.

*Ennui: “A feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.”

June Journals #14 ~ Silent Uncertainty

Competition Novel

When I decided to stop working on my novels for a bit, and concentrate on my blog and the garden instead, it was with a sense of relief.

It isn’t the writing that’s hard – well, some days it is – but more it’s the silent uncertainty.

When I write a blog post, even a mediocre one, I know if somebody reads it. And generally at least one or two people do. If I’m lucky I’ll get a like or even comment. It’s a lovely feeling.

As I have been fortunate enough to stay below the internet troll radar by being boring, unknown, and uncontroversial, the comments are supportive and encouraging.

Not so with books.

I can spend a year writing a novel which even my family won’t read and feed back on, because they’re too close for constructive criticism.

Without Beta Readers, my only sources of feedback are agents and reviewers. They’re not exactly a chatty bunch. If you hear back from an agent at all, it’s a polite, “this is not for me” message, after weeks and weeks of painful silence. Reviews, which are even harder to get, are all or nothing. Black and white. Fulsome praise or scathing disgust. I have come to dread them.

Out with Agents

As someone driven by external validation, despite years of trying not to be, this lack of feedback on my efforts saps all motivation. Currently I have one novel in a competition, and two with agents, and the rest, as Hamlet would say, is silence.

It paralyses me.

Do I work on a current book, without knowing what’s wrong with it? Do I write another one, without knowing which bits I’m getting right, or whether anyone will ever actually read it. Should it matter?

How do novelists slog at a book for ten years, true only to themselves and their story? Where do they bury their self-doubt?

I should really join a writer’s group, although I’m currently a little thin-skinned for that. I’d probably weep at the first unkind word and give up writing forever.

Except I miss writing.

I miss producing books, discovering characters, creating. Filling that blank page.

So I’ll pour those words into my blog for now and try for patience.

Thank you for being listening voices in the void!