Making a Change: It Starts Here

My Reason For Change

As a writer I know the power of words. Words can move, heal, hurt, destroy. Change the world. Think about Martin Luther King Jr’s speech “I have been to the mountain top”. Or the words in the bible. As a writer I should know to mind my words but, like any person of a certain profession, I don’t always follow my own beliefs.

A while ago I read a poem called powerful words on Chris McMullen’s blog and I said something in the comments about the words I use to my children being the wrong ones and how damaging that was and how I can’t take them back.

It’s something I’ve been worrying about more and more lately. Then, today, I read this article on Facebook called Ten Ways to Guide Children Without Punishment and I felt like I’d been whipped. It starts with these words,

“The reason a child will act unkindly or cause damage is always innocent. Sometimes she is playful and free spirited, and other times, when aggressive or angry she is unhappy or confused. The more disturbing the behaviour, the more the child is in pain and in need of your love and understanding”

Oh my it’s so true. I get most angry with my son when he’s at his happiest because that’s when he’s at his most destructive/deaf/irritating. Lately I’ve started hearing some of the terrible things I say to my children when I’m in a rage: things that were probably said to me, that I believe about myself deep down, that I’m teaching them to believe, and so the cycle continues.

“You’re lazy,” “You’re mean”, “You’re being selfish”, “You’re unkind”, “You’re trying to hurt me”.

These things are not true of children, certainly not two wonderful children under five. I excuse myself (or else I couldn’t live with myself a moment longer) by saying I’m exhausted, they don’t remember it, that I’m teaching them not to be bullies, and a load of other rubbish that just isn’t true.

My amazing kids!

To complete the trio of articles that have a) made me feel like ending my own life I hate myself so much and b) have forced me to see the need for change, is this one I found on Twitter called Why We Told Our Kids to Stop Saying “Sorry”. It discuss why the author has stopped her children apologising. She said to her child, after his umpteenth sorry, that, “Your sorries don’t mean anything when your behavior shows me that you aren’t sorry at all.”

I say sorry. All The Time. I’m sorry for living, I’m sorry for being a monster, I’m sorry it’s raining. Either it’s something I can’t control or it’s something I could change if I tried hard enough. Sorry doesn’t cut it. There’s a meme on Facebook about comparing a crumpled piece of paper to a bullied child: you can smooth the paper but the creases never go. You can say sorry but you can’t unsay the hurtful words.

As I write this I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like I have hurt my children beyond repair, beyond redemption. But the more I beat myself up about being a monster, saying the hurtful things I heard in my childhood, the more I give myself permission to continue because, hey, I’m a monster already.

I am not a monster. And, no matter how exhausted, overwhelmed, unhappy I am with being a parent, it is not my children’s fault. So, today, I have to make a commitment to stop. In my post yesterday I mentioned the book Happiness as a Second Language. The author, Valerie Alexander, stopped by to encourage me to read the book some more. So last night I did. I read all the way to Chapter Nine, although I need to read it again to take it in properly. The two chapters that really resonated were Chapter Eight – Adjectives and Chapter Nine – The Negative Form. Because these are the two I know I need to learn. Adjectives: the describing words I use on myself and my children, and learning not to be a negative person.

Because another thing I’ve learned from childhood is that sympathy = attention, that being broken means people try to fix you, help you, love you. That being happy means people resent you, ignore you, take you for granted. So I’ve learned to be miserable, so people ask “what’s wrong?” Except of course they stop asking after a while, or get bored of hearing the same ol same ol. So you up the ante. You think of taking your own life because then “That will show them I’m really miserable.” No, that just shows that you were too pathetic to help yourself.

Chatting to my sports massage friend yesterday she says it frustrates her when people refuse to help themselves get better. That’s me. I’ve had an injured knee for eighteen months but will I do the exercises to get better? No. I make excuses that they hurt, or I’m tired, or I don’t believe they’re working. Instead of growing up and just getting on with it. The only person that suffers from that is me (and my dog and my family.)

I want to learn how to be happy

So I don’t want to be a negative person anymore. I don’t want to steal other people’s happiness to make myself feel better. An “Indirect Negator” in Valerie’s words, someone “whose own unhappiness is so palpable that it risks becoming contagious.” Equally I don’t want to be around people like that (and I know a few).

The next thing I am going to do is choose five adjectives I want to describe me: five things I want people to think when they think about me, and live those values. This is an exercise I think I can do because I obsess about what people think about me all the time. That probably needs fixing too, but at least I can use it to my advantage.

Being a wordy sort of person I came up with alliterative adjectives so they’re easier to remember. There are many traits I’d like to be: successful, funny, strong, gracious, social, but I have to be realistic about what is in my control and what fits with my personality. So the five I have chosen are:

Calm
Confident
Caring
Compassionate
Clever

Calm: Since becoming a parent I am never calm. I rush around saying “we’re late” or I’m yelling or sniping at the kids, or I’m trying to do one hundred things at once. Yet, way back when, I used to work for a man who said “You’re always calm.” I said, “I’m a swan, I’m paddling furiously underneath.” But what mattered was that, on the exterior, I was calm. As a parent that’s the important bit. Honesty is great, but I am too honest about my feelings with the kids. They will feel calmer and happier if Mummy is calm. So, back to being a swan. This great article on Aha! Parenting will help.

Confident: My lack of self-confidence is something I wear like a badge. I second and third guess myself on everything. I dither, I ask for opinions. I change my mind, or let my mind be changed. I cry. I negotiate with the kids. I let other people’s parenting affect how I feel about mine. And yet the one thing I want for my children is self-confidence. To the point where I want to put them in a private school to learn it, because I know they can’t learn it from me. And yet the private school I visited was not right for my children.

I did use to have the courage of my convictions, when I worked for a living. I knew my stuff and I would argue my case (not always calmly!) and stand my ground. Against clients, against directors. No wonder I never got promoted. Now, though, as a writer and a parent, all I read are articles telling me how I’m doing it wrong, how I should do it better, and I believe every contradictory word. (Read this post by Ava Neyer for an hilarious summary of how contradictory parenting advice can be). So, I’ll start with the mask and hopefully confidence will come.

Learning Kindness from my Kids

Caring: This would have been a given, once. I considered myself an empathetic person, someone who cared about others. I seem to have lost that at the vital moment. Now I’ve become a monster. I say to the kids all the time “I don’t care” when they’re whinging about something. Arrgghh. Enough said. I will care. I will listen. I will kiss the grazed knees and listen to the fights and try not to get involved but still be present and caring.

Compassionate: Similar to above, but more about seeing other people’s points of view. I can be very judgemental and it has only got worse since becoming a parent. Part of my defence mechanism against feeling like a terrible parent is seeking out instances of other people’s terrible parenting to make myself feel better. I have probably made other people feel bad in the process. I want to learn to be more compassionate to other people (especially my family).

Clever: This used to be the one thing I knew I was, back when it was easy, when it was about exams and studying and stuff. The longer I’ve lived the more I’ve realised I know nothing. But the brain is still in there, beneath the lack of sleep and the low self-esteem and the self-doubt. I know stuff about writing, but through modesty, humility or fear, I can’t present myself as an authority here on the blog or to others. Yet I probably know more than I realise. Ditto for marketing, history, literature and some other stuff. I don’t want to bore the pants off people but remembering I have a brain and using it sometimes might help the other stuff.

Anyway, sorry for the long, self-indulgent post. When I finished writing it at 6am this morning I nearly hit delete. But then, for me, much of the beauty of the blogsphere is learning from others, seeing others experiencing pain and surviving it. Regular followers know my demons. By declaring to you all that I’m going to do this, I have made it a real thing. I will try and some days I will fail. But by trying to live the values of Calmness, Confidence, Caring, Compassion and being Clever, I hope to make a difference before it’s too late.

Kairos Time Not Carpe Diem

Friends at the scooter park

Back when parenting was impossibly hard (like yesterday! Haha) I read an article about not subscribing to the need to Carpe Diem when it comes to raising small children. So often as a new parent (or not even a new parent) people who have done their parenting, whose kids have left home, who look back with nostalgia, say unhelpful things like “treasure every minute, it goes so fast.”

Of course that’s true and, as I watch my babies grow older and less cute, I see the truth in that. But with every “adorable age” comes a bucket load of trouble and it’s tough to see the diamonds at the coal face. Being told to love every minute just subscribes to the Perfect Parenting myth and puts unnecessary pressure on an already difficult task. As Glennon Melton writes in her post Don’t Carpe Diem:

It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life – while I’m raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I’m not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I’m doing something wrong.

Braving her own Mt Everest

She compares raising children to climbing Mount Everest: “Brave, adventurous souls try it because they’ve heard there’s magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb are impressive accomplishments … Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.”

In my favourite bit of the articles she then says, “if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers — “ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU’LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN’T!” TRUST US!! IT’LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!” — those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.”

Instead of treasuring every painful moment, every tantrum and time out, Glennon Melton introduces the concept of Kairos time, God’s time: Moments of perfection to treasure amidst the chaos, as opposed to Chronos time, “the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.”

Kairos time is moment when you really see the children, love them with an immensity that is overwhelming. Even if the specific moments aren’t remembered after the event, just getting to the end of a day and knowing it had one or two moments of Kairos time in it is enough. It’s a beautiful article and it’s worth reading and rereading.

Kids carpe diem

And this afternoon I had one of those moments. Sitting on a bench, watching the children scoot round the park as the late afternoon sun trickled through the trees and sparkled off the puddles, I had a moment of peace. Of being proud of my beautiful babies, of myself.

Of course, being me, I ruined It by suggesting that my daughter let her brother have a turn in front. Thus ensued half an hour of sulking and tears, and Mummy getting cross. My son went and made some big girl friends who helped him where his sister had before.

But I fought hard to keep my Kairos moment and not let the sulking spoil it. Because these moments are rare. In the article, Melton compares parenting to writing a novel – we enjoy having parented, much as a famous author once admitted to enjoying having written. That’s true for me usually too. But some days the words flow effortlessly and shine and sparkle, and some days the children do the same. Those are moments worth hanging on to.

It’s the pure life…REALLY???

I’ve never been to Costa Rica but it sounds like we could all learn more about living the Pure Life.

Wishing you a Contented Christmas: 2013 365 #359

Meeting the man

This morning I left the house to walk the dog just as the skies cleared, after days of stormy weather. It felt like a fresh start: like the feeling I get after I’ve been crying for hours feeling terrible and I stop, breathe, and give myself a break. When I look around and say it’s fine and, despite some puddles and other damage, the storm might never have been.

I spent last night having a long conversation with my hubbie and stepdad about parenting, depression, anxiety and life in general. It came after reading two interesting posts: The first was a viral one on WordPress about marriage not being for you but for others. It included these words:

[M]arriage isn’t for yourself,you’re marrying for a family. Not just for the in-laws and all of that nonsense, but for your future children. Who do you want to help you raise them? Who do you want to influence them? Marriage isn’t for you. It’s not about you. Marriage is about the person you married

The second post, which I discovered via Annie Cardi’s blog, discussed forgiving Past You for not being as good as Present You. Two quotes stood out in the article:

Past You may not be as awesome as Present You, but Past You worked really hard to get to Present You, too.

And

The world does enough beating us up, […] We don’t need to do the beating up ourselves. Inside your head should be a safe space to make mistakes, to grow and change and learn, to find acceptance, forgiveness, and kindness.

As often happens, all these sources of inspirational thought combined in my mind to give me the ghost of a feeling. The feeling that’s been echoing around my head is one of grace; of being kind to yourself and looking out rather than in.

Christmas all wrapped up

I’ve spent much of this year, and longer, beating myself up for all the people I’m not, for all the things I haven’t achieved, for not becoming a better parent, a better person, despite wanting to be. But you know what? The excuses become a thing in themselves.

If I feel bad then that’s okay because I’m taking responsibility for my own actions. But what if there’s a better way? What if you can forgive Past You for the things that didn’t happen because, quite frankly, Past You was doing her best under difficult circumstances.

What if taking responsibility is over rated and we just have to stop thinking about it at all so much? What if the past were erased and we had to start fresh from today, with the saviour’s birth?

I listened to Mary J Blige on the radio, on Sunday, discussing how her Faith saved her, and I envied her. What do you do without Faith or Belief? Who do you turn to to tell you there’s a grand plan, and you’re doing fine and, besides, all is forgiven in the end?

My husband is my rock, he says all those things, but I don’t always believe. What if I decided to have faith in him, in us? What if I got up every day knowing I was going to do my best, even if my best on that day involved a lot of shouting and some tears? But instead of failing as a parent, as a human being, I was just being one in the best way I knew how? What if I could learn to celebrate the successes, not dwell on the failures?

I feel a new blogging theme coming on. I may take January off from the internet, to recover and recoup. But from February I might try to make this blog a place for positivity. Not glossing over the bad stuff, because too many people do that. But if my best positive note for a day is “no one died”, well then at least it might make people smile, and that’s good too.

So a very contented Festive Season to you all, whatever this time of year means to you. I hope you enjoy your family day, but don’t put too much pressure on yourself. It will be what it will be and then it will be Boxing Day (in the UK at least). Let’s acknowledge the moments and move on. Christmas is about children so let’s learn to live like them. In the now, with much laughter.

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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 looked around the table at the eclectic group of people and couldn’t help smiling. Their good humoured banter and jibing was infectious as they discussed their first aid course. While they chatted she tried to work out who was who.

Timothy sat opposite her, at the head of the table; every inch the lord of the manor or the patriarchal leader. To his left sat Gemma, the chef. She looked like a school matron, as if her mission was to make sure the world was well fed and received plenty of hugs.

Next to her sat Louise, the site manager. They’d met before dinner and Claire found she liked her, although she was more used to working for men. Louise had explained that she lived off-site with her husband and two small children. Claire wondered how she managed to juggle it all.

Next to Louisa sat the only other older gentleman there; he was the gardener apparently and had been working in the grounds all day, rather than attending the first aid course. She thought his name was Giles or Geoff, but as he hadn’t said two words during the meal, she wasn’t entirely sure.

On the other side of the table sat the younger members of the staff. They were the entertainment during the meal, and Claire was fascinated, trying to fathom the different relations between them. The three in charge of activities – Jess, Eddie and Ryan – seemed to have some sort of love triangle going on, while the youngest member of staff sat wide-eyed and silent. Fresh out of school, it was her responsibility to keep the house clean and do the laundry. Claire thought she possibly had the hardest job of all.

As she assessed the people around the table, who were all tucking into the delicious lasagne and homemade cake, Claire wondered why she was paying them so much attention. Was she trying to imagine herself as part of the group? Could she?

I’m not really a team player – Carl told me that often enough.

But for all their jibing and barbed jokes, these people were not Polly, Molly and Sally. There didn’t seem to be any face: what you saw was what you got. Claire found it both refreshing and intriguing.

A hush fell over the table and she realised everyone was looking at her expectantly. “I’m sorry, I was miles away!” She felt the blood rushing into her cheeks.

Timothy laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’re a lot to take in, the first time you meet us.” He turned to Louise, who it seemed had asked her a question.

“I only wondered if you could imagine joining us here? We open next week, so we’re keen to have the staff finalised.” She seemed to realise how much she was putting Claire on the spot, and gave an apologetic smile. “But of course you need time to decide.”

Claire felt wrong-footed. Was the job just hers for the asking? With no interview or credentials. “But you don’t know anything about me,” she blurted out, and winced as everyone laughed.

“Ah but we do.” Timothy’s voice cut through the laughter and he frowned slightly at Eddie, who was still sniggering. “Maggie sent us a link to your blog. We’ve all read about your exploits, both here in the UK and in New Zealand. We are most impressed. Climbing mountains, white water rafting, surfing and sailing: you are more than qualified.”

“But I don’t know how to do any of those things.” Claire’s voice was more of a wail and she fought the urge to cry. Now everyone watched her as if she were a bomb about to explode. The young girl to her left gave her a sympathetic smile and Claire felt foolish. If a mere child fresh out of school could come and get stuck in, then what was holding her back?

“Don’t worry, lass, none of the kids will know how to do it either, so they’ll just be impressed you know more than them.”

Claire looked towards Eddie as he spoke and envied the confidence of youth. He had an edge about him, though, that suggested he’d seen as much of the world as she had, and possibly more.

Dinner continued without further incident. Claire sipped at her beer and enjoyed the sense of good will. During it all, something nagged at the back of her mind. An ache, a twinge, that tugged at her and wouldn’t let go. Conor. She tried to picture him here, amongst the motley staff, and knew he would be instantly at home.

That’s assuming he ever speaks to me again.

Claire looked out the window at the setting sun. The room Timothy had shown her to perched high in the attic. It wasn’t very big, but the view was enormous, stretching across the parkland to the sea. He’d explained that the staff rooms were all in the attic, with tiny en-suites. It was only a step away from hostelling, but it felt good to close the door and know the space was all hers.

She lay back on the bed, and her view diminished to a blue rectangle of sky visible through the skylight window. She imagined lying in the dark looking up at the stars. There would be no light pollution out here.

Slowly, as she absorbed the details of the room, Claire realised she was already viewing it as hers. Despite avoiding any kind of definite answer at dinner, she had gone as far as to say that her contract finished in a fortnight. A proper answer would need to be given before that, but she didn’t feel ready. Saying yes to Timothy felt like saying goodbye to Conor.

Reaching for her phone, Claire sat staring at the black screen that still refused to produce a message from him. She inhaled deeply.

“Sod it.”

Swiping the screen, she tapped out a message and hit send before she could change her mind. She looked at the words and wondered if they would be enough.

I miss you

***

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Christmas Cheer: 2013 365 Challenge #354

Xmas Jammies

Today’s post is for anyone struggling to find their Christmas cheer, at the end of what has been a very long year (around here at least).

We had some bad news regarding the car saga yesterday so, on top of germs and Christmas Chaos, we’re a bit low. Then I gave my daughter her Christmas Stocking this morning, that I lovingly sewed her name onto and she said, “Yes Mummy, I saw the picture on the iPad. It’s a bit big.”

Let me weep.

With children and parents alike exhausted and a teeny bit jaded from all the festivities, it’s not an easy time to find a sense if humour.

If Boxing Day can’t come soon enough and you’re already tired of mince pies and tinsel, or if – like me – you wonder why you’re doing it all for your oh so ungrateful children, this is the best of the holiday humour I’ve come across this week (and shared on my Facebook page!)

First up has to be the viral Xmas Jammies video. This is brilliant. A tongue in cheek (and wonderfully written/sung) Christmas card. I dare you not to be smiling by the end of it (unless you have to turn off Made In Chelsea because wife is playing it on her ipad. Sorry hubbie.)

Although my children are past this age, I had to giggle at The Ten-Month Old’s letter to Santa. Highlights include the laptop chord, house keys and dog food. Ah, at least those days are gone. There is something to be grateful for.

This Christmas Letter from Honest Toddler Mum gives a real version of what goes on at this time of year, rather than the sanitised social media / Pinterest one. For anyone who gets the cheery round-robin letter from a random friend they don’t otherwise hear from one year to the next, this one’s for you.

Miss Fanny Price shared this great letter to a head teacher from Rosie White, about how there won’t be any homework done this holiday season. Amen.

Also, I have to say I’m loving the new coke ad (much as I hate to add to their viral campaign!) For anyone with preschoolers in the house, this one is for you. How do we ever have more than one? 😉

And on a more sincere Christmas spirit note, there is the story of the bear called Roar reunited with his owner, after being left on a UK train, as a result of a Twitter and Facebook campaign. Heartwarming.

Let’s hope we can all find some Christmas cheer between now and 3.30pm when the schools break up for the holidays, otherwise it’s going to be a really long two weeks! Merry Christmas.

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Claire stopped at the white door, reeling from the sound of screaming and thumping feet. She hesitated, wondering if this was a good idea. But Maggie was waiting for her, she couldn’t chicken out now. Besides, the children weren’t in her care. If they drove her crazy she could always leave and find a hotel.

Peering through the open doorway, shielded from the sun by overhanging ivy, Claire tried to locate reception. A sea of brown poured past, as what seemed like hundreds of girls in uniform headed outside. She held out a hand to stop the least frightening-looking children, walking hand in hand towards the door.

“Hello, is Maggie around anywhere?”

The girls looked suspiciously at her, shrugged and giggled, before running on to join their friends. Claire tried to think what Maggie’s surname was but couldn’t bring it to mind.

Damn

As the next group of girls came by she said, “Can you tell me where I can find Brown Owl?”

The girls conferred, then pointed inside. “Out the back,” one said, before they all scarpered like a herd of startled hill ponies.

The information didn’t help much but, feeling as if she had been given permission to enter the building, Claire headed in the general direction of the pointed finger.

As the last of the children streamed past, the place fell silent. Claire wondered where they were all going: they didn’t seem old enough to be unaccompanied. Eventually she found a conservatory at the back of the dining room, and saw Maggie with a group of adults, all leaning over a table consulting what looked to be a map.

She stood for a moment, unwilling to intrude. Maggie must have sensed her presence, because she looked round.

“Claire! How wonderful. Come and meet everyone. Sally, Bea, Helen, Jo, this is my friend Claire, who I told you about. She’s going to stay with us for a day or two.” Maggie beamed at them all. She turned back to the table, and said, “Can you finish up here? The girls will be fine for a few minutes. I’d like to show Claire to her room.”

Without waiting for a response, she took Claire’s arm to lead her out. “The children are doing a wide game that we set up before lunch. They’ll be out in the grounds for a while under the watchful eye of some parents, who will hopefully make sure no one falls in the river this year. Have you had a chance to look around? It’s a beautiful place.”

While she spoke, Maggie led Claire through the building and up the stairs. She took Claire into a small dorm and said, “I hope you don’t mind sharing with the staff? None of them snore, thankfully. I went hiking once with a leader who could have woken the rocks. It was a challenge to get to bed before she did, to have any hope of sleeping.”

Claire smiled at Maggie’s chatter. She seemed much happier than when they’d last met. Or maybe not happier, maybe just more together.

Perhaps being Brown Owl makes you put on a persona of calm.

Although, as she thought back to the last two times they had met, Maggie had always been calm. But there had been an air of melancholy that seemed absent now.

“How are you?” she asked, when Maggie drew breath. “You seem in good spirits.”

Maggie sat on a bunk and patted next. “Come sit with me. I was so glad to see that you were in this part of the world.”

Intrigued, Claire sat down and waited. Maggie leant forwards, resting her arms along her knees. The Brown Owl uniform made her look younger, although her hair was still steel-grey. When she looked up she was smiling, the dimples flashing in her cheeks.

“I haven’t been entirely honest about my reason for wanting to catch up. I have a proposition for you, but I wasn’t sure how to broach it. I was hoping to let you settle in for a while first, but I might lose my nerve.”

Claire found it hard to breathe. Her first thought was that one more person wanted something from her, and she didn’t want to know. Especially not from someone she had no ties to.

As if sensing her reluctance, the dimples vanished from Maggie’s cheeks and her eyes lost their sparkle. “I was right, I shouldn’t ask it of you. Forget I mentioned it.”

Chastened, Claire said immediately, “Don’t be silly. Tell me.”

“Well, it’s just a friend of mine is opening a new activity centre for children from disadvantaged backgrounds, based in Cornwall. They need help with the marketing and advertising side of things, but can’t afford to hire anyone. They’re also looking for activity staff, who will be paid, although not much. Reading on your blog about your surfing, and all the fun stuff you’ve done, and knowing you used to work at an advertising agency. Well, I wondered…” She trailed off and the room fell silent.

Claire’s mind reeled with the new information. Another job offer. They did come from the most unlikely places. Marketing and working with children? Two things she wasn’t sure she wanted in her future.

But how many options do I have? And it would mean being able to stay in Cornwall.

She found a glimmer of interest sparkling deep in her heart. She would have to know more about it, of course, and more about this friend of Maggie’s. There was something in the word friend that raised questions.

Claire sat up straight and looked at Maggie with a smile. “Why don’t we go make a cuppa and discuss it?”

Maggie’s look of relief made Claire giggle, and the two women walked arm in arm from the room.

***

Son and the Sailor’s Warning: 2013 365 Challenge #340

Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning

We woke to a fiery red sky this morning. Spectacular colours to herald a stormy day (amazingly, one predicted by the forecast. It’s nice to have a heads up). My daughter came downstairs, went in to get her breakfast, didn’t bat an eyelid. My three-year-old son came down later and called me urgently from the hallway.

“Mummy, come, come see! The sky!”

He’s surprisingly in tune with nature, my son. I do try and make both my children aware of the beauties around them, calling their attention to birds, clouds, rainbows, pretty autumn leaves and so on.

My daughter doesn’t share my passion (although she shares my love of reading, so she’s forgiven!) but my son has picked up on it. Whether because he truly appreciates it, or because it makes me smile, I’m not sure. Who cares?

He often goes outside and, when he sees blue sky, says in a sing-song voice, “It’s a lovely sunny day, Mummy.” It warms my heart. So to see him hanging out the window, letting in the arctic air, admiring the dazzling display of nature across the fields, made me very proud. It also makes him yet more like a reincarnation of my father (a blessing and a curse!) My dad loved nature and I got my appreciation from him. His photo albums (like mine!) are full of snaps of sunsets, flowers and blurry distant birds. The camera never does nature justice but it doesn’t stop us trying.

Watching the Colourful Sunrise

When I miss my dad, I look at my son and know he isn’t very far away. My boy shares more than his grandpa’s name (my son’s middle name): he looks like him, laughs like him, has his temper and his sweetness of nature. Such a shame they never met. My father never met any of his grandchildren, but he lives on in them.

It reminds me of the lines in the Mike and the Mechanics song (in itself ironic as my father was both a Mike and a mechanic), In the Living Years: “I wasn’t there that morning when my father passed away” through to “I think I caught his spirit … in my baby’s new born tears.”

Makes me cry every. single. time.

Incidentally, I looked into the saying “Red sky at night, sailors’ (or shepherds’) delight, red sky in the morning, sailors’ warning,” and there is some truth to it. With a howling gale blowing us down the road on the school run – freezing hands and noses and swirling autumn winds round in endless eddies – it was certainly true today. I wouldn’t have wanted to be out in a boat!

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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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“Okay, Claire, I need you to call all the marching bands, confirm their running order and remind them we start an hour earlier this year. Then I want you to speak to the Fireworks people, make sure they know the signal to commence their display. After that, can you head down to Sandpit Field and help with the set up.”

Claire scribbled notes on the paper she’d borrowed from the secretary, when she’d realised what kind of meeting it was going to be. Looking round the table at the other volunteers, Claire’s heart sank. This wasn’t really her thing. She tried to catch Conor’s eye, to at least get a smile from him, but he had his head bent over his master list. When he looked up, it was to tell the next person round the table what their tasks were.

I’ve been in Swanage for forty-eight hours and Conor hasn’t so much as said hello and welcome.

It was obvious that he was busy with the Carnival, but Claire found herself searching her memory to try and discover if she had done or said something to incur his displeasure. Even the busiest person had time to smile.

A voice in the back of Claire’s mind reminded her that world war three could have broken out, when she had been face with an imminent deadline, and she would have shrugged it off as irrelevant. She was taking it all too personally. For once she hoped her watching voice was right.

Claire slumped, exhausted, onto the grass and hoped she had done enough. Two days of endless phone calls, of questions she couldn’t answer and complaints she didn’t understand, of running round town, climbing the stupid hill to the hostel, and grabbing sandwiches on the run, and she’d finally made it through her list of tasks.

She hadn’t seen Conor since the meeting on Friday and they’d only spoken on the phone to exchange information, like a verbal relay race. The actual start of the Carnival the day before had passed in a blur. She’d missed the firework display, after crashing on her bunk to close her eyes for a moment and waking up four hours later. Conor hadn’t asked why she wasn’t there.

I thought he was meant to like me? If you really like someone surely even work doesn’t get in the way of good manners?

Around her, the chatter of thousands of happy people rose like a swarm of flies. Somehow she hadn’t noticed the people filtering into town, until every verge and patch of beach was covered with them. It was strange to see the quiet town full of colour and life; like seeing a familiar landscape under three feet of water. She wished they would go away.

Up ahead the sound of drumming drifted on the sea breeze. The chatter of the crowd dropped in anticipation and heads turned to catch their first glimpse of the parade. The rhythmic sound came nearer and there was something stirring about it. Realising she’d never actually watched a parade before, Claire rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat forward, camera at the ready. At least if she got some snaps for the blog it wouldn’t be a completely wasted trip.

Claire had to blink her eyes again as the first marching band came into view. Striding through the crowd were two dozen Spidermen with full head coverings, some drumming on the traditional white military drums, others lined up behind playing brass instruments. The crowd chuckled and Claire joined in, appreciating the spectacle.

For the next few hours the show rolled in front of her like the toy TV she’d had as a child that turned with a dial and played plinky music. There were girls in blue with pompoms and girls in red throwing batons; there were cars and bikes and floats; there were carnival girls with costumes to rival Brazil, all feathers and fans and structure, towering over their heads.

The Carnival Queens walked by in red and salmon pink, beaming and waving at the crowd. Musketeers and movie makers, and all manner of fancy dress costumes sashayed past, all to the sound of music; military drums and Latin beats, Rock and Roll, Pop and the unmistakeable Caribbean kettle drums.

Claire found herself clapping and cheering and swaying her shoulders with the crowd. For two hours she forgot that her head hurt and her feet throbbed and her heart ached most of all.

Mid-afternoon, just as the last of the parade members were straggling past, the Red Arrows flew overhead with a roar that silenced the rising hubbub. Mesmerised, Claire watched their plumes of smoke in red, white and blue, as the red jets crossed in the sky in breath-taking formations, with the steely grey sea stretched out beneath them.

The sun had disappeared behind a veil of cloud, easing the heat and glare. Claire watched the end of the display without blinking, her brain whirling with the sensory input of the last few hours. And this was only the second day. There were still so many more events happening over the rest of the week.

Okay, so maybe Conor has had his hands full organising all this.

The thought rose like a bubble inside her, lifting some of the gloom that had been weighing her down. Determined to help him with his impossible task and not to mind his distraction, Claire pushed herself away from the grass bank, stretched cramped muscles, and went off in search of her boss.

***

The Humans: 2013 365 Challenge #336

A very profound book

I finally started reading, and very quickly finished, The Humans by Matt Haig this weekend. If you haven’t come across the story (goodness knows how, as it flooded Twitter for a while during its release) it tells the story of an alien who comes to halt mathematical progress on Earth because Humans are deemed too violent to take the next step in technological evolution.

I was drawn to the book by its Twitter campaign and because I just happened to have read and enjoyed an early children’s book by the same author. The social media campaign was something truly incredible, with a lovely video trailer made by lots of different real people reciting lines from a part of the book called Advice for a Human (see picture below)

I started following Matt Haig’s blog, Twitter and Facebook, and found him to be a fascinating person, full of self-doubt and amazing insight, with a history of depression and attempted suicide. I couldn’t wait for the book to be released. I bought it in hardback (a thing I never do) and then bought the kindle version as well because I wanted to take it on holiday. That was in May of this year.

Since then I’ve tried to start it half a dozen times, but I just couldn’t get into it. The narrative voice is the alien, and the tone was so stilted and disinterestedly miserable, it put me off, even though I knew it was part of the story. Then, too, I started to feel pressure to love the book. Because the reviews were amazing, and because I liked the author as I came to know him through social media, I wanted to like the book, and felt bad that I didn’t. I had invested time and emotion into supporting its release and its author.

And then, worse of all, I started to disagree with some of what the author said on Facebook, and my faith took a wobble. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a great deal recently, and is probably a topic for another blog post – about how our perception of a piece of art or literature changes when we come to know more about the author and was it maybe better when the author was hidden in mystery and unknowable. Anyway, as I say, that’s another post.

Some of the great advice (better read in context)

As a result of the emotional (and financial!) investment, though, I couldn’t give up on the book. So I started again on Friday, and couldn’t put it down. I read it with my fingers in my ears, while the kids decorated the Christmas tree. I finished it at 2am last night, leaving me groggy and grumpy for today’s family lunch. No matter: it was worth it. This is my (rather short) Goodreads review:

“It took me a long time to get into this story, after wanting to read it for months. I’m glad I persisted, it was so worth it. This is a deeply profound, yet funny and entertaining book, full of pearls of wisdom you’ll be desperate to share with people.”

As I read the story, I kept reading bits out to hubbie, much to his bemusement (that never works, especially when the recipient is playing Candy Crush or similar). It’s full of Tweetable bits of goodness. I could feel the author, and what I knew of his history, in every line, and it added to the authenticity, although I suspect it wasn’t necessary. The story rings true by itself. I wanted to find a nugget to share here, but there are so many. Instead I would say, read it. Even if, like me, you can’t warm to the alien and you find him annoying in the extreme. He grows on you. And it’s a book that will stay with you long after you read the last page. As an author I always think you can’t ask for more than that.

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“Thank you for letting us stay, Nana.” Alex’s voice wobbled between child and adult, as he gave Claire’s mum a rather formal embrace.

His face still showed the pallor of expended emotion; pale and drawn despite the tan he’d gained during his time in the South West. Claire wanted to pull him into a proper hug, one with feeling. The greeting they’d got from her parents was lukewarm at best.

I guess I wouldn’t like it if someone turned up on my doorstep and asked me to take in house guests. She thought about it and her lips twisted into a wry smile. Mind you, it’s no more than both my siblings have done to me this year. Suddenly Auntie Claire is the only one with all the time in the world.

She pushed away the bitter feelings, and turned to make sure Jack was alright. He’d been less affected by their father’s announcement, chattering excitedly on the long journey from Cornwall to Cambridgeshire. As they had neared their destination, however, he had become more subdued and, since their arrival, he had hovered in the background.

A quick glance showed her he wasn’t in the room and she went in search of him, leaving Alex to forge a stilted conversation with his nana. Her father, Claire noted, had also disappeared and Claire felt disappointed at his cowardice.

She found them both, eventually, hidden in her father’s study.

“There you are!”

Her voice made them jump and their faces flushed with guilt. She concealed a smile at how like naughty schoolboys they both looked, despite a gap of half a century between them.

“What are you two up to? You’ve left Alex battling on with Nana.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jack said brightly, “he’s good at charming the old biddies.” Then he realised what he’d said, and blanched.

Claire’s dad laughed – a loud guffaw – as much at Jack’s stricken expression, it seemed, as at his words.

“Don’t worry, son, your secret is safe with me. Your nana can be a tough nut to crack, but she’s soft underneath.”

Claire privately wondered if that were true, but said nothing. “So, what are you two doing?” She perched on the edge of the desk and looked at them with one eyebrow raised, her arms folded across her chest in an expression of severity that was all act. Seeing Jack locked away with her father gave her a warm glow of satisfaction, but there was a game afoot and she was prepared to play her part.

“Pops was showing me his book. Did you know he’d written a novel, Auntie Claire?”

Claire switched her gaze from Jack’s eager excitement to the look of sheepish guilt on her Dad’s face. “Is it finished then? I thought it was a thriller? It doesn’t sound like something a young boy should be reading.”

“Oh, Claire, I’m not a baby. I’ve read James Herbert and Stephen King.”

“Really?” Claire was genuinely shocked. Even she didn’t have the stomach for some of the more gruesome horrors. She wondered if she should forbid Jack from reading books liable to give him nightmares. Then she looked at his face and had a flash of realisation. Whatever difficulties in Jack’s life, he had yet to experience real fear and horror and so the stories were just stories. They probably had less impact on him than on an adult who could read the truth behind the fabrication.

Suddenly she grinned. “That’s amazing, Dad. I’m so proud of you. Can I read it, too?”

Her dad’s grin was as wide as hers. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Back in the lounge, Claire saw that Alex was manfully trying to engage her mum in conversation, and her heart went out to him. Even she struggled to find a topic of interest when talking to her mum.

As she walked in, her mum looked up, and her expression was honey-laced venom. Startled, Claire took a moment to gather herself, then said,

“Jack and Pops are in the study, Alex. Why don’t you go and see if they’d like some tea and cake? It’s been a long time since lunch.” They had been offered nothing on arrival. If her mum wasn’t going to play host, then she would show her how it should be done.

Alex jumped up like a man given a reprieve on death row, and practically ran from the room.

“Okay, Mum, out with it,” Claire said, as she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall. Her words took the wind from her mum’s anger, and Claire had to swallow a laugh.

“I’m surprised you have to ask. You turn up, unannounced, with Robert’s boys in tow, and without so much as a by-your-leave tell me that they’re staying here for an undetermined length of time, because you saw fit to send their father home. I think you have some explaining to do, young lady.”

“I’m not a child, Mum, you don’t need to take that tone. Robert’s behaviour was unacceptable. He arrived two hours late, with a chit of a girl on his arm, and announced he was engaged to her. His treatment of the boys is disgusting and he’s so far up his own arse they have to ship in daylight.”

“Claire! Really!” Her mother’s face went pale. Then her expression changed and she became a frail old woman. When she spoke, her voice was querulous “I don’t know why you’re shouting at me; it isn’t my fault.”

For a moment Claire was almost fooled. But not quite. “Oh, give over, Mum. Quit playing games, I’ve had enough of that from Robert.” She wanted to add that yes, it probably was her fault, at least in part. If she’d taken time to teach Robert some manners he might not be a total git. Realising such a discussion with her mother was an exercise in futility, she took a deep breath and controlled her temper with effort.

“Jack and Alex are your grandsons. You should be proud of them; they are amazing boys. If I could, I would keep them with me longer, but I have trespassed on Conor’s goodwill enough already. I’m only asking you to let them stay for a week; take them to see Ruth and Sky. Poor Jack doesn’t remember his cousin at all. They won’t be any trouble. I have money to buy their tickets, and I’ll contact Francesca and ask her to meet them at Stansted.”

Her mother’s face remained petulant and Claire snapped. “For God’s sake, Mum, don’t be such a cow. I know you couldn’t give a monkeys about me or Robert, and I doubt Ruth gets a look in now she’s got her life back on track, but this is your chance to make amends and be a decent human being. Why don’t you give it a try, you might find you like it?”

Before her mum could answer, Claire stalked from the room.

***

I Am Thankful: 2013 365 Challenge #333

Driving to the beach

Since my sister moved to the States a few years ago, and I linked up with my husband’s American cousin on Facebook, I’ve become more aware of the American holidays. Mostly we don’t celebrate them over here. Hallowe’en is only starting to take off, and Valentine’s Day was only significant in high school. Thanksgiving doesn’t happen at all, except on social media. But Thanksgiving is probably my favourite. I love the idea of a day to be thankful.

Christmas is one of my favourite holidays, but it’s always slighly marred by commercialism and the fact that I’m not particularly religious. But you don’t have to believe in God to be thankful.

Like saying “I love you” to my husband every day, rather just on February 14th, I do try to be grateful every day for what I have, although it’s easy to get wrapped up in the daily minutae of tedium and routine. Taking time to look around and acknowledge what is good is essential.

So, I am thankful. I’m thankful for my gorgeous husband and beautiful, clever, loving children. I’m grateful for my lovely house and my crazy dog. I’m grateful for a wonderful family. I’m thankful that my husband found work and we have enough money to buy the things we need. I’m grateful that I can write every day, and for the followers of my blog and the people who download my novels who keep me motivated. I’m thankful for sun and rain and fog, and being able to spend time outdoors everyday. For supermarkets and fresh fruit, chocolate and coffee. For my ipad and books and my car that lets me take my children out and about without hassle. I’m grateful for so much I could write and write. But maybe a few pictures will tell a thousand words.

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Claire gazed out across the ocean and sighed. She could feel the entire country stacked up behind her, looking over her shoulder. She felt like she’d come a long way since her beginning in Berwick-Upon-Tweed, at the top of England.

“Are you alright, Auntie Claire?” Jack walked over to where she stood and hooked his arm through hers, his eyes dark with concern. The expression made him look much older than his ten years.

Claire patted his hand, touched at his surprising empathy. Two weeks ago she barely knew the boy, but they had become friends during their time travelling together in Cornwall.

“I’m fine, Jack, thank you for asking. It’s been a good couple of weeks, don’t you think?”

“The best! I can’t believe father’s coming to get us tomorrow. The time’s gone really fast. We didn’t even get to do everything. Did you know there’s a surf school here? Maybe we should go for just one last blast?”

Claire looked over to where Alex stood, his gaze on the phone in his hands rather than the amazing view from the end of the land.

“I’m not sure Alex would appreciate that. At least he’s happy that you’re going home.”

“He’s only happy because he gets to see his girlfriend again.” Jack put the emphasis of a ten-year-old on the word; clearly disgusted at his brother’s betrayal of all things male.

“That’s understandable. Two weeks is a long time when you’re twelve.” Claire smiled fondly at the moody boy standing along the cliff. She couldn’t claim to have broken through his tough barriers, but she had come to care for her eldest nephew more than she could have imagined possible a fortnight before.

“What about you, Jack?” She added, after a moment’s silence. “Will you be glad to get home?”

Her nephew stood silent for a while, and Claire wondered if he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by admitting he was looking forward to leaving. She was about to tell him it was natural to prefer his home and family and friends to an Aunt he barely knew, when he turned to face her. His cheeks burned red, and his eyes glistened.

“I’d much rather stay here with you,” he blurted out. “I don’t want to go home. Mother’s been wrapped up in her own little bubble since Dad left. She leaves us with the Au Pair and goes shopping or to the spa with her friends. And Father, well, that’s a joke. He’s so busy with his new lady friend I think he’s forgotten we exist.”

Claire raised her eyebrows at the news that Jack knew all about Robert’s new relationship.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. They’re bright boys and he’s hardly been discreet.

She wrapped her arm around Jack’s shoulder and pulled him into a hug, unsure what to say. The prospect of having the boys stay longer wasn’t anywhere near as terrible as it would have been two weeks earlier, but there was no doubt in her mind she was looking forward to some time by herself. It wasn’t even that the boys were an onerous responsibility – certainly not on the scale of caring for Sky – and they were good company, when they weren’t fighting. But, still, being responsible for someone else’s happiness took its toll.

“How about school? Will you be glad to go back there, after the long vacation?”

Jack shrugged. “I guess.”

Claire’s heart twisted at the empty resignation in his voice.

“Well, you’re welcome to come and visit any time. I have no idea where I’ll be, but if there’s a bed or floor for you two to sleep on, then it’s yours.”

She was surprised to discover that she meant it.

***

Thanksgiving – a Whole Lot to Be Thankful For… (nayominiweerasooriya.com)
Choosing to Be Grateful (hopeinhealingblog.wordpress.com)
Happy Thanksgiving, Friends! (folkloriat.com)
It’s Called Gratitude! (nudelberg.com)
On Being Thankful Every Day (seasofgreengrass.wordpress.com)

Write Now, Write Naked: 2013 365 Challenge #330

The Inconvenient Urge

I’ve read several posts this morning with great writing advice in them, or posts about the importance of writing. The online blog community is a wondrous resource for all things writerly. Even if you aren’t a writer, these are still great reads.

So I thought I’d share the highlights of my morning reads (as a nice change from hearing all about me and my lovely children!)

The first post I read this morning was by Robert Benson, on his blog Ubiquitous. Quotidian, called The Inconvenient Urge.

The post discusses how the need and inspiration to write comes at the worst possible times:

“The urge to write often settles on me when there is too much to do at work. When there are already too many unfinished projects and too many dishes to wash and too many clothes to fold. The urge comes when family members are sick, when the child needs my attention, when things are already impossibly complex and there are too many things competing for my focus.”

Aside from the fact that it’s nice to hear a man also complaining about the laundry and the dishes (hurrah it isn’t just me!) it is also a feeling I can completely relate to. I went to write in the local Motorway Services this morning (it’s not far from preschool and I find if I go there, rather than going home, I get more done. Especially when the internet isn’t working!) Even though the WiFi was on today, meaning I wrote fewer than half of the 4,000 words I wrote last Monday, I still got engrossed enough in Claire’s journey to forget to get my McD breakfast before 10.30am. 🙂

I’ve been known to be late for the school run, or lose several hours of what is meant to be productive housework time, or forget to walk the dog, because I’m wrapped up in another world. As Robert Benson concludes, however, “the urge to write comes when it will. Be grateful. Be ready. It is always inconvenient.”

Thought Catalog Article

The second post I read today (via http://jeryder.blogspot.co.uk) was a list of great quotes on writing by famous authors, on the Thought Catalog blog. Entitled 21 Harsh But Eye-Opening Writing Tips by Great Authors, my favourites include these:

11. Imagine that you are dying. If you had a terminal disease would you finish this book? Why not? The thing that annoys this 10-weeks-to-live self is the thing that is wrong with the book. So change it. Stop arguing with yourself. Change it. See? Easy. And no one had to die. – Anne Enright

and

17. Substitute ‘damn’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very’; your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. – Mark Twain

The final blog I read today, by the Write Practice, was called Write Naked, and it discusses a favourite topic of mine: writing what you know. Like the author of the article, I used to think that suggested you could only write about your personal sphere of experience: meaning I could only write stories about marketing managers who had been to New Zealand. (Well, actually, that does feature quite a lot in my stories! Ahem.)

Write Naked

But that isn’t what it means. It means writing about the sensations you can relate to. It isn’t the detail of the job you do that defines it, but the emotions you experience along the way.

So, even though Dragon Wraiths is about a sixteen-year-old orphan, and that wasn’t my childhood, I could still draw from enough experiences of my life growing up to write authentically about loneliness and not fitting in and the exhilaration of being outside in nature.

In the article, Sophie Novak says:

“Write naked. The raw can be a million times more powerful than the best polish. Do you know why? Because truth shines. It can’t be beaten by invention. Just forget any inhibitions, and share the truth. Your truth. It’s quite scary, and absolutely worth it.”

Or, as Neil Gaiman puts it, “The moment that you feel that just possibly you are walking down the street naked…that’s the moment you may be starting to get it right.”

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“Right, boys, get dressed, we’ve got a busy day ahead.”

Claire laughed at the groans emanating from the bunks as she stuck her head around the door. The hostel had been mostly empty when they arrived, and they’d been able to secure adjacent rooms. After sharing with the boys for a week at the previous hostel, Claire was glad to go back to her own, private, sweet-smelling space.

The only movement her words provoked was a pulling up of duvets, muffling the grumbling protests that it was too early. Claire thought there had to be a happy medium between Sky waking up with the birds, and these boys who needed a rocket under them to get them going in the morning.

With a sly glance she said, “I guess I’ll have to cancel the motor boat trip then, and we’ll go to the seal sanctuary after all.”

The duvets flung back and first Jack and then Alex sat up in bed.

“Motor boat? Are we going water skiing?” Jack asked, looking adorable with his tousled hair and sleepy excited eyes.

Claire’s smile drooped. “Ah, no. We’re going on a day out on the estuary.” She watched their excitement fade, and thought quickly. “But we’re taking the boat out on our own. Have you steered a motor boat before? And are you any good at map reading?”

Alex’s expression remained disgruntled, but Jack jumped up. “Bagsy I get to steer the boat first. Thank you, Aunt– I mean Claire.” He ran over and gave her an impulsive hug.

Claire returned the embrace, a little surprised at the gesture. The boys were not very tactile, unless you included thumping each other and wrestling on the bedroom floor.

“You’re welcome, Jack. Come on boys, get dressed. This hostel is self-catering, so we’re going out for a fry up.” She’d learnt that a hearty breakfast was essential. As with men, so with boys: regular feeding was a core requirement of good relations.

Claire looked at the tiny craft bobbing on the water, and thought better of her great idea. For something licensed to hold six people it looked tiny.

And very vulnerable, she thought, watching the boat pull at its mooring as the wake of a passing yacht stirred up the water.

“You boys taking your Mum fishing?”

All three of them turned to look over as a man approached them, his lined face split in a wide grin. “They’ll be biting today. It’s high tide around mid-morning, but you’re best to wait until the afternoon. Forecast is good. Did you want to borrow some rods? I’m sure I can find something.”

Claire shuddered, and hoped the boys were more interested in steering the boat than pulling slimy squirming creatures from the water.

“Can we, Claire, can we, please? I’d love to catch something. I’ve never been sea fishing before.” Jack’s voice rose high with eagerness.

“Doesn’t Robert take you?” As she said the words, she tried to imagine her brother, as she knew him now, attaching maggots to a hook. “Never mind. Er, yes, if you can borrow all the gear I don’t see why not. Just don’t expect me to touch them. If you catch something you’re on your own.”

The answering grin from both boys was electric. Claire hoped the friendly stranger was wrong, and the fish weren’t biting. Leaving them discussing the merits of various types of bait with the man from the boat yard, Claire wandered off in search of caffeine. It was going to be a long day.

***

The Write Practice says “Write Naked!” (thomasrydder.wordpress.com)
The Helford River: A Week in Cornwall Part 1 (songofthepaddle.co.uk)

Smiley, Sunny Days: 2013 365 Challenge #324

Scooting through the park to school

I’ve spent today trying to work out why the sun makes us feel so much happier. The skies have been blue today, without a cloud in view. It makes the autumn leaves sparkle and dance in waves of red and gold.

But it’s freezing, around 3C, and the ground is frozen. Of course my boy still wore shorts to scoot on the school run, although I did manage to persuade him into jeans for the farm. Despite shivering from cold and the pain of red raw hands, (gloves have not yet been located as I’m in denial that it’s actually winter) I feel a hundred times better than I did yesterday in the mizzle and fog.

I want to get outside, I want to run and jump, and not just to keep warm. I’m smiling just because it’s sunny. I wonder why that is? I’m sat in a freezing barn with a ray of sunlight warming my arm, and life is good. We’ve been outside nearly all day today, at the farm and the park, feeding the ducks and scootering (with son back in shorts after his gymnastics class!) It’s been a great day.

Blue skies at the farm

I guess this is why people buy SAD lamps to see them through the winter, to replace the lost sunshine. I’ve thought about it. I miss the daylight, as it gets dark at 4pm and the sky is only starting to lighten when we leave for school.

Maybe on the sunny days we feel the long distant promise of spring; of warmer days and growing plants, of living and thriving, of life. Even now, in our twenty-first century world, with electric lights and central heating, TV and books and snuggly lightweight fleece jumpers, we’re still animals at heart. We want to hibernate in the winter and celebrate in spring.

Bring on the sunny days, bring on the frost and the snow, the nipped fingers and running nose. Enough of autumn’s mists, I want blue skies to make me smile. And then I want it to be spring, please.

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________________________________________________________________________________

Claire sat on her bunk and watched the boys as they lay, absorbed in their games. She could see Candy Crush on Alex’s screen, and wondered if she should’ve asked Robert what restrictions he placed on the boys’ screen time. She couldn’t help but feel that more educational apps would be a better way to spend their time, but didn’t feel as comfortable telling them so as she had with Sky.

Plus it’s the school holidays: they must have homework that needs doing. Do I trust that Francesca will supervise that, or should I do something?

Her anger at the now departed Robert flared up again, and only the indifference both boys showed at their father’s departure made her feel that she was doing the right thing. However little she knew about looking after boys, it didn’t seem as if they’d get much more care and attention from their dad.

I shouldn’t judge, of course. I know nothing about their family life. And, after all, it must be strange going home after boarding during term time.

She looked up again from her book, unable to concentrate on the words.

The question is, now they are here, what am I going to do with them?

A low grumbling noise echoed round the room and Claire giggled. “Alex, was that your stomach?” The boy grunted and didn’t look up. Claire sighed, quietly. “What about you, Jack, are you hungry? Did you boys have lunch?”

She looked at her phone and was surprised to see how late it was. “Never mind lunch, it’s nearly dinner time. What do you boys fancy? I can cook pasta or we can go out and find a restaurant.” At least Robert had made sure she didn’t need to scrimp too much.

Jack sat up and bumped his head on the bunk. “Ow. Alex, why did I get the bottom bunk?”

“Because you’re the baby,” his brother snarled. Jack’s face crumpled and Claire feared he might cry. He knuckled at his eyes, and when he met Claire’s gaze his eyes were red but dry.

“I’m hungry, Auntie Claire. Can we have a McDonalds? Do they have them out here? Father said we’re a long way from civilisation.”

“Are you allowed McDonalds? Your dad didn’t say, but I can’t imagine he and your mum would approve. It’s not very healthy.”

“They don’t give a shit about us,” Alex said.

The words struck at Claire’s heart, but she responded sternly, “I don’t think that language is appropriate, Alex. You’re an educated boy; you can express yourself without resorting to swearing.”

“Why should I? Father swears all the time. And Mother. Especially at each other.” He turned back to his game, and Claire felt an urge to give this troubled almost-man a hug.

Knowing that was the last thing he would want, she tried to keep her voice neutral and said, “Well, when you’re with me I would like you to refrain from swearing. In fact I think we’ll have a few rules.” Alex took no notice of her; his attention on his game.

“For a start, I won’t have you ignoring me. Right, come down here please, Alex. You, too, Jack. Come sit here with me.” She patted the bed. Jack came across the room but Alex didn’t move.

“Alex Carleton, get down here now, or you’ll be on the next flight home.” The strength in her voice surprised Claire. The reaction was even more shocking. Alex glared at her, then rolled sideways off the bed and jumped to the floor without using the ladder. He didn’t sit, but she chose not to force the issue.

“Okay. Rule one, you will listen to me and do as I ask. I am in charge, got it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Rule two, no swearing. Rule three, iPad will be limited to a few hours a day.” Alex began to protest and she cut him off. “I’m not unreasonable – I had an iPad until recently. But I also know how addictive some of the games are. We’re in the most beautiful part of the world, with castles and caves and beaches and places to visit. Games are for quiet time and, occasionally, car journeys. Got it?”

Jack said, “yes, Ma’am,” but Alex remained silent.

“Got it?” Claire said again, looking into Alex’s downcast eyes.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Oh, I forgot. Rule four–” Jack groaned and Claire laughed. “Don’t worry, this is a good one. Rule four, let’s have some fun!”

She jumped up from the bed. “Okay, shall we see if this sleepy backwater has a McDonalds?”

With a crazy grin she led them from the room without waiting to see if they were following her.

***