Sea Life and Cbeebies: 2013 365 Challenge #363

Giant Sea Turtle

We went to Sea Life today, as a family day out before Daddy goes back to work. It’s a bit of a trek from us, so we loaded up the iPad with Cbeebies programmes and set off before 9am.

Thankfully the children chose to watch Room on the Broom and Gruffalo’s Child, rather than the usual Octonauts and Charlie and Lola. I think I know every episode by heart, although I haven’t actually watched many of them.

I’m grateful for Octonauts, though, because I think it’s a large part of the reason why a trip to the aquarium was their choice of destination.

Being a Cbeebies programme, you know it’s mostly educational and fits as much in the ‘good’ screen-time category as the ‘mind-numbing TV’ one. However, it isn’t until you wander around Sea Life that you realise how great it is.

Stroking a star fish

I saw a lion fish in one of the tanks and immediately identified it and knew it was poisonous. My daughter wanted desperately to see an octopus (like Professor Inkling) and we were as interested in the tiny creatures, like sea horses and jelly fish, as we were the sea turtles and sharks.

Aside from the lead characters in Octonauts (which, if you don’t know, include a polar bear, a penguin and a cat, living in an underwater pod saving creatures big and small) the programme appears to be both realistic and factual.

I do wince at the sight of a huge-headed polar bear working alongside an octopus and a rabbit of exactly the same size, and some of the other crazy things that happen in kids’ cartoons. But for the love it has given my children of the underwater world, I am truly grateful. I for one am not someone who ever complains about the cost of my BBC licence fee.

Mesmerising Jelly fish

I also learned some great facts at the aquarium that I’m determined to use in my writing at some point, for their poignancy and humour. These are my favourites:

Female octopus lay up to 100,000 eggs and starve to death during the 6 months spent guarding and tending them.

Clownfish [think Nemo] start life as males and live inside a sea anemone, together with a female clownfish. The female prevents the males from changing sex by bullying them. When she dies, the largest male changes sex and takes her role.

Brilliant observations on the roles of women / mothers in nature. There has to be a story there, right?

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire’s shoulders prickled as she walked across the car park. In her memory she could see Conor hurrying to catch up with her, as he had done four months before, after her interview. Now she was away from the room she realised she was shaking.

How could he just sit there and act like we’ve never met? Just because I don’t want to come and live in this backwater town and be the little wife?

The vehemence of her thoughts shocked her. Conor had never suggested that she play second fiddle to him, or sacrifice her own career for the sake of his. In fact he’d suggested nothing at all except that he wanted to be with her.

Is that so bad?

She reached the relative safety of her car and her resolve crumbled. With her head slumped forward against the steering wheel, and her heavy hair creating a shield, she gave in to the grief that had swollen inside her chest. Despite the days of silence, she hadn’t really believed he would ignore her so emphatically.

At the edge of hearing, a tapping infiltrated her misery. Before she could analyse it, it stopped. She sank her head further into her hands, her sobs growing louder. With sudden violence, she smacked the steering wheel in frustration and jumped when the sound was followed by the click of the passenger door opening.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, you’ll break something. Your hand, probably. These old cars are built like tanks.”

The smooth voice slipped in between her ribs like a knife. She inhaled deeply, but kept her hair shielding her face, unsure how to react. She felt him brush the hair behind her ear, felt the heat of his breath on her face as he leant in close to look at her.

“It’s not advisable to wear mascara if you’re going to have a good cry, you know. You look like an 80s rock star.”

With a swish of hair she turned to face him, fury igniting inside like a raging fire. “Get out!”

Conor flinched but didn’t move.

“I mean it. Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here, cracking jokes like you haven’t ignored me for a fortnight? All because I want to have a life of my own. You’re pathetic.”

His face paled but he held his ground. “I’m sorry. I handled it badly. You surprised me, that’s all, and everything sort of crashed in.”

“You knew I was going to leave: I made no secret of the fact that I wasn’t going to stay after the end of the assignment.”

“I know.” His voice barely crossed the space between them. “But wanting to leave is different to actually getting a job offer somewhere else. It was so final, and you hadn’t even mentioned it.”

“I’d only just found out about it! Conor, you act like we’ve been together for years. I’ve known you precisely four months; we were dating for a few weeks, if that. I don’t owe you anything.” Her anger surprised her and she wanted to apologise, but the car rang with her hot words.

“I’m sorry that’s how you feel.” Then, almost to himself, he added, “It seemed longer than that.” He paused, as if he wanted to say more, and then moved to open the car door.

“Wait.”

He hesitated. Claire didn’t know what else to say. She just didn’t want him to leave, not like that. They sat in silence for a hundred years.

“Are you staying in town tonight?”

Claire nodded. “At a B&B. I couldn’t face the hostel again.”

“Come for a drink? Or dinner?”

A dozen different responses warred in her head and eventually her mouth formed round the word, “Okay.”

He reached for the door. “Text me your location; I’ll pick you up at 7pm?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Without looking, she heard him open the door and close it softly behind him.

She saw the text flash to say he was outside, and checked her reflection in the mirror one last time. A pale, worried, face looked back at her and she forced herself to smile. Whatever happened, at least there would be resolution.

They walked in silence down to the town, without touching. The air crackled between them with all the charge of the lightning strikes she’d seen at the concert. Looking across at him she saw the tension in his face and knew that he felt it too. He turned towards her as she scrutinised him, and his eyes were a stormy sea. He opened his mouth to speak and she felt goosebumps trickle across her skin.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

***

We Are Golden: 2013 365 Challenge #327

My Daughter as Golden Child

Today is a day of marking achievements. I went to my daughter’s celebration assembly at school this morning, where she received her Bronze merit certificate and was Golden Child.

God bless the children, their patience is amazing: the assembly was three quarters of an hour of hearing about how well the ten children selected had done, and what they had earned their Golden Child status for.

I was immensely proud to be there, and thought I would blub (it doesn’t take much to make me cry these days) but I was fortunately sat next to a good friend and her little jibes kept me tear free.

I also didn’t feel like crying because, while I was very proud of my little girl, the things she was praised for set off alarm bells in my mind. Other children were praised for skill at hockey or gymnastics, for using their brains, for being enthusiastic or helpful or cheerful. My daughter was praised for trying so hard at her studies. And I think that’s wonderful. Except I don’t.

I worked just as hard at school – I was top of every year, more or less, the typical straight-A student. But I didn’t really have friends (no one likes a teacher’s pet) and when I left school the only thing I knew how to do was get good grades.

My Golden Child

I’d almost like to see my daughter get into trouble, or be praised for her happy personality (she is a bubbly, happy child) or her empathy for her friends (which is great) or her willingness to try things; to fall over and get back up again.

Being praised for working hard at her studies reinforces a behaviour that doesn’t need reinforcing. Ah, well, it’s a nice problem to have. 🙂

The other achievements today are that this is my 400th post since I started the blog, and Two-Hundred Steps Home passed 250,000 words in today’s instalment.

They say you have to write a million words of rubbish before you write anything good. If I add the eleven THSH volumes to the two published novels I have (another 250k words before editing) and the four unfinished NaNo novels on my laptop (another 200k words) and probably 150k words of blogging since last year, I’ve only got one more full length novel and a few blog posts to go and I’m at the million mark! Hurrah, it’s all upwards from here. 😉

To have written a quarter of a million words of prose this year, on top of blogging (which is probably around half that) feels amazing. That’s like writing three full length novels in eleven months. One of the things I love about blogging is reaching milestones, and how that can show you that you are achieving things even when it doesn’t feel like it. Every number reached – 300 followers, 13,500 views, 1337 likes – is like going to a celebration assembly and holding up a certificate to show the world and say “I did that, and I’m proud.”

Maybe one day my milestone will be “Number 1 Bestseller”. 🙂 I can dream.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Has your boyfriend gone back home, Auntie Claire?”

Jack’s face shone with sincerity but Alex’s barely audible snigger suggested the innocence was feigned.

She glared from one boy to the other, feeling the heat rising up her neck. “Did your father put you up to that?” She spoke without thinking and regretted it immediately, as Alex’s face dropped into the stony mask she was coming to dread.

Jack glanced at his brother, confusion clouding his open face. Claire wished she could unsay the words. Better some harmless banter than the freezing atmosphere that appeared to be Alex’s natural state. Despite their fragile truce, Alex had barely spoken three words since they’d returned to the hostel.

“Sorry, guys, I don’t mean to be touchy. Conor is my boss and a friend of sorts but we’re not involved. Your father and I had words about it before he left, that’s all. I didn’t mean to bite your heads off.”

The impenetrable mask remained on the elder brother’s face but Jack smiled. “Will we see him again?”

“Probably not,” Claire replied, wondering if Conor would find another excuse to drive the hundreds of miles from Dorset to Cornwall. “Right, what shall we do today? I’m guessing the Lost Gardens of Heligan aren’t going to be your cup of tea. What about surfing; either of you lads any good with a board?”

Alex looked as if he’d rather spend the day at the dentist, but Jack bounced in his seat like a toddler.

“Really? That would be super. I’ve done snowboarding and I have a wave board at home, not that Mother likes me to use it. I think she’s worried I’m going to break my arm and get sent home from school like Alex did.” He rattled on enthusiastically.

When he drew breath, Claire turned to Alex. “What about it?” When she got no response she said, “How about you humour me this morning and I let you spend the afternoon playing Candy Crush or texting your friends, while I write up some notes?”

Alex gave an indifferent shrug and Claire decided that was probably as positive as it was going to get.

“Wow, Auntie Claire, that was amazing.” Jack’s grin matched hers, as she rode the board into the beach.

“How about we drop the Auntie, Jack, you’re starting to make me feel ancient. I’m barely old enough to be your mother.”

“Okay, Claire,” he called, as he ran back into the waves. “Last one on their feet’s a wet fish.” He threw a mischievous look at his brother and the sound of his laughter echoed behind him as he ploughed through the surf.

Alex scowled but said nothing. So far he hadn’t managed to get on his knees without toppling in the water.

“You’re taking it too seriously, dude,” the instructor said, clapping a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about your brother, he said he was a snowboarder. I hear you’re a demon black run skier?”

Alex glared at Claire and she shrugged. “Jack told me. He’s proud of you, for all your endless bickering.”

In answer to an unspoken signal from the instructor, Claire followed Jack into the sea. As she looked back, the instructor was earnestly explaining something to her eldest nephew. She hoped it worked. Then she pushed all thought of the troublesome pair from her mind and surrendered to the waves.

“Hey brother, way to go!”

Jack’s voice tore through Claire’s concentration, and she lost her balance. When she surfaced, spitting out sea water, her board tether tugging at her ankle, she saw Jack walk over to give Alex a high five.

Alex’s face split in a beaming smile and it was the first time she’d seen him look genuinely happy. Without the scowl he seemed younger, more like his father: the brother she had looked up to as a child, back when he knew how to have fun.

A tiny spark of hope ignited in her breast and she curled herself around it to keep it alight.

***

Let’s Be Honest, Being a SAHM Isn’t All That: 2013 365 Challenge #319

Scary Mommy Post

I read two great posts this week that seem to sum up nicely my general feeling of meh. This post is likely to be a bit whiny and self-indulgent, but it’s my blog so hey, why not? 🙂

Actually, I’m sharing the posts because I think a) these things aren’t said enough and b) once the “yay it isn’t just me” has faded I have to pack up my meh (I love that word, you may have noticed – though it needs to come with a shrug) and forge a new happy.

The first post was over on Scary Mommy – that brilliant blog making parents feel normal all over the world. It’s called The Myth of Having it All and it resonates with my The Job You Can’t Quit post, except the author of the post has seven children and I only have two.

Reading the comments you realise how many people are relieved to finally be able to confess that being a SAHM (stay at home mum) isn’t all they thought it would be. And that’s where I am. My parents both worked when I was growing up, and my relationship with them was quite distant. I thought if only I could be at home with my children – drive/walk them to school everyday, pick them up smiling every evening, sit and do homework with them – I would have this amazing bond with them. Baloney.

The school run is hideous and at least once a week I’m a screaming monster before the kids make it to the gate. Home time is worse – usually both children are crying before we get back to the car, after negotiating our way through adults, kids, dogs, scooters, bikes, puddles. And it’s still only 4 o’clock when we get home, with two hours until hubbie gets in from work. The school day is just so darn short. Nursery used to be 8am until 6pm with guaranteed parking, so I could leave home at ten to six and get there on time. School is 9am to 3.30pm and I compete for parking with a hundred other parents.

In The Myth of Having it All post, Lisa says this:

More and more lately, the shape of my days – the monotony of them, the veritable triviality of them, the drudgery of them – is getting me down. I know I’m not supposed to say these things, right? As a stay-at-home mom, the proper thing to do is to sing from the rooftops in exaltation about how wonderful and magical my life is as a housewife, and as a “mommy blogger” (if that’s even what I am; I’m not sure), I should be honing my photography skills so as to document for all the world just how wonderful and magical my life is.

Kristen Lamb’s beautifully honest post

We can all read it and know it isn’t true that people think being a SAHM is magical. Except they do. it’s the Facebook lie and it has to stop. Motherhood is pretty dull whether you’re a SAHM, a working mum, a part-time mum or a mummy-what-lunches, complete with nanny and cleaner. (I’m listening to some of those gossiping in the coffee shop behind me, and I’m not sure they belong in the list, to be fair!)

The second post covers the other side of my meh or maybe arrgghh. Kristen Lamb is always wonderfully honest and this week she talks of being overwhelmed by life, and accepting those emotions instead of passing them off as tiredness or depression. I could so relate.

Her post, Lesson of Confession: I’m Drowning, Help! tells how important it is to recognise when we are disappointed or drowning. I am both, without nearly as valid a reason as she has. On some days it all goes right and dinner is cooked, the kitchen is tidy, kids have eaten their tea, dog has been walked and we’re doing homework when Daddy walks in. That happens about once a month. Most days he walks in to a wall of screaming and crying, and that’s just me. And, you know what, even those rare and magical days are pretty dull. There’s none of the high I used to get from surviving a difficult presentation or finishing a report. Or even from writing some great chapters.

Because there is no time or energy to write anymore. Since hubbie went back to work and the kids dropped down to their six-hour day, three days a week, I mostly only find time to walk the dog, clean the kitchen, iron some shirts and write my blog. And I’m always in a rush. Always. I hate it. There, I’ve said it. I hate it. I look at working mums with envy, even though I know their life is ten times tougher than mine and even more of a rush. I would give anything to go to work for twelve hours straight without a single screaming tantrum to deal with. Or, like hubbie did last night, go away to a hotel for work and slip out guilt-free to the cinema. Except, of course, I wouldn’t.

In the fantasy books I’m reading at the moment, the young protagonist keeps whining, “Why me?” In the end someone says, “Who else would you trust to get the job done?” And there’s the rub. Much as I hate having to remember to take money in a purse for Children in Need (I forgot: mummy fail) and rushing home to do the ironing and vacuum cleaning, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it. I had a cleaner and it lasted only a few weeks, because we didn’t see eye to eye (and I hated having to tidy the house before she arrived!)

Doing Sounds in the playroom

As a treat, because Daddy was away last night, we hired a movie and had pizza on the sofa, snuggled up in duvets (except daughter was scared by the movie and we had to turn it off!) The movie was Shrek the final part. The one where Shrek wishes for just a day away from his boring life as husband and parent, and it all goes wrong. He loses everything and only then discovers what he had. I know what I have: I love my husband and children, I love having the freedom to take them to school everyday, the money to send my son to nursery, a husband who doesn’t mind that I write rather than mop the kitchen floor, and who will eat takeaway when I’m too shattered to cook.

I love that I came downstairs from making notes for this blog post sneakily on the iPad, to discover the children sitting quietly together learning sounds. I love that I could let them be and make breakfast because, really, my shower could wait until later and we didn’t have to leave for an hour. I know it is for these moments of calm that I chose to stay at home and write books instead of getting a proper job.

I know all that. But I’m still bored and restless. I’m still listening to the women behind me discussing the restrictions of the school uniform, and whether they can get a hat from Boden, and resisting the urge to run away screaming, “Isn’t there more to it than this?” Sigh. As always with parenting, I cling to the phrase “this too will pass.” In the meantime I’ll try and swap my meh for happy and just keep swimming.

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Claire typed “Roseland Peninsula” into the search box and waited. The map pin dropped into a place near St Austell. Claire frowned and read the address, then tutted as she realised it was a business of the same name.

Stupid map.

She tried typing the words into the search engine instead, and finally came up with a website which showed the peninsula. It was as she’d suspected, when she’d read the review of the hostel she was in which had raved about the amazing time to be had in Roseland. It was about as much a peninsula as the Isle of Purbeck was an island.

What it is with the need to name these areas? Is it for a sense of identity? Tourism? Convenience? Was it once a little kingdom or principality, back in the days when there were dozens of petty kings fighting over land?

Reading through several more websites, Claire discovered it was in fact a peninsula, apparently separated from the mainland by a river.

Well, that told me, didn’t it?

She smiled and copied the notes into a document. With a quick glance at the time, she scanned more quickly through the remaining pages. Deciding to use the peninsula as a case study to compare with the Isle of Purbeck had been a great idea, but she was meeting Conor in two hours and she still had to drive to St Austell and find the right place for lunch. Looking through the online images she felt that Roseland might have the edge on Purbeck.

Although given Conor’s passion for Dorset, it probably won’t be a good idea to write that down.

Certainly the websites were miles apart. Claire grimaced as she looked at the messy Purbeck page with angry banners and snide comments. It wasn’t a tourism website, as far as she could see, but the online equivalent of a parochial parish newsletter. The Roseland site was the opposite extreme: almost too polished and slick, with scrolling flash images and neat headings.

Furiously typing notes, Claire tried to remain objective, remembering that Conor’s love of all things Jurassic Coast was likely to make him defensive. She didn’t want a fight, and she definitely didn’t want to upset him.

But, then, if he couldn’t take the truth he shouldn’t have hired me for this project.

The more she flicked through the two websites, the more Claire became aware of a sense of elation building inside her. It was a forgotten feeling: that sense of hitting the mark; of doing a job well and feeling in control.

This is why I love my job.

With a widening grin, she wrote a few more paragraphs of explanation before reluctantly closing the laptop. There would be no time to print it out but, if she found the restaurant before Conor arrived, there might be the chance to put together a presentation.

That’ll stop him harassing me for updates and get him off my case. I think the less I see of him the better.

***

Miles and points roundup, SAHM, Anna Maria island (milesforfamily.com)
Stay-at-home mom, bullied at the bus stop (salon.com)
The SAHM that ticked me off… (thebadmommydiaries.com)
The SAHM’s Art of Doing Nothing (fromcheekytofrumpyin4yearsflat.wordpress.com)
“SAHMs are nothing special” (margeryandtheman.wordpress.com)
SAHM Survival! (freethinkingmoms.wordpress.com)
Love to Hate SAHM (scatteredsunshine518.wordpress.com)
No more apologies (inadifferentvoice.co.uk)

Difficult Decisions: 2013 365 Challenge #313

A plethora of school options

I’ve been awake since 5.30am, thinking.

It happens sometimes (especially after the clocks have gone back, and the children’s body clocks are still adjusting). Today, though, I’ve been worrying about schools again. This is a frequent topic on this blog, as regular followers will know.

We are in the (possibly) fortunate position that there are over fifty good schools in a twenty mile radius of our house, all offering different things. We thought long and hard before choosing the school our daughter goes to, and mostly we’ve been happy with our choice.

Our problem, though, is that she isn’t happy. The friendships we thought made the school an obvious choice are proving to be a double-edged sword. Previous relationships are making it hard for her to forge new friendships and people she’s known all her life are behaving differently in the new environment. She’ll be fine, but it is a worry when she complains she’s ill and doesn’t want to go to school. No parent wants that.

My anxiety has been exacerbated by having the first preschool parent evening for my son last night. It wasn’t bad, but it was a completely different experience to the ones we used to get with our daughter. I think that’s actually part of the problem. Our son’s preschool teacher kept comparing him to his sister: saying that, unlike her, he is easily led into trouble and needs a firm hand to keep him behaving.

Green spaces essential

Some of that is boys vs girls, I guess. Some of it is because he’s a second child and is used to following the stronger person (usually his sister) into doing things. I can mostly trust her not to lead him into things he shouldn’t do, but unfortunately a pack of three-year-old boys don’t have the same discretion.

Even though our son doesn’t start school for two years, I can already envision the walk of shame, when the Reception teacher walks out to the parent at home time to ‘have a chat’. I’ve seen it happen to others and I don’t want it to be me.

I understand more and more why my sister moved her family to America so she could send her children to a specific school there whose ethos she completely buys in to. I don’t have such strong views, unfortunately. I want a good education for my children, but I also want them to have the freedom to be children: to get mucky and run around screaming and play sports and have new experiences. My son is also complaining about being bored at preschool. In the winter they spend most of the day indoors in a small room, with an equal mix of boys and girls. I know without seeing that he spends the whole day being told to stop running, calm down, behave (I know because I say the same at home).

What’s the answer? Right now I feel I’d have to start my own school to get anything close to the balance I want: the right mix of learning and lessons and free-flow play. My school would have a giant atrium in the middle of the school with leaves and trees and places to curl up with a book. There would be a trampoline for boys to go and work out their energy when they’re antsy. There would be plentiful healthy food and an outdoor classroom and loads of switched-on teachers (male and female) completely enthusiastic about their subject, but fewer tests and worries about passing exams. Ah, utopia how we dream of you!

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Claire tapped her foot and tried not to swear in irritation. The queue inched forward as young children ran around between the legs of grumpy grownups, yelling and screaming. Next to Claire a harassed mother tried to keep her twins in line, while balancing a baby on her hip. As the time ticked by, Claire felt her sympathy going out to the woman as the baby began to grizzle and the twins threatened to knock the waiting tourists over like skittles.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered eventually, unable to contain her frustration. “It’s not even the weekend.”

“You should see it in the school holidays!”

Claire turned and saw a rueful pair of brown eyes smiling at her. She smiled back at the grey haired lady standing behind her, holding the hand of a bored-looking child. “I came with all the grandchildren, once, because they put on extra activities at half term. But, oh my goodness that was a trial. We were in the queue for over an hour: the little ones were ready to burst by the time we got in.”

“What’s causing the delay?” Claire peered over the heads of the milling crowd but couldn’t see the hold-up.

“Gift Aid,” the woman sighed. “If you’re a tax payer they can claim gift aid, but they have to get your address details from you. Even those with pre-bought tickets don’t get in any quicker. It’s a farce.”

Claire’s irritation evaporated as she realised she’d been handed something concrete to put into her report. She’d done the gift aid thing before, when she’d visited attractions with Sky earlier in the year, and she remembered it did take ages. Surely there could be a better way to claim the money back. Maybe some kind of national gift aid scheme, where you got a card from the government that could be scanned.

The time passed quickly as Claire followed the shuffling feet, her brain whirring with ideas. At last it was her turn and she monitored the procedure carefully, itching to make notes about it as soon as she could find a quiet corner to write into her phone.

All work ideas evaporated as Claire entered the site. She hadn’t really known what to expect. Although she knew the project was about education – about showing the world the importance of plants – she hadn’t appreciated just how big the place was, or that half of it was outside.

A little blue train trundled past and Claire went to get on board. It seemed the easiest way to get a feel for the place, as well as giving her a chance to take some notes. After a short time, however, she got off. The alien domes called to her and she couldn’t wait to get indoors and see what the fuss was about.

Claire entered the Mediterranean biome and her heart sank. Craning her neck, she gazed up at the sunlit hexagons snaking overhead. The structure was impressive, but all she could hear were the noises of the busy pizza restaurant in the centre.

She wandered along the walkways, where endless beds of vibrant flowers filled the air with clashing scents and painted the floor with rows of bright colour. Dotted among the plants were sculptures and displays, like a living museum, while all around there were people chattering and calling to each other.

With her critical head on, Claire couldn’t see much evidence of education. There didn’t seem to be that many signs or displays, although she decided that might have been because they would detract from the view of the plants.

After a while she decided to head for the rainforest biome instead. It was the one everyone thought of when they planned a visit, and she hoped maybe the magic was hiding there.

The heat and humidity hit her as she entered. Despite its size it was still a greenhouse. She could see mist rising above the trees, almost like real clouds indoors. The sound of rushing water pulled at her, until she reached a waterfall stretching high above her. Making an effort to block out the busy tourist sounds, Claire could almost imagine herself back in the New Zealand bush. It was breath-taking.

The wooden walkway curled through the trees high above the people. Claire had retreated up to escape the bustle. She’d contemplated climbing up to the roof platform, despite the height, and was a little disappointed to discover it was closed due to the heat.

Probably just as well. Knowing my luck I would have got dizzy and fallen down the steps, knocking out half the visitors at the same time.

Claire stood leaning on the rail, taking in the beauty beneath her. It was hard to believe the place used to be an old clay pit. It was amazing what could be created with some vision and a lot of effort.

What a shame the experience is spoiled by the shambolic entrance and the tourist traps every five minutes. Do they really need stalls and restaurants and an ice rink? What does that teach the children about the world? That there’s commercialism everywhere? That trees alone aren’t entertainment enough?

Her mind full of profound thoughts, Claire stood and let the view sink in.

***

School Comms? 2013 365 Challenge #302 (writermummy.wordpress.com)
School: Who is in charge? 2013 365 Challenge #292 (writermummy.wordpress.com)
Let the Kids be Free: 2013 365 Challenge #275 (writermummy.wordpress.com)

School Comms? 2013 365 Challenge #302

Maths Homework

I sat down with my daughter today to do her homework, as it’s half term. She was mostly happy to do it and we had fun. However, I have to say, I’ve been generally surprised at the poor communication between school and parent since my daughter started in September. I did my best but I didn’t really know what we were meant to do or how often: it was all rather vague. It also came as a shock as I wasn’t expecting anything to be set this early on in her school career (she’s not even five years old yet).

As far as school-parent communication goes, I’m the optimum parent: I drop my child off every morning and pick her up every afternoon. I browse the messages posted on classroom walls. I read the newsletters and emails and I trawl through daughter’s book bag every evening to fish out the paperwork. I read and write in the reading diary and I attended parents’ evenings and lunchtime reading meetings. And STILL I have no idea what’s going on half the time.

I don’t understand their merit system, even though I went to the celebration assembly. We have requests for things that need to be made for the Christmas fundraising fayre and I don’t understand what they’re asking for. I resort to asking the mums who have older children at the school and even they don’t have much of a clue.

I know it’s a tough job being a teacher, and I’m not criticising them at all: you couldn’t pay me enough to do their job. But the school has a duty to communicate with parents if they want to engage them and get their help. Our school has the infrastructure but the content is vague and confusing. it makes me want to volunteer to review their comms, except it would be a full time job and I have zero capacity. Having been fighting off a cold all day, just the thought leaves me shivering in horror! But it might be time to add my tuppence worth to the parent feedback forum! After all, communication goes both ways!

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“Alright, Claire, I’ll bite. What happened to your face?” Conor’s tone was a mixture of amused friend and disapproving parent.

Claire looked up from her starter and grimaced. “Damn. I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

Conor laughed, his eyes lighting up like a sunlit sea. “You look like you rode downhill on your bike with no hands on the handle bars and hit a pothole. I did that once, and my face looked something like that.”

“That’s not so far from the truth.” Claire ducked her head and let her hair cover her face completely. “I slipped, on the coastal path. I thought I was going to fall off the cliff. Thankfully I managed to stop at the edge.” She shivered at the memory. “Unfortunately I left some of my skin behind.”

“It’s not just your face?”

Claire mutely shook her head, and waited for Conor to laugh some more. When he didn’t speak, she looked up again and was surprised at his expression. His face contracted in a tight frown, reminding her of Michael for a moment. She bristled in defence, but his eyes widened and he smiled.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t fall off the cliff. I went to too much trouble hiring you to have to find a replacement.” The lightness of his tone belied the sympathy in his gaze.

Unsure what to make of it, Claire turned her attention back to her food. She was glad he hadn’t laughed, as Josh might have done, or told her off, which would have been Michael’s reaction. This mixture of business-like detachment and compassion wrong-footed her. Her hands shook slightly as she raised a forkful of salad to her mouth, and she lowered her arm quickly, hoping Conor hadn’t noticed.

“So, aside from trying to kill yourself at Salcombe, how has your trip been so far? How is the report coming along?”

Claire inhaled and took a shaky sip of her drink. “Good, thanks. I’m beginning to get a feel for it. I had a long chat with the hostel manager, and spent some time in Torquay. It would be useful if you had a template or set of guidelines for me to work to, just so I can make sure I’m delivering what you’re expecting.”

Conor nodded. “Of course. There are some standard templates and previous reports on the laptop. I realise we haven’t given you much to work with. I’m surprised you haven’t been more demanding, to be honest.”

With a deep flush, Claire realised she wasn’t living up to her role as a consultant. Conor obviously expected her to be more proactive, to request information and guidelines. She had been so wrapped up in her drama with Kim and getting a car, she hadn’t taken the job very seriously.

As if reading her mind, Conor cleared his throat. “How is Kim?”

“I haven’t spoken to her since leaving her at her mum’s. I’m been caught up in my research.”

“Good.” Conor seemed to realise that sounded harsh, as he laughed uncomfortably. “I meant good that you’ve cleared your head to get stuck into the project. I confess I was concerned that your mind wasn’t really on the subject. It is important, you know? Your contract extension depends on the quality of the report.”

His words made Claire’s stomach constrict. As she analysed his tone, though, she realised he wasn’t telling her off. It was almost as if he was urging her to do well, so he wouldn’t have to sack her.

All the spent adrenalin from her earlier fall and the race to get to the hotel, combined with the ideas roiling in her brain, left Claire feeling dizzy and disorientated.

Why do I always feel like there are two or three different conversations going on at the same time when I talk to Conor? His face says one thing, his voice another and his words something completely different.

With a gulp of wine, Claire suppressed a sigh and hoped she would learn to read her boss soon, before she went mad.

***

School: Who is in charge? 2013 365 Challenge #292

Happy school

We had our first ‘learning conversation’ at school today (parents’ evening in the old language.) Our daughter has only been at school a few weeks, so there wasn’t much to discuss except is she making friends okay and how can we support her burgeoning desire to read? (She’s wanted to read for ages but wouldn’t let Mummy teach her! When she read out simple words like Pat and Mac this evening I wanted to burst with pride.)

It was the conversations in the playground that I found interesting though. We have a little book that is meant to be our means for communicating with the teachers, when it isn’t possible to catch them in the morning, and aside from the ten minute learning conversation slot every few months.

I happened to mention that I wrote something in the book about my daughter’s phonics and was disappointed that it wasn’t responded to – and that one of the assistants made the same point two rows below. (I confess, I scrawled in red pen “please refer!” and drew an arrow up to our comment. Okay, I’m a child!)

Some of my parent friends laughed at me, and I couldn’t understand why. Was it because I was pushing my child too hard, or that I had enough time to read through her homework diary (I know I’m extremely fortunate to have that extra time, that working parents sometimes don’t, and I was concerned that I was rubbing it in.) Hubbie was with me and I asked him what he thought I’d done wrong. His view surprised me: he thinks they laughed because I challenged the teacher with my comment. And it got me thinking – do some parents see it that the teachers are in charge and they have no role to play in their child’s education? Do I?

Playing after school

If you had asked me a few years ago, I would have said of course they are. They’re the professionals, what do I know? I would no more home-school than I would home-dentist. But now I have a slightly different view.

Of course teachers are better informed in how to get the best learning experience out of a child, and I intend to leave as much to them as possible. Particularly because my daughter doesn’t want to learn from me and I can’t help but get frustrated when she can sound a word out perfectly – say C.A.T. – and then read it as “dog”. I mean, really? 😉

However, am I prepared to leave it entirely to the teachers, and not want to know the details of what she’s learning, especially at this early stage? No. Not any more. Teachers are human just as I am. I made mistakes in my job, I took the wrong things seriously, I did my best and it wasn’t always perfect. I’m not saying teachers will make mistakes, but they are only human. Plus, even with the assistants, they’re still on a 12-1 ratio. And, ultimately, no one will understand or care for my child as I do.

It’s difficult to do things that get laughed at. I remember now laughing at one of my other parent friends because she checked her son’s merit chart every day to make sure he was getting merits (think gold stars). I felt she was a bit pushy. How wrong I was. She was just interested and keen that he did well. It’s so easy to judge from the outside, but none of us can know how we’ll react until it is our turn! So, yes, I’ll be the pushy parent, the pain, the one questioning and asking and not taking it all for granted. Up until now I’ve left the professionals to it. But not any more!

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“Hello?”

“Ruth, hi, it’s Claire.” She held her breath, waiting for the tirade. There was silence, and she imagined her sister’s mouth hanging open like a fish as she tried to decide how angry to be.

“Hi, sis, how are you? How was New Zealand? The pictures on the blog looked amazing.”

It was Claire’s turn to hesitate. The warmth in her sister’s voice and words momentarily froze her brain.

“Er, it was lovely. Bit cold, in the south. It’s good to be back in the UK. Um, sorry I didn’t stop by when I got home.”

“That’s okay, Mum said you had some problems with Kim or something. I hope she’s okay?”

Still the uncharacteristic mellow tone. Claire felt like she was talking to a stranger.

“Yes, Kim’s been, um, poorly. She was going to come travelling with me but we decided she needed to stay with her parents for a while.”

“I’m sure that’s for the best. Have you started your new job? Didn’t I read on the blog that you were working for Dorset tourism or something?”

“What? I mean, yes I started work this week. I’ve got three months to prove my worth.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage it; after four months on the road you must have a pretty good handle on what tourists want. And at least you’re not working for that silly man any more, or a faceless corporation like Happy Cola.”

Claire shivered. She’d never known her sister to show so much interest in her life before or to talk for so long without saying anything about how awful her own life was. She felt like she’d woken in an alternative reality.

“How’s Sky?” That would be safer territory.

“She’s great. She’s spending time with Chris at the weekends, so I’ve had a chance to get some rest, catch up on reading and housework, that kind of thing.”

“Huh? I thought you said she’d see Chris over your dead body?” Claire’s head reeled with the change of direction.

“Yes, well, it nearly came to that, didn’t it?”

Ruth’s matter-of-fact tone didn’t fool Claire, but she was glad of it. She wasn’t sure she could handle any more lachrymose languishing. Even so, the idea that her sister was willingly making contact with the ex-husband she swore she’d never see again was too much to take in.

“Blimey, I’ve only been away a month and the world’s on its head. What made you change your mind?”

“Sky. She kept asking to see her dad and her new sister. At first it made me cross, with her and you.”

Claire braced herself for the attack she knew was coming. “I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bump into him.”

“It’s fine. You’ve done me a favour. We’ve agreed that Sky will spend every other weekend with him, and Bryony and Eloise of course.”

That was too much for Claire. “Hang on. Sorry, I can’t get my head around this. Bryony? Not that woman? What the hell happened, Ruth?”

“It was time I forgave him. I didn’t make life easy for him, when Sky was born. I see that now. And family is important. Sky probably won’t have any other siblings through me; she should be allowed to know her sister.”

A suspicion crept into Claire’s brain, only to be dismissed. Something about the way Ruth spoke, her measured tone and air of calm forgiveness, made her sound like a missionary. As if hearing Claire’s thoughts, Ruth’s next words confirmed it.

“I’ve started going to a new church on Sunday. They made me see that life’s too short for grudges. You should come, Claire, next time you’re home. They’re wonderful people.”

“Sure, I’ll do that,” Claire muttered. Part of her felt relieved that Ruth had found a new focus in life, but another part of her worried that Ruth had been brainwashed by some cult.

I watch too much TV. A church in the midlands isn’t going to be a brainwashing cult.

With a wry smile, she pushed the foolish thoughts aside. “I have to go, Ruth, but I’m so glad to hear that you’re getting on well. I’ll give you another call soon. You take care.”

As she hung up the phone, Claire’s mind whirled with new emotions.

***

Daily Blogging has taught me to say, “Bring it on”: 2013 365 Challenge #284

Happiest on the mountain top

I wrote a couple of days ago about how I am content with life and was surprised to realise that, beneath the depression and the tiredness, it’s true.

After our discussion on the importance of a five-year plan, hubbie commented on how much I’ve changed over the last few weeks. I don’t think I have, or if I have it isn’t over weeks but months. But I do feel a change in me: an increase in confidence, in self-belief and in courage. I believe in my choices – both as a writer and a parent – and I’m starting to be able to take life in my stride.

I happened to mention to a friend recently that I have a first class degree. She immediately joked, “Oh, I only have a 2:1, but I had a life at university.” And I didn’t get upset and defensive. It’s true: I didn’t have much of a life outside study at university. It used to bother me, like I did it wrong somehow. That university should have been about making amazing life-long friendships, drinking until two in the morning, or winning at hockey.

Conquering mountains

I spent university in the library. Sometimes in the gym (to avoid being in the library). In my second year I had terrible depression and I remember spending most of the year in my dark and damp uni accommodation, listening to Metallica, not sleeping much and feeling miserable.

During the vacation before my third year I worked in a bar and made some great friends. I met a lad and thought all I wanted to do in life was be a bar manager.

I realise now that was because I found somewhere I belonged. Behind a bar I could be me: I didn’t have to keep up with the pretty girls or the brainy academics. People were nice to me because they wanted me to serve them and not throw them out. It was fun. When the lad dumped me at New Year (in hindsight, thank god!) I thought my life was over. It took until Easter (and the support of my amazing flatmates, bless you), for me to put my world back together. I then worked twelve hours a day for six weeks to get my dissertation written and still get my first.

Knee agony but still smiling

I seem to have spent my whole life since then trying to fit, trying to work out why I don’t have life-long friends; why I don’t want to go drinking or talk about fashion. I found my place, briefly, when I joined the Guide Association as a leader and realised hiking mountains is in my soul (if not in my knees!) But I lost that connection through depression, when I quit everything and went travelling (and climbed some more mountains!)

Since having kids I’ve tried to be the perfect parent: to get the right mix of love and discipline, together-time and independence, crafty mess and tidying up. Mostly I felt like I was doing it wrong.

Then, I started the daily blog challenge, and everything changed. I found my place in the world. Through writing every day I found that I like and I’m good at it. Not brilliant, not amazing, but good enough. I discovered how to edit, and to find a pleasure in editing. I met some amazing friends: friends who see the world the way I do. Through sharing my parenting highs and lows, and reading the stories of other mums, I’ve discovered I’m doing okay.

I lived my life after uni

The support, community and daily contact of the blog has built a wall of confidence around me that I never had before. The amazing thing is, even though I can feel the depression pulling at me: even though I’ve had days recently when I wanted to end it all, I can see that it’s mostly caused by lack of sleep. On a day, like today, when I managed to get five hours’ sleep in a row, I feel like I could sprint up Mount Everest. (Except I’m still so goddamn tired!)

My daily blog challenge has pushed me to the limits. But it’s stretched me open and connected me to a whole world of like-minded people. Ones I didn’t necessarily come across at school or university or even in my day-to-day life. Not that I don’t love the friends I’ve made in all those places. Now I’m more confident I love the differences, too. I love that I can have someone tell me I didn’t have a life at university and I can nod, and think quietly, “I had my life. I had the life I like to live: I read, I slept, I ran, I studied. It was enough. I did all that other stuff after I graduated.” I’m no longer making excuses for who I am or where I’ve come from. I feel empowered.

Blogging daily is a bit like therapy. A bit like life. Sometimes it hurts and you don’t want to do it: but those are the times when you learn the most about yourself and what you are capable of. To anyone considering taking on this crazy challenge next year, or to anyone thinking of taking part in NaNoWriMo, or any other challenge where you push yourself and commit yourself to finding out what’s beneath your skin, I’d advise you to say, “Bring it on.”

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“So, this is the place that’s lured you away from city life?” Kim looked out the window at the painted houses, dull beneath the clouds covering the summer sky, and snorted. “It’s not really your style. Is there even a Starbucks in this town?”

Claire tried to ignore the mockery in Kim’s voice. “I won’t be living here, at least not for a while. And, for your information, I no longer need to live within five minutes of a decent cup of coffee. I’ve broadened my horizons.” She dropped her prim voice and added, “Besides, there’s Starbucks in Poole, so I can nip over on the ferry.”

The girls laughed and, for a moment, it felt like the old days. Then Kim sighed. “You’ll be so far away. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you since you left home.”

“That was nearly ten years ago. We’ve never seen much of each other – we went to different schools and different universities. You moved in with Jeff, I went to Manchester. We don’t have to be in walking distance to be friends you know.”

“It’s not the same. I wanted to bike over and talk to you, and you weren’t there.” Her voice held a hint of accusation and Claire braced herself for further attacks.

Kim sighed again. “Sorry. I know this isn’t your fault. Jeff says I accused you of causing the miscarriage – when you came to see the play. I don’t really remember; everything is foggy. If I did, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m sorry I thought Michael could be trusted to keep his big gob shut.”

“Things are definitely over between you two, then?”

Claire thought about all the things her friend didn’t know about; Josh and the unnamed Scottish man and even Neal. For the first time it felt like a hundred years had passed since they’d last spoken.”

“Definitely.”

“I can’t say I’m disappointed. He never seemed right for you. Too boring. You need someone to make you laugh.” She stopped. “Poor Jeff, I’ve made his life a misery and he must be grieving as well. Even though it was only early on, it was his baby too.”

She fell silent again, and Claire glanced over, worried she was crying. Her face revealed dark thoughts, but she seemed in control of her emotions.

Turning her attention back to the road, Claire followed the SatNav’s instructions to take them to their B&B. They hadn’t managed to get beds in the hostel and Claire had to admit she wasn’t disappointed. She wasn’t entirely sure Kim was up to staying with strangers.

The B&B overlooked the bay. Claire looked out at the slate grey water, topped with white. The skies had grown darker and darker as they drove south and now they hung ominously overhead. Claire hoped it wasn’t a sign that they should have stopped driving and turned back.

“What do you want to do?” She looked over at Kim, who was also staring out across the sea. “Are you hungry?”

Kim looked blankly at her and the gloomy light from the window highlighted her sunken cheeks and the flatness of her eyes. She turned her face back to the window without speaking.

When she didn’t answer, Claire filled the silence with bright and brittle words. “Well, I’m hungry. Plus I need to contact Conor, see if we can catch up tonight. Then we can carry on into Devon and Cornwall tomorrow. You’ll like Conor, he’s full of Irish charm.”

She ran out of words. It felt like trying to get through to Sky when she was having a tantrum. Only much worse. All the emotions in Kim were raging on the inside; like watching a storm through thick glass.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“I want to go to sleep and never wake up.”

Kim’s words poured like ice water over Claire. Her mind went blank. She wanted to bundle Kim in the car and take her back to Jeff, or the hospital. To people better suited to deal with the despair. Instead she took a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs, and forced her lips to smile.

“Well, I’m not going to let you do that. Let’s go for a walk along the beach, spend some coppers in the amusement arcade then let Conor buy us dinner. It will all seem better tomorrow.”

She tugged her friend gently and was relieved when she allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. As she led her from the room, Claire looked one last time at the wind-tossed sea and hoped she was right that it would be better in the morning. It couldn’t be worse.

***

The Top Five Reasons for Not Doing NaNoWriMo This November (chroniclebooks.com)
Why All Writers Should Care About NaNoWriMo (plottersandpantsers.wordpress.com)

Best Friends Forever? 2013 365 Challenge #278

My amazing girl

I need some advice. My daughter came home from school today saying she and her best friends are ‘not friends anymore’. It isn’t a new statement: in the nature of best friends, they fall out all the time. The problem has been exacerbated recently by the poor child having a broken arm. Not being able to play and climb is bound to make a child grumpy.

The dilemma for me is that my daughter’s friend has, herself, another best friend. A slightly older (and much more confident) girl, who – up until they all started school – she spent much more time with.

My daughter only saw her best friend once a week at nursery, and whenever our baby group got together, as I’m friends with her mum. The friend spent the rest of her time with this other girl, at preschool and on play dates.

Like a marriage and an affair, it all went on swimmingly until they were chucked together, six hours a day, five days a week. Now, my daughter has lots of other friends, but they have formed their own natural groups and pairings, and she is used to seeing her BFF as her natural pair. A love triangle is forming.

At a birthday party

My advice has always been for her to play with children when they’re being happy and friendly, and not give them any attention when they’re being mean and grumpy. But at the moment, what I really want to say to my daughter is, ‘make a new friend’. I don’t want her to stop being friends with the other child, but I think it would help to find a girl who doesn’t have a pair, and make a new friendship.

It’s tricky for me to suggest that, as I’m friend’s with the girl’s mother: I don’t want it to sound like I’m dissing her daughter (I’m not, she’s a lovely girl). I just hate to see my little princess in tears because she feels left out.

We went through this at nursery, when the older girls wouldn’t let my daughter join in with their games. Once the older girls left, she really flourished at nursery, even on the days her best friend wasn’t there. So I know she gets on well with the other girls in her class. And, because they’re not her ‘best friend forever’ she does tend to fall out with them less, or care less if they’re mean.

What do I do? Listen and give no advice? Talk to a teacher to understand how significant the issue is? (I’m not sure how much the teachers notice: with a 12-1 ratio, I’m guessing they don’t watch the nuances of friendship ups and downs). Has anyone experienced this love triangle of friendships? Am I worrying too much and it will all blow over in a week? Four is a tough age, and I don’t remember any of that time myself!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire stared at the girl sitting at the kitchen table. She looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. Her short blonde hair stood up in spikes from her head and she had a ring through her nose.

As if sensing the scrutiny, the girl glanced up and smiled. “Hi, you must be Claire. Melanie said you were staying.”

Melanie? When did Mum let people call her by her first name? And who the hell are you? Politeness kept the words unspoken.

“Yes, hi, I’m Claire.” She waited for the girl to introduce herself. After a few moments, she seemed to get the hint.

“Sorry, I’m Dotty. Your mum said I could stay for a while. I’m working locally for the summer, before I go to uni.”

Claire blinked, trying to process the information. Her head ached; she wasn’t entirely sure what time or day it was, although it looked like Dotty was eating breakfast which suggested it was probably morning.

I’m going to wake up in a moment and still be on the coach having a bad dream. Mum, let some random girl stay? In my room? For the whole damned summer?

She felt like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in a fantastic world of impossibilities. Her stomach growled and she remembered her priority.

“Is there any food?”

Dotty nodded. “Sure, I baked some bread yesterday; I think there’s still half a loaf.” She gestured towards the counter.

Like a sleepwalker, Claire crossed the familiar kitchen and retrieved what looked to be a walnut loaf from the breadbin. Hacking off a chunk, she smeared it with butter, too hungry to worry about toasting it first.

Claire perched on the edge of the nearest seat and concentrated on chewing the bread, glad not to be able to make further conversation. Her mind tried to place Dotty, wondering if she was some distant cousin or a God-daughter her mother had forgotten to mention. It didn’t make sense: her mother hated having young people in the house. She’d practically held a street party when Claire had finally moved out; the last of the three children to leave the nest.

“I’m heading into Cambridge this morning, is there anything I can get you?”

Claire’s gaze flew over to the young girl’s face and her heart lurched. “Do you drive? Have you got your own car? I could do with a lift to the hospital, if it’s not out of your way.”

Dotty grinned. “Definitely not out of my way, that’s where I’m going. I’m volunteering for PALS before I start my social work degree.”

Claire had no idea what PALS was, but she wasn’t going to turn down a free lift, even if it meant an hour in the car with the girl. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about the fresh-faced brightly smiling woman irritated her.

“Great,” was all she said. “How long have I got? I need to scrounge some shampoo from Mum so I can have a shower.”

“I’m leaving in about twenty minutes. My stuff is in the family bathroom, you’re welcome to borrow what you like.”

The girl stood, rinsed her breakfast bowl, dried it and put it away. With a wide smile, she nodded at Claire and left the room.

Claire munched on her bread and tried not to cry.

***

No girls allowed (gppumpjack17.wordpress.com)
“Bff” (darksideofheaven.wordpress.com)
Friend forever (michellemarieantellg.wordpress.com)
Bullying… (amnaullah.wordpress.com)

Let the Kids be Free: 2013 365 Challenge #275

Inventing ball games in the play room

The kids had a day off school yesterday, in our school at least, because one of the unions was on strike. I’m not here to talk about the politics, largely because I have conflicting views: I studied the nineteenth-century industrial revolution in history and I know how important unions were in ensuring safe and healthy working conditions and fair pay for workers. How unions work now I’m not so clear on.

I know teachers work impossibly hard – my friend, who has three children under six – doesn’t see her kids much in term time as she’s at school until 9 pm most nights and then marking until midnight.

I do know that it rankles that the school can close for a day with little warning and no compensation, forcing some parents to take a day’s leave or pay for extra childcare, but if I take my child out of school in term time I pay a £60 fine. Hmmm

Anyway, I said I wouldn’t discuss the politics. What I found interesting was how people chose to spend that day. My daughter is in Reception (I think Kindergarten in the US?), in her first week of full time school, so I knew it was going to be a down-day: one where she could do what she wanted, without worrying about rules or getting her uniform dirty or anything.

Playing shops

We hung out with friends, went to the park, baked cookies and did painting. My only rule was that she wash her hair (it’s long overdue) and even that resulted in tired tears. (To be fair, we’re all tired. Hubbie and I are dipping down into depression and the slightest thing sets me off sobbing. I feel like we’re all broken!)

That aside, I’ve learned recently that I’m more of a hippy parent than I ever knew. Because I want my child to be free as much as possible. I don’t want to do after school clubs and classes: I want her to be home, running with her brother, being as loud and messy as she wants to be. Plenty of time in the 6.5 hours of school five days a week to stick to the rules.

I’m sure, as she gets older, the balance will change. I want her to do well at school and in exams, as I did, although I want her to have more to life than just her education. For now, though, it makes me feel warm inside to see her playing ball games with her brother, or – as she did this morning – to sit quietly in her room for an hour playing doctors with her teddy bears while the rest of the house slept.

There was a woman in the park yesterday bringing (I’m guessing) her 7 or 8 year old grandchild for a play. It was around 2 pm and she proudly told a friend of mine that they’d already done flute, numbers, writing, piano, swimming, French (I can’t remember the exact list, but something like that) and now they were ‘burning off energy’. It made my soul ache.

Preparing for a rainy school run

Each to their own, and I’m trying really really really hard not to judge other styles of parenting than my own. But a whole new world has opened up to me, now I have been blessed with watching how my children interact and play when left to their own devices. How they comfort each other, sort out their own problems, find new games to play, take turns, share, apologise, teach and learn.

I loved school, I think my children will love school. But for the social aspect, as much for learning. We don’t come from a big family – their friends are all from school and nursery.

We went to the school curriculum evening recently and I have to say I wasn’t that thrilled with what’s to come for my children. Not the teaching – that all looks grand – but the building, the resources and, in some cases, the teachers. The building is old and dark, the classrooms dated and cluttered. The teachers seem rough and grumpy (and not one introduced themselves by name apart from the Reception teachers, who we already knew).

There aren’t so many alternatives round here. I’m going to the fee-paying school open day on Friday, but I’m pretty certain it isn’t what I want: I think there will be more rules, more activities, more expectations, fewer chances for down time, grazed knees, torn clothing, dirt and fun. Homeschooling isn’t the answer, because it’s the social element that’s important. Sigh.

I just have to remember that, whatever choices we make, the kids will be fine. In the meantime, we battle the rain, the parking fiasco, the chaos and commuter-like experience of the school run and hope we’re doing the right thing.

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Claire regarded the airport through heavy eyes, expecting it to look different somehow. Surely the world had shifted on its axis during the long weeks she had been away?

Around her, people greeted loved ones, hurried towards men holding name cards, or – like her – shuffled head down through the waiting crowd, knowing no one was there to meet her.

Why would they be? No one even knows I’m arriving today.

Claire adjusted the straps of her rucksack and looked around for signs to the train station, hoping she could catch a direct train to Cambridge. Her first priority was getting to Kim.

Through every minute of the thirty-two endless hours it took to get home, concern for Kim had kept her from sleep. During the stopovers at Sydney and Dubai, with no iPad for company and no money for food, she had sat cradling her phone praying for news.

There had been just one text from Jeff, telling her that Kim was scheduled to spend a few days in the hospital so the staff could ensure she didn’t make a second attempt on her life. Jeff had had to fight to stop her being transferred to a secure facility.

Poor Jeff. Poor Kim.

That was as far as Claire could think. Her own role in her friend’s drama ate at her like a cancer, until she too felt an eternal sleep might be preferable to continuing to live every painful day.

Hanging in the limbo of a long-haul flight, lost to the world and unconnected to anyone in it, it wasn’t difficult for Claire to imagine what drove her friend to her desperate act. Anything to make the emptiness go away.

The darkness pursued her now, as she shouldered her way through the happy faces. A lump lodged in her throat and she longed for solitude, so she could break down in peace.

“Claire!”

The voice brushed at her back, but she refused to turn and realise it was not her being hailed. Footsteps ran along after her, and she jumped as someone touched her arm.

“Claire, wait! I can’t believe you came through just as I was getting coffee. I thought you might like this.”

Turning slowly, Claire’s eyes opened wide as she took in the reality of her boss standing in front of her holding out a giant cardboard cup.

“Conor. What are you doing here? How did you know I was landing today?”

Thoughts and emotions crashed in her mind like waves in a stormy sea. With numb fingers she accepted the coffee, the aroma seeping into her fuddled brain with all the comfort of home. When did she last have a proper latte?

“I follow your social media. Someone called Jeff wished you a safe flight home, said he’d see you today. It wasn’t hard to figure out which flight you were on, there aren’t so many from Christchurch.”

Claire stared mutely, wondering if it was her destiny to be surrounded by stalkers. The last person to track her down through social media had been Michael. Honesty forced her to admit that her ex-boyfriend’s tenacity had proved useful, rescuing her from a night passed out in a dark lane with a bump to the head. And now her future boss had come all the way to the airport from Dorset, on the strength of a Facebook update.

“Are you for real? What are you doing here?”

“You said that already.” Conor grinned. “Come and sit down, you look bloody awful.”

The words hit Claire like a blow, and the tears began to pour out as if the force had broken a pipe. She felt Conor guide her to a bench and sit her down, taking the coffee from her limp grasp.

For a while they sat and Claire rode out the wave of sadness and humiliation. At last she became aware of a tissue being offered underneath her curtain of unwashed hair. Accepting it, Claire dried her face and blew her nose.

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone. You broke down the barrier, damn you.”

“What happened? I thought you were having a great craic in New Zealand. Your blog posts and texts were all about sky diving and rafting, getting drunk and all that. You look like you’ve been in a concentration camp. Did you forget to eat?”

Claire shook her head, unsure whether Conor was berating her or trying to make her feel better. She couldn’t think. She wanted him to go away, but didn’t want to be alone. Feeling the tears building again, Claire dug her nails into her arms, wishing she could rip her skin off and fly into oblivion.

As if sensing Claire’s distress, Conor patted her knee. “Come on, let’s get you out of here. Where do you need to be? I am at your service.”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Claire’s voice sounded heavy, the words hard to speak. Suddenly she just wanted to sleep.

“It’s Sunday afternoon, I don’t have to head back for a few hours. Where can I take you?”

“Cambridge. I need to be in Cambridge.”

Claire saw Conor’s nod through her curtain of hair. He rose abruptly and tugged her to her feet.

“Cambridge it is. Here’s your coffee. Drink it, you look like you need it. And a shower.” He sniffed, dramatically. “You definitely need a shower.”

He grinned and, through the numbness, Claire managed to raise a smile.

***