I’m Happy, You’re Happy: 2013 365 Challenge #92

If only they were always like this…

We’ve had one of those days where we fed off each other’s emotions too much.

It started out okay: I wrote my post while the kids played and hubbie dozed on the sofa. We were meant to go out shopping but the kids were playing so nicely together I didn’t want to disturb them.

Then, after lunch, they hit whine-territory, so we decided a change of scene was in order. They’re usually the kind of kids you can take shopping but at the moment it seems anytime we’re out in public they’re either hyper or sulking.

I reached breaking point in Costa when my daughter sobbed because I told her off for kicking the table and spilling coffee everywhere (it was a wobbly table but I was tired and over-reacted). Hubbie reached boiling point stuck in a stationary car with the kids, during the time it took me to return the boots we’d bought our son because he decided they were too tight.

I’m used to me breaking: it’s always a bit tougher when we both break.

Too much child-whining, too long at home all together, too little sleep and we’re all ready to run away. Problem is there is no where to run to, so we try and put a brave face on it and muddle through to bedtime hoping tomorrow will be better.

Kids Co-operating

It’s in my nature to see it as all my fault: the kids’ whining is my fault for not being a firm or consistent enough parent. Husband’s misery is my fault because of the kids’ behaviour and because I got cross/sad/broken when they had a tantrum in the coffee shop. It’s even my fault that hubbie is cleaning the kitchen right now instead of relaxing because I’m not a good enough housewife. You get the idea. I think I’ve said sorry about a zillion times today.

The problem is hubbie is even more sensitive to my moods than I am to his. So my constant apologies and taking of blame just make him more miserable. He needs me to be happy, but I find that almost impossible when my solid rock of cheerfulness and optimism is sad. I take his calmness so much for granted yet find it so difficult to be the person he needs me to be at times like this: i.e. cheerful. It’s not a natural state for me at the best of times! My Dad had the nickname Morbid Mick and I definitely take after him.

So I’m currently sitting on the landing outside a closed bathroom door listening to the kids play in the bath – because my kids don’t want me they want Daddy. I’m listening to hubbie clean the kitchen by himself because he doesn’t want me down there helping if I can’t be happy.

Sigh. When is it bedtime?

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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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“Good afternoon, Melanie Carleton speaking.”

Claire sighed in relief. “Mum, thank goodness. I was so worried. I’m at the primary school, Ruth asked me to collect Sky but she isn’t here. Did she tell me the wrong time?” Now wasn’t the time for accusations. Blaming someone with a brain tumour would do nothing but cast her as the evil sister.

“Claire, how nice of you to get in touch. Sky is fine, no thanks to you. I received a telephone call from the school yesterday, querying why my granddaughter had not been collected. I was not amused.”

“And you didn’t think to phone and make sure I was okay? I was mugged last week, you know: knocked unconscious.” The hot words were out before Claire could extinguish them.

“No, Claire. Getting bopped on the head for being a silly girl and walking home alone does not compare to having doctors remove part of your brain. Although I am beginning to wonder if someone has done the same to you. How could you let Ruth down so badly?”

Tears swamped Claire’s eyes at the unfairness of it all. I didn’t do anything wrong. She told me the wrong day. Knowing self-defence was futile against her mother, Claire swallowed and let the rant run its course.

Eventually her parent fell silent. When Claire didn’t respond, she spat out, “Well, what have you got to say? Cat got your tongue?”

Inhaling deeply so she wouldn’t choke on the words, Claire said softly, “Sorry Mum, I must have misheard Ruth’s instructions. I’m sorry you were put out and you’ve had Sky all day. I’ll be there as soon as I can. As long as you’re all okay, that’s the main thing.”

“You mean apart from one screaming in disappointment since 4pm last night and the other recovering from brain surgery and thinking her sister doesn’t give a hoot. Yes we are all okay here, as you put it.”

Claire disconnected the phone. She wasn’t sure if her mother had finished but she knew there were limits to how long she could keep her own mouth shut. It’s going to be bad enough going round there now, without antagonising Mother further. Trying to tell her the truth when she thinks she knows what’s what is like trying to find clothes in your size in the sale.

She drained the dregs of her tea and straightened her knife and fork. It was tempting to order another drink, preferably a large gin and tonic, but she thought better of it. Arriving reeking of alcohol when I’m about to be put in charge of a six-year-old for two weeks is probably not a great idea. I can’t even get a latte to go, as Stella doesn’t have cup-holders.

Looking around the calm oasis of the coffee shop, Claire wondered why she had ever found it lonely travelling by herself. With no more reasons to put it off, she squared her shoulders and strode to the door.

***

We are all broken (ahechoes.wordpress.com)

Chocolate and Cheeky Amazon: 2013 365 Challenge #91

Scattering grass seed with Daddy

I got my first five-star review today for Dragon Wraiths. And Amazon deleted it. It was left by a lovely lady who recently started following me here and on Twitter and who read the book without any prompting from me.

Unfortunately she’s also an author and apparently Amazon frowns on authors leaving reviews on other people’s books. Which is a shame because generally writers are avid readers (and eloquent reviewers) and they also know the value of reviews. I guess the system gets abused, as all things do. All I know is that five-star review might have brought me some much-needed sales.

Shadow Forest by Matt Haig

On a nicer note we had a lovely peaceful Easter Sunday. I spent the morning feverishly uploading ebooks – my Volume 3 and the ‘Story so Far’ version, which contains all the posts since the beginning of January. Even though I’d done most of the formatting and the book covers etc it still took far too long and we were nearly late for lunch. People who think self-publishers are cheeky charging for their books without paying professionals to do the editing, proof-reading, formatting etc, don’t always account for how much effort can be put into these things by the author. The Story So Far represents about 300 hours of effort. I think selling it for the price of a cappuccino is fairly reasonable, especially as you can download the separate volumes for free!

I’m all full of cold and had a welcome break at my Father-in-Law’s today as he and his partner took the children and dog for a walk. I read my book (a great MG fiction called Shadow Forest by Matt Haig) and David watched The Mummy. Again. Children were tired-whiny after our long day yesterday so it was nice for all of us to have some time apart. Now all I have to do is try and ration the copious amounts of chocolate we have accumulated despite my best efforts. Even I’m sick of the sight of chocolate and I never thought that was possible!

Anyway, time to start Volume 4 of Two-Hundred Steps Home. Blimey. How did that happen?

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“Excuse me, is everything alright?”

Claire looked up at the concerned face trying to peer under her shield of hair. Her eyes met two sapphires sparkling amidst a sea of wrinkles.

“The school is closed today. Were you meant to meet someone?”

The words sank in through the fog in Claire’s mind. Closed? “The school isn’t open? But I was supposed to collect my niece. Ruth – my sister – she clearly said today at 3pm. I thought I was in the wrong place. But it’s definitely here. She’s going to be so cross, and she’s ill and I’m meant to be helping.” The words tumbled out until Claire’s voice broke and she sank her head back into her hands.

A gentle patting on her shoulder reminded Claire that the old lady was still standing in front of her.

“There, there, my dear. Don’t cry. Have you telephoned your sister? I am sure there has been some misunderstanding. I believe there is a training day today and therefore the children finished for the Easter vacation yesterday.”

Relief washed through Claire like a spring breeze, followed by an arctic blast of anger. That’s just like Ruth to scare the hell out of me. She must have Sky home with her: why didn’t she call me?

Claire looked up and smiled ruefully at the helpful passer-by. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be a watering pot. It was quite a struggle to get here for 3pm through the snow – I’ve come from the Derby Dales – and now, to find…” She shook her head. No point unburdening herself to a complete stranger.

The lady raised a hand as if to brush away Claire’s apology. “I quite understand. These things happen. Why not come with me to the café? You can settle your nerves before telephoning your sister. Everything will seem better after a cup of tea.”

Pushing herself off the wall, trying to ignore the numbness in her bottom from sitting on the cold stone, Claire smiled gratefully at the woman. “Thank you, I might do that. No need to come with me, I’ll be fine. I haven’t had lunch, that’s all. As you say, I’m sure I’ll feel more the thing after some food and a hot drink.”

The woman hesitated, as if unsure whether to leave Claire alone.

What must she think? I’m a grown woman, I shouldn’t be sat sobbing outside a primary school. Grow up and stop being pathetic, girl.

“I’m fine, really. I appreciate you stopping to tell me about the school. I know where the café is – I’ve been here before – and I don’t want to hold you up any longer.”

“Well, if you are certain?” Claire nodded. “Alright then, my dear. You take care.” The lady gave a little wave and walked away.

Claire filled her lungs with freezing air and brushed the hair back from her face. She knew she should call Ruth, to confirm that her niece was safely at home, but she was still too cross. That’s just like her, to have me race across the country on a wild-goose-chase without so much as a text message. She stomped towards the coffee shop, remembering all the times Ruth had let her down or forgotten to tell her something important. Just because I’m the youngest, doesn’t mean it’s okay to leave me out all the time.

She could almost sense her bottom lip jutting out as it had done twenty-five years ago, when such behaviour was just about acceptable.

It was only when she was tucked into a window seat nursing a cup of Earl Grey that it occurred to Claire there may be another reason for Ruth’s lack of contact.

What if she’s had complications and had to go back into hospital? What if she wasn’t able to call me and Sky’s been left with Dad?

Her empty stomach twisted in fear and the blood drained away from her face until she thought she might faint. Placing the cup down on the saucer, spilling her tea in the process, Claire pulled out her phone and selected her sister’s number. She listened to the endless ringing as she waited for the phone to connect.

Come on, come on, just pick up the phone.

***

365: 31.03.13 #91 An Easter egg hunt (ghostwritermummy.co.uk)
Give a loved one a book this Easter! (sunpenny.wordpress.com)
Matt Haig: 30 things that every writer should know (telegraph.co.uk)

Good Friends and Easter Eggs: 2013 365 Challenge #90

The Easter Egg Haul

Goodness me, the end of March already.

This post will mark the 90th Day of my 2013 Challenge, producing around 72k words of first-draft novel. I have collated a volume ‘the story so far’ which will be available on Smashwords shortly, as well as Volume 3 just for the March installments. Thank you to everyone who has come along for the journey – your presence and support is the only reason I’m still going!

We had a busy day today, with a trip into town in the morning, followed by a birthday party two hours away with family friends. My little girl was a superstar during shopping: following Mummy from one shop to another while I tried to find a frame for an art commission and some all-in-one waterproofs for her and her brother.

Look at our fab new t-shirts

Failed on both counts.

The one frame that was big enough was the wrong colour, and all the shops are stocking spring clothes, despite the snow and 2C temperatures. Didn’t want to go home empty handed so I bought the kids new t-shirts and Amber some gorgeous skinny jeans like I used to wear in my twenties. How long ago that seems!

The party was brilliant. My friend’s in-laws live in a gorgeous house in Derbyshire, surrounded by hills and rivers. I stood at the kitchen sink and watched the river sparkling in the sunshine. From the lounge the hills climbed up to the sky. One day I hope we’ll live somewhere so beautiful.

Beautiful Gardens

My friends had arranged an Easter Egg hunt for the four children in the garden and the snow stopped long enough for us to find them all. The sun even came out and warmed our skin for a wee while, giving the promise of spring. The kids then disappeared off to play Families and I had a chance to sit and do nothing.

It’s a strange feeling.

We don’t have family to ‘visit’ during the holidays as ours all live close by, so we never get to stay and be taken care of. My Dad used to make me tea for me and let me have a lie-in when I visited. At my friend’s house her in-laws took care of all of us, including a lovely evening meal and endless cake. Even though it was 11pm by the time we got home and put the children to bed it still felt like a wonderful, relaxing day. My last Claire post for Volume 3 will be written in the morning though (British Summer Time starts tomorrow. Ha Ha.)

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The clock ticked over to 2.37pm. Claire swore and shifted down a gear. Come on car, you can do it. She eyed up the dirty rear of the lorry and tried to gauge whether she could overtake it in a car with a top speed of 75mph.

2.38pm. I don’t have any choice. If I follow this bloody lorry all the way I’m definitely going to be late. She gritted her teeth and dropped down another gear, ignoring the awful screaming from the engine that made her teeth ache. Then, praying to the Gods of motoring for the second time that day, she pressed the pedal to the floor and swung the wheel, until the Skoda leapt across to the other side of the road.

In the distance a red car sped towards her. Claire stared at it through narrowed eyes, then looked at the lorry. It was longer than she had realised. She wasn’t going to make it. Damn. With a thudding heart and a metallic taste in the back of her throat, Claire eased off the pedal and dropped in behind the lorry. She’d just turned off her indicator when the red car whooshed past.

Claire felt tears stab the corners of her eyes. I miss my Audi. I’d already be in the coffee shop round the corner, having lunch and getting myself ready for two weeks of hell. Instead I’m going to be lucky if I get there before the teachers start calling her mum, wondering why she hasn’t been collected.

A wave of dark washed over her and she gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles nearly broke through the skin. This was a stupid idea. How am I meant to keep a tiny child alive for two whole weeks if I can’t even pick her up from school on time? Face it; I’m a flake and a failure. Maybe Carl’s right to be trying to sack me. Perhaps I’ve always been useless and I just never realised it before.

Instinctively Claire slowed the car, as she saw the lorry’s brake lights in the gloom of the overcast afternoon. Oh god, not traffic too. This isn’t funny. Then she saw the indicator light and realised the lorry was pulling off. Hallelujah: Some luck, at last. As soon as the lorry was clear she pushed the pedal hard and hoped there were no traffic enforcement vans parked up to catch her out. A fine I can handle, but if they pull me over they’ll be arresting me for grievous bodily harm.

At last Claire saw the sign for her destination. She turned off and sped through the winding streets of the town, not caring for once if anyone was condemning her driving. She found a parking space behind the school –in itself was a miracle – and was out the door almost before she had her seat-belt undone. Running up the lane behind the school, Claire checked the time on her phone. 2.59pm. Phew, I’m going to make it. Thank god.

She was puffing by the time she reached the school gates, and the blood pounded loudly in her ears. Bending over to catch her breath Claire finally realised something was wrong. It was quiet. Too quiet. Aside from the whooshing in her ears and the rasps of her breathing she could hear nothing. No chattering mums, no high-pitched voices. She stood up slowly and looked at the front of the school, where a row of scooters normally stood like a racing rainbow.

Checking her phone again, Claire confirmed it was the right time and day. Oh god, don’t tell me I’ve got the wrong school. I’m positive Ruth told me she came to this school. Yes, I’m certain we drove past once and she pointed it out.

Claire felt the blood drain from her face and the hollowness in her stomach spread out until it consumed her.

Where the hell is Sky?

She slumped against the wall and gave in to the tears. Ruth is going to kill me.

***

An Easter egg with meaning (delightsbycynthia.wordpress.com)
Happy Easter (nanlevin.wordpress.com)

Weather and Whining: 2013 365 Challenge #89

Thomas the Tank Engine

Our day featured too much weather and whining.

We took the children to see Thomas the Tank Engine at our local steam railway this morning. He doesn’t run very often (he’s actually going in for an overhaul in May and will be out of action for a year or more), and he was meant to be running today, as it’s a bank holiday weekend in the UK.

Only no one told them.

We checked the website diligently, because disappointing two and four year old children is a very bad idea. And still, when we got there, Thomas was clearly just outside his shed and not hooked up to carriages. You know that sinking feeling you get as a parent when it’s all about to go pear-shaped?

Thankfully the kids took it well as we were still able to ride the steam train to the next stop, a large park near a lake. The plan was to visit the park, have lunch in the coffee shop, and catch the train back two hours later. Only the kids were in that sort of mood today: You know the one. A thousand questions a minute, usually the same question repeated over and over and over and over. Even the kindly guard got a bit wild-eyed after ten minutes of trying to answer the barrage.

Then the whining started.

Our steam train today

When we got to the station the snow was hurling down: tiny, freezing specks of misery. It’s a ten minute walk to the park and littlest Martin started crying before we left the platform.

If I’d been engaged as a parent this morning, instead of desperately writing my post after devoting yesterday to Dragon Wraiths, I would have thought to take their scooters. I didn’t. So we had the classic situation of one child wanting to do one thing and the other vociferously advocating another. One parent wanting the screaming to stop and the other one ready to hurl the kids under the next train.

Amber’s Photograph of Bunny

The problem with the steam train is it only runs three times a day. We had a choice of catching the return leg of the one we’d just vacated – a wait of half an hour – or persisting with the park plan and risking the chance of screaming children for two and a half hours. We opted for the former as the lesser of two evils, with a promised trip to a different park on the way home. A cup of tea and a biscuit later and we were all a bit calmer.

But boy they were in whinge mode.

Why is whinging directly proportional to the amount you’ve paid to do something? It cost us twenty-five quid to ride on the train for half an hour and have a cup of tea with UHT milk. We let them play in the little park at the station for a while, but it was so cold. Then little man refused to have his nappy done and even my enforced calm was starting to fray. Hubbie was holding on through gritted teeth and playing in the park to pass the time.

Before we knew it, we were in the car heading home (the promised trip to the big park cancelled due to bad behaviour) and it was only midday. Now I don’t mind spending money on a trip out with the kids but it needs to eat up more than two hours of time!

Big kids can have fun too

Anyway, sorry for the rant. There were good bits too. The kids loved bouncing on the old sprung seats of the train carriages, chatting to the friendly guard and playing in the tiny park at the railway station. There were given a pound each to spend in the shop (which only had one thing for sale for that price) and they came home with some wall stickers. So that used up an hour of time while I cooked lunch. I think next time I’ll do a bit more planning. Or check the forecast.

Auditioning for a Bond Movie

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Claire pushed the pedal to the floor, remembering the expression on Fiona’s face when Josh broke the news of their planned Cambridge trip. Stella the Skoda groaned in protest and the needle swung round to 75mph. Damn you, car, I need speed. She looked at the piles of snow spilling onto the inside lane of the motorway and eased her foot back. Alright, car, you win. Just because the stupid cow looked at me like I’m a marriage wrecker, that doesn’t mean I need to wreck you too. Poor Stella.

The world outside the window spread in unrelenting grey. Sky merged into snow-covered fields until Claire felt like someone had hit select-all-erase on the world. The only splashes of colour came from cars speeding past her in the outside lane, and they were mostly silver.

The lanes and the grey and the moving cars began to blur together. Claire blinked several times and wondered who had filled her eyelids with grit. Might be time for coffee. It had taken over an hour to drive the first dozen miles from the youth hostel to Ashbourne. Although the roads had been clearer from there to Derby and on to Nottingham, it was only when she reached the M1 that she felt able to breathe. Glancing at the dashboard clock Claire was shocked to see it was past midday. Scrap that. I haven’t got time to stop. School finishes at three. If I’m late to pick up Sky, my sister is going to disown me. Or worse.

She tried to calculate how much further there was to drive and wished she’d left earlier. Funny how six hours seemed plenty of time to do a three-hour journey. Damn this damn snow to hell and back. If I hadn’t promised Ruth, I’d be driving to the airport and boarding a flight to the Maldives. Screw Carl and his stupid vendetta.

Inhaling deeply, Claire tried to untwist the ball of panic growing in her gut. Her eyes blurred and, as she blinked them back into focus, she saw the red lights of a lorry braking ahead. Crap. Don’t tell me there’s been an accident at Catthorpe. That’s all I bloody need.

The traffic slowed and gently ground to a halt. At least I don’t have to worry about over-heating. If this heap of junk starts steaming in sub-zero temperatures it deserves everything it gets. She patted the dash quickly. Sorry car; didn’t mean it. Don’t fail me now, I beg you.

Claire looked at the endless line of red lights and wondered if it was time to call her sister. Or at least Mum. Maybe Kim’s home. Sky would be thrilled if Kim picked her up from school, especially if her hair’s still tomato-red. As she pulled her phone towards her and readied a text message the traffic began to move. Like a queue of women waiting for the loo at a festival, the lines of cars fed slowly forwards. At last Claire was on the A14 and the final stretch home.

Please, no more accidents. I just need to be outside the school gates at 3pm. She raised her eyes to the god of motoring and hoped he was listening. That’s all I ask. I’ll give up Starbucks. Anything. Just make sure I’m not late.

A single ray of sunlight broke through the clouds ahead and bathed the scene in a warm glow. Claire felt her heart jolt, as if she had indeed received a message from the Gods.

Okay, I’ll take it. But, can I just, you know, cut down on my Starbucks? Rather than a complete ban. That’d be marvellous. Thanks.

***

5 Tips to Help You Put An End to Whining (everydayfamily.com)
The Most Famous Steam Locomotive? (locoyard.com)

Breaking the Rules and the See-Saw of Self Doubt: 2013 365 Challenge #88

My new YA cover

Well, here it is. My new cover. Apologies to everyone bored to the back teeth of my self-publishing adventures. I have to make sure this blog is about my writing as well as my parenting journey!

Actually today has been a watershed sort of day in my personal journey as an author. I’ve been oscillating between hope and doubt since breakfast. First off I flexed the credit card and bought this gorgeous photograph – isn’t it stunning? Oh to take a picture like that. It reminds me of a bit in Baby Blues, when Helen takes an amazing photograph that leaves everyone stunned. It’s hard to imagine how one image can have that impact until you see one.

I asked the photographer if he had a vertical version better suited to a book cover (the original of this one is horizontal) and he sent me another from the shoot. It wasn’t the same at all. The expression was more sulky than vulnerable, as if the model was saying, get me out of this damn rain, I’m cold. So I had to work with this horizontal one and create a ‘rainy’ background for it to sit on.

That was my high (working with beautiful photographs is like a drug).

My low came after reading a post on Catherine, Caffeinated‘s blog, by an editor, about why you must have an editor if you intend to self publish. I posted a comment along the lines that I just plain can’t afford one and her response was, well then you mustn’t self-publish. I’ve thought that before and I don’t blame her for saying it. However if I listen to that advice I’m back to querying agents and wondering everyday if I’m meant to be an author. It took the edge off my excitement about the new cover. Especially as hubbie confessed to hating the type font of my novel (I do too, so that’s okay) and to finding another typo. I’m sure the manuscript is littered with them and I do intend to have another run through with fresh eyes. Only now I’m scared to look in case there are hundreds!

Sneak Preview of March Cover

My see-saw of self-doubt tipped upwards again with a lovely comment on my blog from someone who is also self-publishing (albeit with the use of a professional editor!). She stopped by to tell me not to be disheartened by Catherine’s comments and that people will forgive a badly edited book for a good story. Well, they did with Twilight so I know that’s true.

I’ve ended the day somewhat level on my see-saw. I know I’m breaking the rules by self-publishing without paying for the services of an editor or proof-reader and without going through my manuscript again the minute someone spotted a typo.

I will do. One day.

But if I wait for the right time I might never get anything done because by the time the kids have started school, or left home, or whenever is a good time to focus, I will have talked myself out of doing it. I have a short attention span and a small amount of self-belief so I have to carpe diem.

There’s been a song floating round my head for weeks (hubbie has it on his ipod playlist I think) and I heard it on the radio today while working on my front cover. It sums up where I am nicely:

You’ve got the words to change a nation
but you’re biting your tongue
You’ve spent a life time stuck in silence
afraid you’ll say something wrong
If no one ever hears it how we gonna learn your song?
So come on, come on

I don’t think my words will change a nation but I do so love Emeli Sandé’s song and I love the concept of Our Version of Events. Everyone has an opinion on the right way of doing things – be it writing, parenting or anything else. Our job is to discover our version of events and stick to that.

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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. You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire looked up at the hills towering either side, blocking out the sun. Bloody typical. It was almost spring-like back at the hostel. I could be sitting in the lounge ignoring the awful floor covering, reading my book and drinking tea. An image of the scene she’d left behind floated into her mind: Fiona and Josh entwined on the sofa, chatting to baby Lily, while Sophie and Lucas played snap on the bright blue carpet. Even though she was pretty certain the domestic bliss had lasted approximately five minutes before one of the children was screaming or sobbing, the sight had still left an odd taste in her mouth. I’m better off out of it. A morning spent in the Hall grounds with Josh’s kids was sufficient to convince her peace was rare and fleeting.

I certainly didn’t need to come out on a five-mile-hike to escape. Although I guess I do need something for the blog. I can’t coast on the concussion excuse forever.

Her rough research had suggested a walk along Wolfscote and Beresford Dales would be picturesque and easy-going. Unfortunately the website’s estimate of a two-hour circuit hadn’t allowed for the snow. The path was hidden and she had slipped several times on the crunchy ice-crystals that had formed in the heart of the dale.

To her right the river Dove gushed along, swollen and grey from the melting snow water. On the internet pictures the brook had sparkled in summer sunshine. You’d think an Advertising Director would be trained not to believe everything she sees, especially online.

The footpath snaked through tightly packed hills, making Claire feel like she was walking between a giant pair of breasts. Lovely. Josh will piss himself when I tell him. He’ll be gutted he didn’t come. Then she remembered Fiona’s expression as she announced her afternoon plans, and her smile dropped away. Josh had glanced at his wife and met a blank stare, as if she had decided not to influence her husband’s decisions. Claire hadn’t been so lucky. The woman had flashed her a micro-glance that had slapped her across the face. It wasn’t necessary. I wouldn’t have let him come. Wandering around with a single man is one thing, but hiking alone with a married man – even one who is just a friend – isn’t my style.

Lost in her thoughts, Claire didn’t realise she had left Wolfscote Dale and entered Beresford Dale until she saw the looming pile of limestone ahead of her. Ah, the Celestial Twins. Look like lumps of rock to me. The Twins didn’t seem as impressive as they had in the pictures. Claire guessed it was because they blended into the dirty-grey snow lying thickly on the Dale floor.

She took some snaps of the edifice for the blog, before hurrying on along the path. The valley narrowed, enclosing her like a rumpled duvet, until she was striding along a gorge. Despite the blue sky and hints of invisible sunshine, the gorge was lost in shadow. Claire felt the air temperature drop even lower, but sighed with relief as the blasting wind fell away. It wasn’t late but it felt oppressive in the gorge and Claire was glad when the footbridge came into sight.

She stood at the edge of the bridge, listening to the roar of the river beneath her. The water was only inches from the bridge, although the planks were still dry. I wonder how low the water is normally and how long before the bridge is complete submerged. As if she feared that might happen imminently, Claire forced herself to plant one boot on the wood and then another. Closing her ears to the thunderous noise, she scuttled as fast as she could across the bridge and only breathed when her boots landed in snow again.

At last the valley opened out and the sun twinkled on the horizon, dazzling Claire’s eyes even though it no longer held any warmth. The field stretched ahead of Claire and she realised she had no idea which way to go. In the dales and the gorge the path had been obvious, despite being mostly buried by snow. Now, out in the open, there were no obvious markers to follow and no footsteps to show the way.

Fear tightened in Claire’s chest until her ribs ached. She tried to keep calm but memories of the mugging tugged at her mind and wound up her pulse. Great. I’m lost. The hostel is only a mile or so away. I can almost taste my cuppa and feel the warmth of the wood burner. She shook her hands in an attempt to bring life back into them. Her fingers tingled with the loss of sensation caused by the wind penetrating her flimsy gloves. Mental note to buy some fleece-lined gloves at the next opportunity.

Claire fumbled through her pockets for her new phone, praying there was signal. Eventually, with nerveless hands and thudding head, she managed to load up her satnav system and find out what direction would take her to the village.

I hope the drive to Cambridgeshire tomorrow is easier than this, or I’m going to be late to collect my niece. And Ruth will kill me.

***

Publishing for beginners – a few easy steps (patelliott.blogspot.co.uk) – This is very funny and written by the lovely lady who gave my confidence a boost! 🙂
25 Ways to be a Happy Writer (terribleminds.com) – Full of swearing but very funny
Help Is Out There (elizasarahgraham.com)
Publishing non – negotiable: Hire an editor (megaphonesociety.wordpress.com)
7 Things Editors at Children’s Book Publishers Wish Writers Knew (write4kids.com)
The Last Minute Editing Process Made Easy With Scrivener (everythingscrivener.wordpress.com)

Tricky Question of Cashflow: 2013 365 Challenge #87

“Driving to see the Pigs”

I’m trying to justify the first big (relatively speaking) expenditure to support my writing. So far I’ve done all my own proof-reading (never a good idea), ebook preparation and cover design, sourcing cheap or free stock photographs from istockphoto. The most I’ve spent on a stock image is about ten pounds (although I’ve purchased a few).

However, after getting some constructive feedback on the first chapter of Dragon Wraiths recently it was highlighted that my cover doesn’t fit with my target audience. I like the dragon pendant image, and it goes with the story, but It didn’t cost me anything so I don’t mind redesigning it and hopefully boosting sales (which won’t be hard!)

“Look Mummy, no hands!”

After some research I’ve realised that YA books in my genre generally have a picture of a girl or couple on the front. So I decided today to see if I could find an image that might do the trick. It’s hard getting the search terms right – I tried ‘first kiss’ and ‘teenage embrace’ and got some dodgy images, even on istockphoto! Since when did ‘first kiss’ mean between two scantily clad girls? I’m getting old!

Eventually I found the perfect shot. Unfortunately people-shots equals extra cost, as the model needs to be paid too. And I had forgotten to put the price-filter on that guarantees I don’t fall in love with a picture I can’t afford.

Idiot.

When I clicked into my ‘perfect’ shot I nearly fell off my chair at the price. The smallest image is ten times what I pay for the images I use on the Two-Hundred Steps Home books. If I want to be able to set the book up for print-on-demand in future I need to fork out nearly £200 for the high-res file. In comparison I’ve made about a tenner so far from sales of the book!

Didicar Fun

I know anyone serious about writing needs to spend money, it’s just hard to justify when my husband and I are both unemployed. If I search long enough I may find another – cheaper – image that is equally striking. Or I may not. And if I change my cover I might make the money back in sales in a few weeks. I spent more money going to London for a job interview, so why balk at spending it on this?

Besides, the small image is slightly less than what it costs us to send two sprogs to nursery for a day. We tried to put them in nursery today, as we lose next Monday (bank holiday), but they were full.

So I may buy my perfect shot and consider it money well-earned by taking the kids to the Farm for four hours in the freezing wind. Time to take a gamble. Speculate to accumulate and all that! Okay, decision made. I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow… I’m so excited! I love doing book covers and I really love this image… Can’t wait to share it!

________________________________________________________________________________

“So, you’re becoming Mum for two weeks? How does that feel? Thought you hated ankle-biters.”

Claire willed a smile onto her face but suspected Josh could see the fear lurking beneath. “It’s fine. It’s only for a little while. And Sky’s six, that’s old and sensible isn’t it? For a child?”

She turned to Josh with eyes wide and pleading. He laughed, the sun catching highlights in his hair. He seemed to have discarded his Stig-of-the-dump disguise since Fiona’s arrival and Claire was conscious of a desire to feel how soft his clean hair felt under her hand.

“Depends on the child.”

Dragging her thoughts back to the conversation, Claire tried to remember what question Josh was answering. Oh yes, Sky.

“My niece is, um, a little bit highly strung.” She remembered the phone-calls interrupted by Sky’s screaming; the sweat-drenched awakening – the one night she had looked after Sky by herself – and couldn’t suppress a shiver.

Josh wrapped an arm around Claire’s shoulders and hugged her briefly. They both knew Fiona was watching from an upstairs window, as she sat feeding Lily. “You’ll be fine. Keep her entertained, keep her exhausted, and keep a ready supply of chocolate in your pocket.”

“Is that your advice as a parent or a doctor?”

His laugh jumped up like a spring lamb. “A parent, obviously. As a doctor I couldn’t possibly recommend chocolate-bribery. Talking of which -” He turned to face Lucas and Sophie, who were rolling around in the snow, making angel shapes and throwing icy handfuls at each other. “Okay, you two. We’ll be heading in shortly. Five minutes.”

He turned back to Claire. “It’s all about managing expectations. And when that doesn’t work, bribe them!”

They stood in silence. The air between them felt heavy, with the unseen shadow of his wife, and the louder presence of his two eldest children now stuffing snow down each other’s necks. She wanted to ask him how the reunion had gone, how he felt about the past, but the words seemed frozen by the icy wind swirling round the Hall.

“We fly back after Easter.” Josh spoke as if answering a question and Claire smiled at his intuition. “We couldn’t get flights before that and it seemed silly to leave straight away. It may not be the best time to visit the UK but as Fiona has never been we’re hoping to see a few things while we’re here. We went to York for a few days and we were heading for Cambridge when this happened.” He gestured at the snow still lying thick on the ground, despite the bright sunshine.

Claire felt her pulse quicken. “I’m heading down that way myself, today or tomorrow. That’s near where my sister lives.”

“Maybe you could show us round, as a local? Can you get us into a College? To Kings?”

Claire laughed, despite the goosebumps popping up along her arms. “Anyone can visit Kings, you buy tickets at the gate. But yes, I guess Sky might like to come and meet Lucas and Sophie. What about Fiona though?” She swallowed. “I get the impression she’ll only be happy where there is 15,000km between us.”

Josh ran his hands through his hair and looked over to where the children were rolling a ball of snow to make a snowman, both of them pushing at the ball that was already bigger than Sophie.

“Fiona’s fine,” he said eventually. “You can’t imagine how hard it was for her.” His voice pleaded with Claire to understand. “She had no idea. Until she rang Christie and they said they’d never heard of me. She didn’t know what to think.”

I’m sure she did. She thought you’d left her for someone else. And then I turned up at the airport confirming her suspicions. She must have realised how similar we look. Easy to think Josh had replaced her with me – a slightly younger model unencumbered by children. He wouldn’t have been the first or the last.

Claire glanced up behind her, expecting to see an accusatory face pressed against the upstairs window. The panes of glass stared blankly back at her.

“It’s just one more day.”

She felt Josh’s hand in the small of her back and willed her body not to react. Funny how forbidden fruit always appears juicier. Gritting her teeth, Claire turned and looked into his earnest amber-flecked eyes.

“Sure, why not. I’ll show you where to get the tastiest Greek burger you’ve ever had.”

***

Self-publishing a book: 25 things you need to know (reviews.cnet.com)

Thankful Tuesday: 2013 365 Challenge #86

Remembering Summer

Today I am thankful.

Grateful to my husband for getting the kids dressed this morning while I had a shower. Appreciative of the lovely ladies at No. 1 – a drop-in centre run by the Oundle Baptist Church – who entertained my children while I had a chance to catch up with my Mummy friends. I’m grateful to the library for letting my kids run riot and read books loudly, without once saying shush. I’m happy with myself for packing lunch boxes and with my children for eating their sandwiches. I’m immensely thankful for the amazing ladies at Rainbow for another 90 minutes of marvelous craft. And for their assistance in the creation of painted flower pots, woolly sheep, decorated bunny biscuits, easter bonnets and pretty eggs.

Finally, I am grateful to the lovely agent who rejected me today with this email:

You and your book sound absolutely marvellous and, though unfortunately we are unable to represent you ourselves, I think other agents will be interested and I do wish you the best of luck elsewhere.

I’m not sure I would have been happier if it had been an email telling me to send the full manuscript. In fact I can safely say I am happy that it wasn’t. The rejection (even if it’s all lies) has given me a spring in my step whereas a request for the full manuscript would have spun me into despair, as I’m well aware the remaining 200 pages are not as polished as the first fifty read by the agent.

Feel the warm sun

At the end of my carefully planned and perfectly executed day I feel more positive than I have in weeks. The kids have had fun, I’ve had a nice chat and hubbie came home in time for baths so I could walk the dog. During my walk I made a plan to sharpen Dragon Wraiths and hopefully elevate its position in the Slush pile. I feel rejuvenated.

After today I understand why parents sign up to things like baby yoga, swimming, tumble tots, musical minis and so on. I’ve always felt we cover most of those activities at home, or the kids do it at nursery, and therefore I don’t need to spend more money on expensive classes. But now I get it. It’s structure. My day today was structured. I didn’t ask the kids what they wanted to do (as I do normally), I TOLD them what we were going to do, with a caveat that we’d review the schedule at lunchtime if we were tired.

I used to think giving them choice was good parenting because they were learning to make decisions and it meant if they later didn’t enjoy it I wouldn’t take full responsibility. Now I see they like knowing what’s going on as much as I do. Maybe not all the time. But starting the day with a plan and a motivated Mummy occasionally might make all our lives easier.

Now what the hell am I going to do with them tomorrow?

______________________________________________________________________________________

“Mummy, Lucas pushed me.”

“Lucas, we don’t push. Say sorry please. Sophie, don’t provoke your brother. I saw you snatch his Transformer. Give it back and apologise.”

“No! Won’t! It’s my turn. Lucas isn’t sharing. You said we had to share our toys.”

The younger child stood with her arms wrapped around her chest, bottom lip stuck out like a shelf, while her brother glared and held his hand out for the stolen toy.

“Share, yes, but we don’t snatch. That’s not acceptable behaviour. Give the toy back to Lucas or you will get a timeout.”

Claire watched the domestic drama unfolding before her with something akin to horror. She shivered as the scene dragged out memories of her own siblings. Being the youngest she realised she must have sat, as Lily was doing now, on her Mother’s lap, watching as Ruth and Robert yelled and fought. I’m glad I don’t remember. With only two years between them, she and Ruth had mostly been allies. Robert — six years older than Claire — considered himself above childish games by the time she was old enough to join in.

Too busy being the school swot and doing his flute practice. Teacher’s Pet.

Claire considered Josh’s children, with their sun-bleached surfer hair and nut-brown skin, and thought they were far too like him to worry overly about homework. Except Josh is a doctor, so he must have tried hard at some point. And what does it mean anyway? I worked my butt off at school and now I’m facing the sack and reading kids’ books to kill the time.

The two children were still squabbling but quietly enough that Fiona chose not to intervene. Claire listened closely, hoping to glean some nuggets of parenting insight for her two weeks with Sky.

“They’re not normally this bad. They’re bored. We’re used to chucking them outside to run off their fidgets. I didn’t pack for this kind of weather though: We don’t really get snow.”

Claire jerked her head up and gazed at the other woman. It was the first time she had said anything voluntarily to her since they’d met up in the hostel, despite them all sitting down to dinner together. Josh had manfully kept up a stream of anecdotes and idle observations while Fiona stared at Claire through tired eyes.

Searching her brain for a sensible response, Claire cleared her throat and replied, “it’s not normal this late in the year. Last March we were in t-shirts and cracking out the barbeques. Then it started raining at Easter and didn’t stop until autumn.”

“We don’t get much rain either. No wonder you Poms talk about the weather all the time. You get so much of it.” The corners of her mouth raised in a tiny smile before her attention was dragged back to peace-making between her eldest children.

Claire became aware of the tremble in her hands. Fiona intimidated her. She was so poised, and beautiful, and always calmly in control of her gaggle of kids. The prospect of having one small person under her care for a couple of weeks had Claire waking in terror.

“Does it come naturally? Being great with kids?” Claire heard the words and was shocked to find she had spoken them. Fiona looked surprised too, but not offended.

“I wouldn’t say I’m great with them. It’s different with your own anyway. They’re not ‘kids’ they’re your kids. They have personalities, ones that are infuriatingly close to your own. So you understand them and love them for it. It means you clash too — they know how to press your buttons, that’s for sure. And no, I’m sorry to say, being a parent doesn’t come naturally. You have to work at it, like anything else.”

Fiona’s words surprised Claire. Ruth always makes out like being a Mother is the most natural thing. How she wanted kids more than anything and loved Sky from the minute she popped screaming into the world.

“How did you know you were ready for kids? You and Josh?”

“Ah, there’s never a right time to have kids. If you’re in a relationship you think will last, and you both want kids, then you just take the plunge. No one is really ready to be a parent. You learn on the job.”

“Did you give up your career? I think Josh mentioned you’re a doctor?”

“I haven’t given it up, no. On the other hand I have been on maternity leave three years out of the last six, so I’m not legging it up the career ladder. I have the rest of my life to do that, but they’re only little once.” She looked at Lucas and Sophie, who were running round the sofas screaming and giggling and occasionally wrestling each other to the ground. She smiled and caught Claire’s eye.

“Thank goodness.”

***

Be Thankful ~ (lucy4wellness.wordpress.com)
365 Grateful – Day 165 (minsmash.com)
365: 17.03.13 #76 Friends (ghostwritermummy.co.uk)
365 Grateful – Day 137 (minsmash.com)

Seven Years On: 2013 365 Challenge #85

I’m the one in red!

Seven years ago I received a phone call. I was at my soon to be father-in-law’s house and I remember sitting on the stairs listening to a man, a nurse presumably, stumble through telling a relative of an unexpected death. I don’t think he’d had to do it before.

Poor man.

His voice shook as he told me my father had been taken ill suddenly, and they had been trying to reach me for two days.

How ill? Very serious. I’m afraid he died.

Actually I can’t remember the words of the conversation, it’s muffled as if I listened from under water. But I remember the feeling of shock. The not knowing what to do. The questions. Then came the self-recrimination, the guilt. The analysing. The loss. The emptiness.

In the same year I was to finish my part-time MA, get married and move house — when I attended five or six weddings of close friends — that year started with a funeral. My own Hugh Grant movie.

Climbing the hills near Corfe Castle

What I do remember is that Spring came the week after the phonecall. I remember it feeling late that year and that one of the last things Dad said was how hard a winter it had been. He didn’t live to see the bluebells that were scattered through the cemetery. He never saw my wedding photos or met any of his grandchildren. (He wouldn’t have been at the wedding, but that’s a whole other story.)

My relationship with my father was polarised between love and hate, resentment and misunderstanding. In the last year before his death I came to know and appreciate him in a way I had never managed as a child. I learned how alike we are.

Since having children I have come to understand him even more as I channel his parenting spirit in my worst moments. I have come to forgive him for the awful incidents that marred my childhood. He was a stay-at-home Dad, fixing cars in his garage while my poor mum worked all hours. It was Dad that swore and rushed me to hospital when I cut my head open playing tag in the house. It was Dad who hollered at us when we were caught climbing on the school roof or digging in the long-jump sandpit. I found out later it was also Dad that shadowed us into town when we thought we were all grown up going by ourselves.

My parents divorced when I was nine or ten. Life became more complicated and calmer all in one stroke. I regret the time I didn’t spend with Dad – then as a child and later as an adult when I no longer felt sick at the thought of visiting him. I regret that hubbie and I intended to visit him the weekend he died and changed our plans by text message. I regret that he never saw Spring arrive, seven years ago.

Now, every year when I see the daffs and bluebells, I make sure to be thankful and love the little things in life the way he did. On the anniversary of his death I take time to appreciate life. Today I felt the sun on my face and took time to read my book. I walked slowly through my day and looked for peace. Thanks Dad.

______________________________________________________________________________________

The royal-blue carpet gave Claire a headache, but the wood-burner offered too much welcome warmth to be ignored. She shifted her position on the sofa, minimising the amount of iridescent flooring visible above the pages of her book. Outside the window, snowflakes swirled and danced like winter sprites.

Not fancying the drive to Cambridge on Thursday if this keeps up. She wondered if there was a train. Maybe she could hire a car and come back for the Skoda after Easter. Sky would probably rather be in a comfortable car, instead of my mucky-brown rust bucket. Closing her eyes, Claire tried to remember what car her parents had owned when she was six and whether she’d cared. She realised she couldn’t picture any memories from her early childhood. Maybe I’m still concussed. It wasn’t that long ago; twenty years. And a bit, her brain added. What car would my parents have driven? They didn’t have Chelsea Tractors back then.

Claire shrugged off the thought and returned to her book. She could feel the story building tension, through her shallow breaths and the pain as she chewed the inside of her cheeks. The novel wasn’t her normal chick lit fare and she was surprised at how involved she had become in Katniss and Peeta’s lives.

The sound of chattering children skipped through the door and Claire sighed. Generally youngsters added life and colour to the hostels but it was impossible to read with their penetrating babble — designed to permeate a parent’s brain at twenty paces. It didn’t sound like a school party; the voices were too shrill and too few. She peeked over the paperback and saw two children lurking in the doorway. They were younger than Sky but not babies or toddlers. Claire had no idea how you guessed what age a child was. Somewhere between 2 and 6 at any rate. She smiled at them and dropped her eyes back to the page.

The words jumped and danced as she felt the tiny eyes staring at her. Raising her head she smiled again and felt compelled to fill the silence.

“Hello? Are you staying here?”

Two small faces nodded and four little feet crept closer.

“What are your names?”

The eldest, Claire guessed a boy, held his sister’s hand and pushed out his chest. His high-pitched voice twanged with an accent Claire couldn’t quite identify. “I’m Lucas and this is my sister Sophie. We have another baby sister, Lily. She’s having her nap so Mummy told us to go and play.”

Claire raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment. They seem young to be wandering round this building by themselves. Then she thought about the snow outside. What if they go out? They’ll freeze to death. Both children were the colour of breakfast tea, as if they spent most of their lives outdoors. I don’t know where they got a tan like that; it certainly wasn’t in this country.

Bubbles of information popped in Claire’s mind like fizzing champagne. The tanned skin, the unusual accent, the faces. She inhaled deeply and the smell of wood smoke from the burner released a rush of images in her mind.

Just a coincidence, that’s all. They’ll have flown home already. Who would stay for a British Winter and miss an Australian summer? Claire reached down for her bottle of water and tried to ignore the children without seeming rude. They stood in the doorway, all eyes, as if she was the hired entertainment. She felt them looking but didn’t want to make eye contact.

A shuffling noise alerted her to imminent conversation and she was exuding her best I’m invisible vibe when she heard a shout from the corridor. Both children immediately turned and therefore didn’t see the colour rush to Claire’s face as if someone had stoked the fire to a blaze.

Footsteps echoed around the wood panelling and Claire prayed the kids would run out to greet their father. They didn’t. Instead they called him in to meet their new friend.

Claire sat, shielded by her paperback, and watched the door.

“There you are, you toe-rags. When Mummy said play she meant outside the room, not on the other side of the hostel badgering guests.” He leant down and scooped the children up, balancing them on either side of him like panniers.

Claire thought he would turn without noticing her and was still trying to fathom how she felt about that when Lucas piped up, “we weren’t badgering you lady, were we?” and shone a toothy smile in her direction.

Josh followed his son’s gaze and his eyes met hers. He paused for what felt like a hundred years. Then he smiled and Claire had to swallow the lump in her throat.

“Hello Claire.”

***

Parenting: Snow Fun. 2013 365 Challenge #84

Snow Monster

Another snowy day survived. Thank god it’s Monday tomorrow and the darlings will be at nursery (assuming it’s open. Please let it be open). I’ve had a great day with the kids today but three days at home, trapped by the snow, are taking their toll.

The snow that fell overnight was softer, and drifted. No good for snowmen but great for snow angels and snowball fights. The dog especially loves catching and eating snowballs out of the air, until she resembles a snow monster.

My mistake was starting one of the random books I bought in my last charity shop visit.

The Divide by Elizabeth Kay. It’s brilliant. About a back-to-front world where magic is real and humans are imaginary. I’ve come to realise that MG fiction is about my level right now, although there do seem to be a lot of things dying in this novel considering it’s for middle grade kids. It’s written with enough subtlety, adventure and fascinating characters that I don’t want to put it down (Maybe I should see if I can write MG fiction – I might find it easier to edit a 40k novel rather than a 100k one!).

Snow Angels

Anyway, good book = bad parenting. I want to read quietly and the children aren’t used to letting me do that. I decided that reading would be setting a better role model than standing at the computer all day consuming blogs and losing time on Twitter. It might be, but it doesn’t mean they leave me alone any less. They only go off and play nicely together when I want them to eat their dinner or leave the house in less than five minutes.

When my husband and I stumbled into bed at 10pm, exhausted and aching from pulling sledges and making snow angels, helping prepare home-made pizzas and playing fully dressed in the bath (it seemed like a good idea at the time), we both said to each other: “Another day survived.” No one died. (Littlest Martin tried quite hard to do the latter, having fallen off the bed, the sofa and the window sill. That was when he wasn’t having one long, endless, unexplained tantrum. They joys of being two.)

It reminded of a blog post I read recently on the Mumsnet blog network about parenting becoming a ‘thing’. In her post Neurotic Parenting (and Salmon) Lisa Parry writes about the difference between ‘being a parent’ and ‘parenting’:

[B]eing a parent means getting to the end of the day without needing to take Ben to A&E with anything too serious and giving him a couple of saucepans to hit with a wooden spoon. Parenting means doing stuff to stimulate him in a thoughtful fashion not because, you know, that’s just what you do with babies. It means following a theory – attachment parenting or Gina Ford – and entertaining the possibility that every single thing you do can have repercussions.

She goes on to discuss possible causes for the shift, quoting Nora Ephron’s ‘Parenting in Three Stages’ (which I think I might read)

Ephron thinks it could have been a consequence of the women’s movement – in a backlash against it, some women elevated parenting to a job and as parents can be quite competitive, the whole thing snowballed. One of my oldest friends who juggles her own business with her one-year-old thinks it could have been brought about by late motherhood: women leaving work as highly successful individuals and then managing their babies how they managed an office with timetables and targets. She may be right.

Endless Tantrums? Moi?

Whatever the causes it does seem to me that it’s no longer enough to keep our kids alive, healthy, happy and with an ability to read and write by the time they leave primary school. Parenting has become competitive and complicated and parents rarely pull together either in real life or online as often as they should. I have my own theory: I think we’re all so worried that we’re not shaping up to some ideal ‘supermummy’ image that we have to justify our own decisions and actions, forgetting that every child, parent, family and life situation is different. To validate our own choices we must therefore condemn the choices of others. At a time when you’re tired, vulnerable and isolated it’s difficult to see that there can be as many good versions of being a parent as there are babies in the world.

I don’t know what the answer is, I certainly don’t manage my house like an office. It took twenty minutes to get the kids in shoes and coats this morning. I do know that I’m relieved to have come out of the insulated hole, the tiny frame of reference you have when the babies are young, to realise that there are more important things in the world than whether my baby can do sign language or yoga. Not having to take him to A&E on a Sunday is a good start.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Claire looked at the looming snowdrift crowding the road ahead. The snow pushed through winter hedgerows like marshmallows caught in a giant’s teeth. Snow in Manchester was grey and wet, like dirty slush-puppy. She’d never understood how a few inches of snow could bring the whole damn country to a halt. Now, seeing how the wind had whipped the snow ahead of it like a pack of huskies, until it buried most of the country lane, Claire understood how people became trapped in their cars. And died.

“Come on Stella, keep going. It can’t be much further.”

She had been driving for an hour since leaving Youlgreave hostel, against the advice of the hostel manager who clearly thought she was nuts.

I think he might be right. This wasn’t my cleverest idea. I don’t even have a blanket in the car, never mind a flask of tea or a shovel. I’m guessing this doesn’t count as an ‘essential journey’ although the police who advise against non-essential travel are never specific.

Thoughts twisted through Claire’s mind like eddies of snow as she concentrated on the half-concealed road ahead. Her eyes itched and she needed a wee but she suspected if she stopped the car it would refuse to start again.

I do not want to walk anywhere in this weather. Especially not with my rucksack.

It felt as if the landscape was closing in around her but it was hard to tell with the world turned to white. The first stretch of road had been flat and exposed and she prayed that rising hills meant the hostel was somewhere up ahead. Trees draped over the road, their branches bare and stark against the white sky. Claire felt as if she was driving through a tunnel. I really hope there’s a light at the end of it. And a steaming mug of Earl Grey.

At last a house materialised out of the white and Claire felt the knot in her stomach ease slightly. The need to pee took over. Driving into the village the road was clearer; more slush than snow. Claire considered abandoning the car and walking the rest of the way to the hostel but she was sure the cold air would enhance the call of nature. I’m damned if I’m going to squat for a pee in a snowdrift.

Stella the Skoda slipped and span on the slushy road, the back end swinging out towards parked cars. Knuckles white and brow furrowed, Claire wished she was back in her bunk reading Hunger Games rather than living her own adventure. Not that negotiating parked cars in the snow is really the same as fighting for your life against your fellow man. Well, only a little bit.

Eventually the Hall came into view. Claire had no time to marvel at the stately building tucked in amid the snow-laden trees. She slid the car into what she hoped was a parking place and scrambled out. Not waiting to retrieve her bag she scuttled into reception and searched for a sign. When she couldn’t see one she felt a flutter under her ribs. Come on, come on.

A head popped up from behind the desk and a smile greeted her pained expression.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, toilets please?”

With a bemused smile the woman pointed to a door round the corner and Claire fled.

***

Realizing You ARE a Good Mom – Parenting (everydayfamily.com)
How to beat the baby books (standard.co.uk)
The most challenging, amazing, fun, rewarding job that sucks. Parenthood. (reallifeparentingblog.com)

Snow. Again. 2013 365 Challenge #83

Snowman and friend

I’m beginning to wonder when winter is going to sod off. We’re two days into spring and in the middle of an arctic blizzard. I really hoped the kids wouldn’t want to go out in it this morning – hubbie isn’t well and I knew it would fall to me to don the snow trousers. Even my initial inability to find the kids’ snow-gear (I’d put it away for the spring, that was hopeful) didn’t dampen their enthusiasm.

Actually once I got out and settled into it I enjoyed our hour in the snow. I built my first proper snowman, by rolling the snow across the garden. Well, I’m sure I must have made one like that when I was a child but I don’t remember doing it as an adult.

Unfortunately our snowmen picked up dirt from the bare patches in the lawn so they look like they’ve been jumping in muddy puddles. We couldn’t get the carrots or eyes to stay in either, as the snow was melting as quickly as it fell. Bloomin British weather. Still, I think they look quite cute.

We coaxed the kids out to my parents’ after lunch in a need to escape the house. We were only going for an hour but Aaron fell asleep and Kung Fu Panda was on the TV. All it took was the offer of Fish & Chips for tea and we ended up staying until the kids’ bedtime. Now that’s what Saturdays are about. I just have to think of something interesting to happen to Claire (maybe it will snow again!) and I can go to bed. It’s been a long day.

This is how Saturdays should be spent

First proper snowman

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“Checking out please.”

The man behind the desk looked up from his paper and smiled. “I wouldn’t love. Have yer looked outside this morning?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Heavy snow overnight. Roads are going to be murder. Best stay put for a night or two, wait fer it to clear. Happen it’ll be gone by Friday.”

“Friday? I have to be in Cambridgeshire by Thursday afternoon.” Claire felt fear twist in her gut. Ruth will kill me if I’m not there to pick Sky up after school finishes.

The man laughed, not unkindly but with genuine humour. “You’ll be lucky lass, unless that’s a flying car you’re holding the keys to.”

Claire thought about the Skoda parked out on the street. “Not flying, no, but it is Eastern European. It’s pretty handy at starting in bad weather.”

“Skoda is it? The little brown one? Starting’s not your problem. You’ll dance your rear-end into a hedge driving that, even with bricks under the bonnet. You got ballast?”

Not wanting to admit she had no idea what he was talking about, Claire pulled out her iPad and did a quick online search.

“Would I make it to Hartington Hall do you think?”

The man frowned, as if questioning why she wanted to leave.

“Oh, no,” Claire interjected swiftly. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve loved staying here. It’s just I only have a year to stay in all the YHA hostels and so far I’ve only managed twenty. I’m about to spend two weeks in just four or five hostels and it will put me way behind. I might get fired.” The words spilled out unstoppable and Claire felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

“Weeeell,” the man drew out the sound as he considered the barrage of words. “It’s nobbut eight miles from here but I couldn’t say if she’ll be passable. Gritter’s not been through, not that she’d have been much use. And they ’aint going to plough the back roads.” He stopped, seeming to register Claire’s disappointment. “Though the five-one-five will be clear. Shall I ring t’Hall, see what they think?”

Claire nodded and tried not to care about the look on the man’s face that suggested he feared for her sanity. Never mind that, I fear for my sanity. But I can’t be holed up in this tiny hostel for days. If I must be stuck I may as well tick another off the list. And Hartington Hall sounds like it might be less cabin-fever-inducing.

The man hung up the phone and faced Claire, his brows contracted. “Well, they’ve room and their roads ’aint too bad, but I still reckon you’re crazy to drive that tiny tub of yours in this muck.”

Claire remembered the last time she’d battled through the snow, on her way to Byrness, and wondered if she should just go back to bed. Her book called from deep in the rucksack and she could almost taste hot Earl Grey. As if sensing her wavering the man behind the desk shone a kindly smile. “Shall I just check you in for another night? We have room.”

Something about his face set Claire’s hackles rising. “No. I will not be defeated by the weather. Book me in to Hartington Hall. I’ll get there if I have to walk.”

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