The Well Runs Dry: 2013 365 Challenge #123

My mind is dry and dusty, like a disused Gold Mine (NZ)

Post 123. If only it was as easy as 123. I realised today that my word-well has run dry. I am teetering near the 100,000 word mark for the Two-Hundred Steps Home manuscript, and yet poor old Claire is only at hostel #26 out of 200 (well, I think it will be less than that overall, as some of the hostels are for private hire, but you get the point). I am a third of the way through the year and I still have around 150 hostels to go.

Actually, looking at it like that, there should be plenty to write about. Except this isn’t a travel journal. It’s meant to be a novel, with character growth and conflict and all that good stuff.

I’m learning, however, that it’s hard to write conflict in little chunks, particularly when attempting to make each ‘little chunk’ stand alone as a piece of writing. I’m not saying you could read a daily installment and get much enjoyment from it, without knowing the story. But you could miss a few installments and catch up. I guess it’s a bit like a soap opera, with lots of repetition to keep everyone on track.

I hate soap operas. I dislike a TV programme insisting I watch every day, or a few days a week. I find following the minutiae of people’s lives depressing. I didn’t use to. I watched Sunset Beach every day as a student, AND watched the five-hour omnibus at the weekend. But I was a student – life wasn’t really happening to me all that much, stuck day after day in the lower depths of a dusty library. Now, life happens. I don’t need to read about it or watch it on TV. I certainly find it difficult to write about it, twice, every day.

Just Keep Swimming

The diary/chatty/whatever-it-is segment of my daily posts is hard to make entertaining unless something great has happened or I chance to read a good book or interesting blog post. I’m spending so much time writing the blog I’m running out of things to write about! And poor old Claire is not getting the best of my writing skills at all. Editing every day has made my writing stilted and self-conscious.

Anyway, I don’t want to quit. I’m not a quitter, not easily. I’m just trying to figure out a different way.

This exercise was always meant to be a challenge, but also one that brought visitors to my blog and helped improve my craft. I can’t say that either aim has been a complete success! Maybe I’m not the writer I thought I was, or maybe I’m just better at locking myself in a cupboard and churning out first drafts in thirty days. Ah well, until another idea comes up I’ll do what I always do and just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

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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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“Over here, Jeff! Your ball’s in the grass.” Sky giggled and span round, making her skirt flare in the wind. As Jeff walked over to retrieve his missing golf ball she smiled shyly up at him, then ran forwards and hugged his leg.

“Blimey. Is she normally that forward with strange men?” Kim’s voice sounded disapproving and Claire raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not really forward when you’re six. She’s not flirting.”

“She so is!”

Claire laughed. “Are you jealous of a six-year-old, Kim? You know Jeff only has eyes for you.”

“Exactly,” she pouted. “He’s never flirted with anyone else before.”

“Kim, she’s six.” Claire stood with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side. Then both girls collapsed into giggles and linked arms happily.

“It’s great to see that Sky’s relaxed with Jeff. I wasn’t sure how she would be with strangers.” Claire remembered their meeting with Sky’s dad the day before. “And her life is pretty messy right now.”

Certainly Sky and Jeff had been giggling together like old friends since they’d started their game of crazy golf. It meant that she was able to relax for the first time since taking charge of her niece, and hang back with Kim. Hopefully she’ll spill the beans, with the other two out of the way.

They followed on behind as Sky tried to scoop her ball into a hole. It’s not really crazy golf, Claire thought. Where are the windmills and silly tunnels to put the ball through? She looked around at the pirates hanging from the rigging and the barrels of rum. Not that Sky seems to care. She is flirting with Jeff, little madam. Maybe that’s what you do when you’re six. I can’t say I remember. If I’d opened my eyes all wide and winsome like that at my Dad’s colleagues I’d have been sent to my room.

The sun shone down on the bright green fairway. If you call it that in crazy golf. Claire had no idea; it was her first foray into the world of the sport, crazy or otherwise. It had been Jeff’s suggestion and Sky had readily agreed, before asking the classic kid’s question, “What is Crazy Golf, Auntie Claire?”

Claire felt the weight of Kim’s arm through hers, and the wide gulf of space that seemed to separate them, despite the closeness. Maybe I am going to have to pry. After Jeff’s untimely entrance last night I don’t think she’s going to open up again. She searched her mind for a way to open the conversation without jumping to conclusions.

“How are rehearsals coming on? Do you have Puck memorised now?”

Kim nodded. “Yes, I think so. It’s been fun, and it beats some of the other roles I’ve done. At least I haven’t had to murder my way through a terrible Hull accent.

Claire thought about Kim’s last role, playing a Northern woman who worked at a fish factory and sang Tony Christie songs, and her eyes sparkled. “I thought your accent was quite good.”

“You have to say that because you’re my best friend. That woman from the paper said I was worse than Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. That is an insult!”

“Ah well, maybe you won’t have to do accents again.”

Kim lowered her head and sighed. “Maybe I won’t get a chance to do acting again.”

“What do you mean?” Claire tried to sound casual, but her heart thumped loudly in her ears.

There was silence, filled with the sound of laughter as Jeff’s ball skipped over the hole and disappeared from view. Claire tried to keep her breathing even and resist the urge to fill the void with words. Eventually the stillness was broken by a tiny sob and Claire turned to see tears streaming down her friend’s face.

“Oh honey, what is it?”

“Jeff and I… we’re going to get married.”

Claire reeled at the unexpected response. Struggling to keep up, she pulled Kim over to sit on some rocks and offered her a tissue.

“Is that a reason to cry? Why now? I thought you were going to wait until you could afford a lavish do?”

Kim nodded and gulped down more tears, scrubbing at the ones already staining her cheeks. “We were. But now…” She looked up and away, avoiding Claire’s penetrating stare. “Now everything has changed.” Kim glanced back at her friend, then sunk her head into her hands.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words were muffled by her hands, but Claire was expecting them. Even so, having it said out loud made it too real. The words that sprang into her throat were the obvious ones – How? What happened? How could you be so careless? The kind of things her mother would say, and not at all helpful. She drew in a deep breath and tried to imagine what she would want to hear, if the situation was reversed. It was hard to think, knowing the situation would never have arisen for her, and seeing in her mind also how overjoyed Michael would have been if it had.

“What does Jeff think?”

Kim looked up, eyes awash, and smiled. “He’s thrilled. Look at him,” she jerked her chin over to where Jeff was teaching Sky how to putt. “He loves kids. And it’s not going to wreck his career or his body.”

“Ah.” As if the girls had suddenly become telepathic, Claire could hear the hours of wrangling debate that had already taken place – either in Kim’s head or with Jeff. Knowing she didn’t really believe it, Claire said what had to be said. “It won’t ruin either thing: plenty of women have babies every day. Actresses, models, long-distance runners. They go back to what they love doing afterwards. Or…”

She hesitated, not wanting to suggest what might be unthinkable. The telepathic bond held strong and Kim shook her head, red hair whipping round with the movement.

“I’m not getting rid of it. No way. It would destroy Jeff, and my mother would never speak to me again.”

Silence fell, punctuated only with happy chatter and bird song. Claire reached for Kim’s hand and squeezed it tight. There were a hundred things she wanted to say, to ask. She sensed that Kim’s head was full of the same questions and that they haunted her. Remembering what it was like to live with an argument in your head for any length of time, Claire forced herself to be silent and let that be enough.

***

If You Can’t Say Something Nice… 2013 365 Challenge #121

If you can’t say something nice…

I’m constantly amazed by both the supportiveness and meanness of the online parenting community. Today was a day when I posted on Twitter the kind of comment that really meant Tell me I’m okay, tell me it gets better.

Because yesterday was month-end, and I needed to format and upload the free ebook, I didn’t get to bed until midnight. Actually I haven’t for a while as there is no time to write during the day and the kids have been going to bed a bit later since the shift to summer time (generally it means they get up later so we take the trade.) Unfortunately Amber came in at 6am this morning so it felt too short a night to survive twelve hours of parenting.

A busy morning at play and stay, a screaming child who wouldn’t sit in the hairdresser chair and a boy who shrieked every time he lost sight of his Mummy meant I was in constant tears of exhaustion by mid-afternoon. Not an unusual occurrence these, days to be fair. So I turned to Twitter for support. And found it.

My comment on Twitter generated lovely responses including a link to a great blog post: To Parents of Small Children:

If you are a parent of small children, you know that there are moments of spectacular delight, and you can’t believe you get to be around these little people. But let me be the one who says the following things out loud:

You are not a terrible parent if you can’t figure out a way for your children to eat as healthy as your friend’s children do. She’s obviously using a bizarre and probably illegal form of hypnotism.

You are not a terrible parent if you yell at your kids sometimes. You have little dictators living in your house. If someone else talked to you like that, they’d be put in prison.

You are not a terrible parent if you can’t figure out how to calmly give them appropriate consequences in real time for every single act of terrorism that they so creatively devise.

You are not a terrible parent if you’d rather be at work.

You are not a terrible parent if you just can’t wait for them to go to bed.

You are not a terrible parent if the sound of their voices sometimes makes you want to drink and never stop.

I felt so much better after reading it – problem shared, problem halved and all that. Until I read the latest comment on the blog from a parent of teenagers who said they hated the post for its “sheer blind arrogant silliness”.

[Y]ou might also hate it when people tell you to you enjoy every minute, (everyone says it to everyone, WE ALL had it so don’t be so uptight and melodramatic ‘it doesn’t help’ poor you)

In the spirit of fairness they did say the post was sweet and they liked its honesty, but the comment left me feeling sick to the stomach.

Anyone is entirely entitled to their opinion and I’m sure I’m just as capable of being sanctimonious and smug. In fact I know sometimes I see parents of one baby who are tired and part of me wants to say, Wait until you have two. Or Wait until they’re walking or something equally discouraging. The point is I don’t say it. Well, hardly ever, and then only as a joke to people I know. (At least I think so. Apologies if I’ve ever made another parent feel bad.) Generally, if I’m honest about the trials of being a parent it is to encourage other parents not to suffer in silence, rather than to make them feel bad.

Because even if it’s true, even if it is harder with two, what’s the point in saying it? Why do humans feel the need to share their misery in such a way? I remember when I only had one child and was struggling and a friend of hubbie’s said It never gets easier. My daughter was six months old. I couldn’t give her back. And instead of bolstering myself on bad days with the thought that one day I might just feel like it was going to get better I had this doom-laden future stretching endlessly before me.

It was already hard surviving teething and breast feeding and sleepless nights. Suddenly I had to face twenty years of pain. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, someone said It doesn’t get any easier when they leave home. Oh come on, guys, enough already.

…don’t say nothing at all

Some days, the only reason I don’t drive my car into a river is the thought that I’d leave my kids without a mother, and any mother is better than none. Facing the idea that I’ll feel like that until I do finally crack and drive that route isn’t helpful. When you’re low, and you’re turning to friendly blog posts for support and empathy, you don’t need someone belittling your experience by saying “Why do all new parents think they invented the feelings that go with it.”

So, however tempting it is to give the honest answer when someone asks if it will get better – however noble or genuine the motivation – try to resist. This advice applies to me, too. Because now I think about it, I know I’ve done it. I’ve been that person wanting to warn about the horror (although hopefully never in as arrogant or spiteful a way as the commenter I’ve quoted). From now on I’m going to try and find something positive to say, without actually lying.

As Thumper’s father teaches Thumper in Bambi, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.”

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“Kim, Jeff, over here!” Claire put down her book and strode to the door to embrace her friend. As she grinned up at Kim’s boyfriend, she marvelled – as she always did – at just how attractive he really was. “It’s great that you were able to get a room here for the weekend. Have you eaten? How was the journey?”

“Hey, Claire.” Kim pulled back and stared with concern at her face. “You look tired, I thought you were on holiday?”

With a glance back to where Sky was watching mutely from the sofa, Claire shrugged. “It’s not a holiday, you know that. Carl would have my hide if he knew Sky was travelling with me for two whole weeks.” Besides, you don’t look so great yourself. Claire wondered whether to comment on her friend’s pasty complexion, stark against the pillar-box red hair. An odd tension between her and Jeff stilled Claire’s tongue. I wonder if they had a fight?

Kim walked over and sat next to Sky, perched on the sofa. She smiled the uncomfortable grimace of a person who has little contact with small children. “Hello, you must be Sky.”

Claire shuddered at the patronising tone in her friend’s voice. She’s six, not six-months old. Did I used to talk that that? God, do I still talk to her like that?

Sky stared wide-eyed up at Kim, but didn’t speak. Claire could sense the questions building in the tiny chest. Auntie Claire, why is your friend’s hair red. Auntie Claire why is your friend talking to me like I’m a baby. Wanting to forestall the inevitable, she went over and snuggled next to her niece on the sofa.

“Sky, honey, I’d like you to meet Kim and Jeff. I’ve known Kim since I was younger than you. When we first met she had long blonde hair, like yours. I thought she was a princess.”

As she spoke the words, two decades slipped away in an instant. She turned to share the moment with Kim, and was surprised by the expression on her friend’s face. Her attention was fixed on Sky as if an alien had wandered into the room.

She looks scared. Or, no, speculative? Don’t tell me she and Jeff are planning to have kids. Claire felt a shiver raise the hairs on her arm. The idea of Kim having a baby felt like a betrayal. Through all the years they had known each other – or at least since they finished their A Levels and went to University – they had shared an antipathy to becoming parents.

Kim might not earn the same as me, but her career is equally if not more important to her. She and Jeff aren’t even getting married until they can afford it. No, it can’t be that. She raised her eyes to observe Jeff and was relieved to see nothing odd in his expression. He leant over the sofa and looked at the game Sky had been playing on the iPad.

“Ah, Angry Birds. My nephews love that. What level are you on?” He squeezed on the seat between Sky and Kim and opened himself to the eager words pouring forth in response to his question.

Soon Sky and Jeff were deep in conversation, discussing tactics and cheats for a game Claire barely understood. She felt Kim’s eyes on her and, when she looked up, saw the slight jerk of the head that said Let’s leave them to it.

“Shall we go and make tea, Kim? I’m sure you must be parched.” She half-expected Kim to suggest something stronger. Instead she stood up and nodded. “Yes, I’m dying for a cuppa and a gossip.” Linking arms with Claire, she led her from the room as if she couldn’t get away from Jeff and Sky fast enough.

***

Admitting how hard parenting is, and recentering on the positives (frompracticetoparenting.wordpress.com)
As a mom, trust your instincts | parenting advice | instinctive parenting | Babble (babble.com)

Lessons from The Wee Free Men: 2013 365 Challenge #119

Lessons to be Learned

I finished rereading The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett today and it was wonderful to realise it lost nothing on a second (possibly third) reading. In fact, since I’ve had a daughter of my own, I think the book has changed and grown in significance. It’s up there in the books I’d like my daughter to read as she comes into an awareness of herself.

If you don’t know Terry Pratchatt’s Discworld novels, they are based in a world that’s like a warped mirror of our own, with magic in place of science and technology. Witches hold a special place in the world: they are both central and outside life, revered and feared in equal measure. As their greatest witch – Granny Weatherwax – puts it, they guard the Edges between Dark and Light, Good and Evil, Life and Death. They have First Sight and Second Thoughts. They see what’s really there. Above all, they’re cool. I love them.

Granny Weatherwax is possibly one of the greatest characters ever invented. She gets inside your head and makes you question everything. (If you want to see Granny at her finest, read Carpe Jugulum.)

The Wee Free Men isn’t about Granny, it’s about Tiffany: a nine-year-old girl who lives on a farm on the Chalk, makes cheese and minds are younger brother. She also has First Sight and Second – even Third – Thoughts. And she has to rescue her brother from the Fairy Queen, even though she doesn’t like him very much. I won’t go into the story, just recommend you read it in words much better than mine.

My reason for writing about it here is to explain why I think it’s a must-read for any little girl (or boy possibly) coming to a sense of herself: It explores the voices that exist inside a person’s head, and the difficulty of understanding which of the many voices is Me.

Tiffany is the kind of girl who sits just outside life, watching. The Discworld Witches always are. And Terry Pratchett says That’s okay. In our society, the people in the kitchen at parties – the ones not drinking or joining in, the ones just observing – are a little bit wrong. They are considered aloof, boring, shy, weird, cold. I know because I am that person And all those labels have been applied to me. I’ve been ridiculed for not wanting to get drunk, for not letting go.

There has always been a little voice in my head that watches me and comments on my behaviour. It’s hard to get drunk and be silly when there’s a sober person in your head telling you what a pratt you’re making of yourself. As a result I don’t often drink and I’m rarely the one telling jokes. At my last place of work, and in many other situations in my life, that has meant almost complete exclusion. It’s not a nice place to be, feeling like a freak or someone who didn’t get the memo on how to have fun.

Growing up I read endlessly to live in my own world. I read Sweet Valley High and Lord of the Rings, Famous Five and Mills and Boon. Romance and action/adventure. For some reason ‘thinking’ books – what might be called literary books – didn’t come my way. I don’t know why, although I often feel the need to apologise for it, as if a ten-year-old can control the books they’re exposed to. So I read nothing that told me that having a cacophony of voices in my head was okay, was normal, whatever that is.

What The Wee Free Men explores is the notion that it’s okay to be different. That people who sit outside the group and watch – who listen to the voices in their heads – are the kind of people who speak up for things without a voice, who save the day, even if no one acknowledges it. They are strong people who won’t be beaten. I suspect my daughter may grow up to be a girl who watches, one who doesn’t follow the pack. I want her to know that’s okay. I think she’ll learn that from this book.

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The car felt warm and comforting after the chill of Lavender Farm and the unexpected encounter. Claire looked across at Sky eating her ice cream; her face still showed red mottling from crying, but her eyes were calm. Kids are amazing. I’d still be crying now, if that wanker was my father. She could see her niece’s eyes were heavy and thought a sleep in the car would do her good.

Claire programmed in the SatNav and reached forwards to attach it to the windscreen. Movement in the rear-view mirror caught her eye: It was Chris. She tried to ignore his gestures, but his demeanour dragged her attention. He looked as if he was signalling for her to come out the car by herself. Intrigued – and not unwilling to go and give him a piece of her mind away from listening ears – Claire sat back in the seat and dramatically slapped her forehead.

“Sorry, Sky. I just remembered I left my mobile phone in the shop. Will you be alright here in the car for a moment, if I just run in and get it?”

Sky looked across with fear in her eyes and Claire’s stomach lurched. I really shouldn’t leave her alone, after the shock she’s had. I can hardly take her with me and use all the words I want to use though.

“How about if I lock the doors? I’ll be back before you finish your ice cream.”

After a moment, Sky nodded tentatively and pushed down the button on the door next to her. Sky reached over and locked the others, making sure she had the keys in her hand before she left the car.

It felt good to stalk over to the man who had broken her sister and niece’s hearts. Words of heat and wrath built like fire in her throat. She felt tempted to start shouting before she reached him, but he stood with his arms at his side and his head low. I want to look in his eyes and see that he’s hearing me. Besides, if I start screaming like a fishwife across the car park, Sky might hear.

She stopped three feet away from him, arms folded. Let him start. I want to hear what the bastard has to say to excuse his behaviour. Silence stretched and Claire ached to fill it with hot words. Somehow she knew the quiet was hurting Chris more, so she maintained eye contact and waited for him to speak.

“I had no choice.” His words fell between them, as if he’d pushed them out with effort.

“Bollocks. Everyone has a choice.”

“I…” He stopped and ran his hand through his hair. Claire noticed it was thinner than it used to be. “I wanted it to work. With Ruth. And Sky. And I loved them both, really. But Ruth –”

Suddenly Claire didn’t want to hear it. She’d only ever heard Ruth’s side of the story; honesty compelled her to confess that might have been skewed. Her body language must have given her away because Chris reached out a hand, before letting it drop once more to his side.

“Don’t go. Hear me out, please. Maybe you can help Sky, a little. I saw the pain I caused her.”

“Then why did you reject her? Not stay in touch? Run off with her fucking ballet teacher.” It felt good to shout at this weak man standing before her. To swear with precision and relish and watch him flinch as the truth struck him like pellets of ice.

“Because I wanted to be a Dad more than anything!” The words came out in a rush. “And Ruth wouldn’t let me. Sky was her precious daughter. From the minute she was born it was her and Sky. There was no room for me. She wouldn’t let me do anything – feed her, bathe her – I was barely allowed to touch her. Then, when she started school, Ruth became paranoid something was going to happen to her. I don’t know what she thought would happen. She went almost crazy with it.”

He stopped. Whether because he had run out of words, or because he realised telling Claire her sister was crazy was not perhaps the best move, wasn’t clear.

“Then I met Bryony. She understood. She taught Sky, knew how clingy Ruth was. I asked her for advice, initially. Then we got talking and, well. You know the rest. We have a little girl of our own now, and she’s mine.”

“Sky’s still your daughter.” Claire didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for this man. She didn’t want him to have a reason that made sense. She just wanted him to hurt and be sorry.

“Ruth didn’t want me to stay in touch. She said it would be better just the two of them. I send Sky birthday cards and Christmas cards but I don’t know if they get to her.” He inhaled deeply and wiped his hand across his face as if rubbing away the pain. “She’s looking well. I’m glad to see you taking her out in the world. Ruth keeps her too close. Sky doesn’t need me.”

Claire tried to think before speaking, to decide what to do, to interpret how she felt. Despite her best efforts, she could relate to what Chris had said. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to see Ruth in that role. Their own parents had been so distant and uncaring, it seemed highly plausible that Ruth wouldn’t want to let Sky out of her sight. She turned and looked back at the car, but couldn’t see inside.

“I have to go, Sky will wonder where I am. Try again, Chris. Try harder. Ruth…” She inhaled, then made a decision. “Ruth’s sick. Real sick. Sky might have need of you. Don’t make her an orphan if it comes to that.”

She watched as all the blood drained from Chris’s face, much as it had from Sky’s earlier, and felt a certain satisfaction. Digging into her purse, Claire retrieved a business card and held it out to Sky’s father. He looked into her eyes as if trying to understand her actions, then took the card and held it without looking at it.

“If you need to reach me, or want to speak to Sky – at least for the next week – you have my number. We’re staying in Hunstanton for the weekend.”

Before he could say anything, find an excuse or backtrack, Claire turned and strode back to the car, her heartbeat hammering loudly in her ears.

***

My Review Of Terry Pratchett’s “Wee Free Men”… (akrummenacker.wordpress.com)
Terry Pratchett – Wee Free Men (sffbookreview.wordpress.com)
And Then I Read: THE WEE FREE MEN by Terry Pratchett (kleinletters.com)
The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett (bookslifewine.wordpress.com)
Terry Pratchett’s Discworld Might Be The Highest Form of Literature on the Planet (tor.com)
Magrat: note spelling (vulpeslibris.wordpress.com)

“Ducks are NOT birds” 2013 365 Challenge #117

Feeding the Birds (not Ducks)

Today was one of those days when I feel I should be thinner.

I’ve never managed to shift the twenty pounds left over from having two kids in quick succession. To be fair I haven’t tried that hard. Life is stressful enough most days without forgoing cake.

Plus I have zero willpower.

The intention was to run off the calories on the new expensive treadmill we bought the month before hubbie was made redundant last October. Unfortunately, my persistent knee problem means I’ve been on it twice and now it gathers dust and torments me.

But mostly I’m okay with the Belly Flood as my husband calls my spare tyre when it spills over the top of my jeans (it’s an in-joke taken from our favourite kids show Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom where they periodically have magic jelly floods and all yell Jelly Flood loudly.)

“Arrgghh! Jelly Flood! Nanny!”

However on days like today I feel I should be thinner. It seems the whole day has been a battle: Physically – taking two kids on foot across town to a shoe shop in driving rain – and mentally – being questioned, contradicted and refused on pretty much everything I said.

The highlight was trying not to get into a scrap with a belligerent 2-year-old who insisted vehemently that “ducks are NOT birds”.

That’s a no-win argument right there.

It went on for so much of the day (every time I inadvertently said Feed the Birds instead of Feed the Ducks) that I began to question whether ducks are in fact birds. You know, like gibbons aren’t monkeys and spiders aren’t insects and a Brontosaurus doesn’t exist at all. If someone yabbers at you for long enough, and you’re tired enough, and they cry enough, you’ll believe anything. By bedtime I felt like a victim of a new kind of psychological torture. I’d have agreed that ducks are mammals quite happily to make it stop.

I feel as exhausted as I used to after climbing Snowdon, so surely I must have burned an extra thousand calories today? That would be fair, right? If only…

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“Sky, it’s time to go and get lunch sweetheart. Besides, I don’t have sun-cream and you’re so fair. I don’t want you getting burnt, it’ll make your mummy cross.”

Sky looked up from the sandcastle moat and frowned. The castle was impressive, with at least a dozen towers, all surrounded by a deep furrow which Sky had tried to fill with water. The sea was too far away to begin with but now it seemed to be coming in fast.

Claire watched the waves lapping near to where they sat. “Besides, the tide is coming in.”

The bottom lip began to stick out and Claire braced herself for the tantrum that was about to erupt. She held up a placating hand and was about to launch into a flood of words to push back the torrent of tears when a siren ripped through the silence of the beach. Claire fell back onto the sand and Sky clapped her hands to her ears.

“What the bloody hell is that?” Claire looked around but couldn’t see anything to explain the noise. She swore some more, thankful that Sky’s ears were covered.

“Tis the tide alarm,” a voice called out from behind them. Claire turned to see a woman with several children in tow heading up towards the pine trees.

“I’m sorry?”

“Did ye nah see the signs in the car park? The tide comes in reet quick an if ya nah careful ya can get cut oof.”

Claire tried to decipher what the lady was saying. Her accent was heavy and northern; Claire couldn’t decide if it was Geordie or Scottish, although she knew better than to admit that to the woman. She gathered the alarm was to warn them of the incoming tide.

“Oh, okay, thank you.” She nodded at the woman and turned back to Sky, who had taken her hands away from her ears. “Time to go.”

When the bottom lip threatened to wobble, Claire shrugged and gestured at the other families leaving the beach. “It’s not up to me. I don’t want to have to swim back to the car.”

Sky laughed and looked as if she thought that would be fun. Searching her mind for ways to coax her niece back to the car, Claire remembered a place near the next hostel that she’d seen on the internet. “Would you like to go and see some animals?”

“What kind of animals?” Sky wasn’t budging but couldn’t hide the interest on her face.

“Um, wallabies? Alpacas?” She couldn’t remember what else. “Er, goats?”

Sky’s face lit up. “I like goats. We feed the goats at the Farm. Okay.” Standing up, she collected her bucket and spade, brushed the sand off her skirt, and headed up the beach. Claire watched her departure for a few moments, taken aback by the sudden change of speed. Sky turned as she reached the line of trees. “Aren’t you coming Auntie Claire? Race you back to the car!” And with that she disappeared.

“Aw, look at the wallabies, they’re so cute. Have you ever been to Australia, Auntie Claire? I want to go but Mummy says it’s too far.”

Claire’s brain ached with answering endless questions. I hoped coming here and feeding the animals might distract her for a bit. Wrong. With a sigh she tried to focus on the question. It raised unwanted memories of Josh and Fiona, who were possibly on a plane back to Australia at that very moment. “No I haven’t, although I’d like to go, some day.”

“Where have you been? Mummy says you’re always jetting off on holiday.”

Thank you, Ruth, for that gem. Claire thought about it and realised she hadn’t been anywhere Sky would have heard of or care about. I don’t think beach holidays in luxury resorts are what she means. She’d never had the travel bug before. Holidays were for relaxation and tanning opportunities. She decided it was time to change the subject.

“Look at that sheep’s horns, Sky, they’re all twisty.” She held her breath for a moment, convinced that such a ploy would never get past Sky’s knife-sharp mind. Her niece turned to observe the screw-horned sheep, then span to face Claire.

“Wow! He looks like he has helter-skelter’s coming out of his head!”

Claire exhaled.

***

The Wonder of Silence: 2013 365 Challenge #115

Puddles more fun than Paddling Pools

I used to be afraid of silence. All through my years at university I had to have music on to drown out the voices in my head. The ones telling me what an awful person I was. The ones reminding me of every stupid thing I had done or that I was fat, single, unloveable. Doomed to fail. They say the voice in your head comes from how your parents spoke to you as a child.

God help my kids.

Although, having said that, I am teaching them self awareness if nothing else so hopefully they’ll learn to challenge the inner voice. Eventually i learned to be at peace with the voices. I had an amazing flatmate at university who listened and soothed and told me I wasn’t bad or crazy, just normal. Eventually I believed her although faith in that view took a dip when my boyfriend snogged someone else in front of me, New Years Eve, final year.

I broke.

Dancing in Puddles

Thus began my first major bout of depression, although I’d had dark periods before. It wasn’t so much being single (looking back it was a lucky break as he was awful): It was losing my link to the future after graduation. That dark future that academic schooling doesn’t really prepare you for. Music became my crutch. Loud, positive music, like Bon Jovi or dark heavy music, Metallica being my favourite. (a bit of And Justice For All at full volume kept me awake through week long study sessions with virtually no sleep.)

I can’t tell you when silence became acceptable. I think when I became free of other people: when I lived alone and learned I was worth something even with no friends, or A grades and awards to define me. I earned good money and was valued at work. I remained single for a long time. Eventually work broke me and I had my worse bout of depression.

The world ended for a while.

Silence once more became my enemy. I was worthless, useless, trapped. That time SSRIs came to my aid. I quit my job, flat, town, friends, Guide Unit and flew half way round the world. I drove a rusty car in the huge silences of New Zealand, climbed mountains and found a semblance of inner peace.

Fishing for Fir-cones

The demons still have house room. Doubt, Guilt and Inadequacy are long-time flatmates of mine. But I don’t have to drown them out with electric guitars and drums anymore. I do love music. Singing to an uplifting song rarely fails to improve my mood, not that I get much chance. Apparently Mummies aren’t allowed to sing.

What gets the demons raging now is quite often the opposite of silence. 12-hour days of endless yabbering, questioning, squabbling, laughing, crying, shrieking, coughing, sighing and singing leave my nerves jangling and my equilibrium battered. For some reason it fuels the rage until a shout builds up that I can’t always hold in. That’s followed by more crying and some sorries all round before a precious moment of calm.

I hope when both my darlings are at school, and I get some silence every day, Rage will join the other unwelcome emotions crowding my house and I’ll chuck it in the attic with the rest.

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The sun pressed down as Claire and Sky walked into the centre of Walsingham. White and wood-striped buildings huddled round, making Claire feel like she’d been transported to Tudor Britain. There’s something about arriving by steam train – even a toy one –that makes it feel as if we’ve travelled back in time. She remembered a book she’d read once, about a time travelling woman who found herself stranded amidst the bubonic plague. Somehow this place feels closer to the time of the Black Death than Eyam.

Their reason for coming to the Shrine echoed in her mind. I don’t want to think about death, not when Sky is here to pray for her Mummy. She turned her face to the sun and let its promise of summer days warm through the chill in her bones.

Peace descended like a blanket of mist as they meandered through the grounds of the Shrine. Trees and shrubs showed off their spring colours; bright greens mingled with the pink and white of early blossom. Their footsteps slowed as even Sky lost the need to run and skip. Bird song filled the space between the trees. A few other visitors drifted past like grazing deer, and the courtyard of buildings blocked out the sounds of the village beyond the walls.

Silence wrapped around them: not the absence of noise, but the absence of humanity’s intrusion. Tight knots began to unravel in Claire’s mind and a tension she had been previously unaware of flowed free like a river bursting its banks.

Sky remained quiet as she walked with Claire along the path leading to the main building. As if made obvious by its absence, Claire became aware that her world had become saturated with the little girl’s chatter. When I think how lonely I was when I first started this journey, and now I can’t wait to be alone with my own thoughts.

The lack of constant questions and observations allowed Claire to hear her own inner voices. To begin with they clamoured to fill the space, as if Sky’s conversation had kept them mute for too long. With strong words from Claire, the garrulous voices fell silent.

Time enough later for angst and self-doubt and plans for the future to be aired and discussed. Right now I’d like to enjoy my silence while it lasts, please.

A new voice piped up with the last word. You do realise talking to the voices in your head like they’re a pack of unruly children might not be entirely normal? Schizophrenics are usually the only ones who acknowledge the different people in their heads. Claire shrugged away the unwelcome suggestion and turned her attention to her surroundings.

Sky walked with her head high, holding the map they had been given of the complex. For once, Claire was happy to follow on behind and let her niece take charge. This is more her area than mine, if she’s a Believer.

The girl led them unerringly to the Chapel where she wanted to light a candle for her mother. At least there isn’t a service on. I’m not sure I could sit through Mass. The irreverent thought floated into her mind before Claire could banish it. Come on Claire, hold on to the peace. Belief in a more meaningful existence than designer labels and Starbucks lattes wouldn’t do you any harm.

Trying to be present in the moment, rather than trapped in her chattering mind, Claire looked around the chapel. It really was tranquil. Tall windows let in rainbow-hued sunshine, illuminating the details of the architecture. She felt eyes watching her and turned to see Sky standing by the rows of candles, a lit candle in her hand. Claire felt her heart lurch at the sight of Sky’s face, a mixture of grown-up seriousness and childish hope.

Crossing the stone floor, Claire moved to her side and gave the girl’s shoulders a squeeze. After a tiny hesitation she also picked up a candle and lit it. Trying to think about Ruth was harder than stilling the voices in her head. Ruth who had been in her life longer than the voices; who had helped her, dressed her, tormented and teased her. Ruth who – whatever else she might be – was her only sister.

How does it work, lighting a candle for someone? I can’t pray, I wouldn’t know where to start. She decided instead to fill her mind with all the positive pictures of Ruth she could find, focussing on everything that made her sister unique. With tears pricking her eyes she followed Sky’s lead and placed the candle on the stand. Then she reached for her hand and gripped it tightly.

“Everything will be okay, Sky. It will.”

She felt the hand squeeze hers in reply, as Sky remained staring at the flickering flames. Then, almost too quiet to hear, even in the heavy silence of the chapel, Sky’s voice whispered like the breath of a candle.

“I miss my Mummy.”

Claire felt the shudder through her hand as the little shoulders began to shake with sobs. Gathering her close, she led her niece to a seat. “It’s okay, darling. We’ll call her from the coffee shop. She’ll be missing you too.”

Holding Sky tight, Claire looked over her shoulder at the image above the candles. If you’re listening, Mary, we could use your grace about now. Don’t let this little girl lose both her parents. You let her Daddy run off with a ballet teacher. It would be cruel to take her mother too. Have mercy.

Goosebumps raised along her arms as a breeze swept through the room, setting the sea of flames dancing.

***

Sitting With Silence (lifehealingcenter.wordpress.com)

Using Life’s What Ifs: 2013 365 Challenge #113

My Three Darlings

Writing out some of the background for my new novel today I realised I was inadvertently writing a ‘what if’ about my own life, or one tiny aspect of my life.

I think sometimes that’s what writers do. They use their words, their imaginations to explore different lives they might have lived. Mine is a little thing that might have been huge.

I was late for my period this month: second month in a row. Now, we’re careful. We have two beautiful children and I’m in my late thirties. My first child was born at 37 weeks, the second at 35 weeks. My pediatrician friend said that trend to premature babies could easily continue.

I love my Big Sister

So, even if we wanted more children (which we don’t – only when I get occasionally broody) the risks are far too high. And I KNEW I wasn’t pregnant. I’m more likely to be menopausal, as early menopause runs in the family. But, still, you start putting two and two together and making five. I was tired, grumpy, teary and, above all, late.

The protagonist in Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes gets pregnant against the odds. These things happen. I worried.I read up about menopause at 2am on my phone. And, being me, I re-planned my future with a third child in it. I needed to be prepared, just in case. I worked out the age gap, when the third would start school. I decided it would be nice for Aaron to have a play mate when Amber starts school in September. I tried to decide whether I’d prefer a boy or a girl. I’m a writer: I wove stories.

Drove hubbie nuts.

Then I decided I ought to actually get a test and part of me was actually a bit excited (damn you, breeding hormones). I didn’t need the test, as it turned out. As if just buying it was enough, I knew before I got home that it was no longer required. In a tiny way I felt as if I’d lost a baby, even though no baby existed. Because I had made the scary future so plausible.

I wasn’t going to talk about it on the blog – it seems to come under the ‘too much information’ category. Until I started writing out my character list for the new book this morning:

George: 11. Two siblings, Ben (14) and Susie (16). George suspects he wasn’t planned. His sister tells him their mother used to say ‘I’ve only got two hands’ or ‘one of each, job done’. George feels unwanted and an outsider. Susie is academic, Ben is musical. They’re close. George likes football and computer games and being lazy.

My Little Bean

I realised, half way through writing it, that George is my imaginary third child. The things I worried about at 2am were all there: that any other children born into our family would feel left out because my two are so close in age; that Amber would remember me saying ‘one of each, job done’; that a third child would feel alienated, like my Uncle and my Mum – both the last of three kids.

The loss of my imaginary child, that hurt for a day, doesn’t hurt so much now. When I see the kids needing another play mate I do wish I had started my family earlier, so more children was a possibility. But now I can write them in to existence instead. So much cheaper and no need for cots, bottles, stretch marks, swollen ankles and endless dirty nappies. Hurrah.

________________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Rain hammered at the window as if it, too, wanted to come in and watch TV. Claire reached for the remote and turned up the volume; the dulcet tones of Rapunzel drowning out the drumming beat. She looked around the abandoned lounge, thankful that they were the only occupants.

Next to her, head propped up on one hand, Sky gazed at the TV as though it were entirely responsible for the rotten weather preventing their trip to the beach. She sighed and the noise cut through thrumming rain and Disney’s finest. Claire smiled at the grown up sound. I wonder if she’s learned that from me or Ruth?

“Do you want to watch something else?” Claire had suggested Tangled because she thought she could work with it on in the background. Lack of attention had left her blog drifting with diminishing views and comments and she knew some serious effort was required to breathe life back into it.

The last thing I need right now is Carl on a crusade to have me do another challenge. The Doctor’s Note isn’t going to hold out much longer. I don’t think surviving the school holidays without committing murder is the kind of thing Coca Cola or the YHA would want associated with their brands, however much it must be a reality for millions of parents.

Another sigh cut through her thoughts and she put down the iPad, searching for patience and a smile. Hitching it in place she turned to Sky and said in as lively a voice as she could muster after a night of bad dreams and no sleep, “What shall we do then? Coffee and cake? More homework? We could go exploring: There are lots of places other than the beach to visit.”

“But I wanted to go to the beach!” Out came the bottom lip. Claire pushed away the irritation and searched her mind for alternatives.

“I think there’s a games room here, shall we go and have a look?”

A glimmer of interest flicked across Sky’s face. I’ll take it. Claire got up and held out her hand. After a beat of hesitation, Sky took it and let herself be led from the room.

“I win, I win!” Sky hopped around gleefully as she connected four yellow discs in a row, once more cutting off her Auntie from her own straight run. Claire smiled at the elation, feeling only slightly guilty at her own cheating. Surely it’s only bad when you cheat to win? Cheating to lose – to make a child smile – that’s normal, right?

Her idle brain ran on with the idea. I wonder if I should win now and then, just so she gets used to losing? Surely losing has to happen at some point in a child’s life? Somewhere in her mind she remembered Ruth telling her about the trials of children’s parties, where everyone had to win at pass the parcel or musical statues. I don’t remember it being like that when we were growing up? Losing, crying about it, getting over it, was all part of being a kid. She looked over at Sky’s beaming grin and compared it with what she knew the alternative would be if she beat her niece. Maybe that particular lesson can wait.

“Well done, Sky. Two out of three?”

***

A Doggy Tail: 2013 365 Challenge #109

Storm Clouds

Had a slight altercation with another dog walker today: It made me realise how little we know about other people’s stories and how hard we have to fight to remember that.

We’d only just got in the field and I let Kara off the lead as normal. She’s not great at recall but we know most dogs round here – she either plays with them or runs up to say hello and runs back. Occasionally she embarrasses me but she’s not the only naughty dog and as she approaches strangers on her belly I never worry too much.

Today we met a woman walking with I guess a teenager holding a dog on a lead. A small dog, maybe a beagle. I didn’t get close enough to see.

Gorgeous Skies

Kara ran off before I realised there was someone there (my head is still a bit foggy). I thought initially it was just the poodle Kara doesn’t like and she’d come straight back. It wasn’t, she didn’t, and before I could call, the girl had run off crying into the field, dragging the tail-wagging dog with her, while the woman flapped at Kara to shoo. Anyone who knows dogs knows that’s just an invitation to play. True to form Kara lay on her belly, wagging her tail and grinning, and after some screaming from me and more flapping from the woman she ran back.

I should have stayed to apologise but I was part embarrassed, part furious, and decided the girl’s obvious fear was sufficient excuse to clip Kara’s harness on and leg it.

I took the other path, under the storm clouds, and was rewarded for my crime with a drenching. My initial reaction was rage that the woman had hit out at Kara, and irritation that they would walk somewhere where dogs are generally off lead.

My Over-zealous Softie

When I calmed down I felt awful. Mine was the mistake and I should have stayed to apologise. Kara’s a big dog compared to a beagle and if the girl was scared of dogs I would hate to add to that fear. I should have had Kara under closer control until I knew the field was empty. I don’t know their story. For all I know the girl was conquering a fear of dogs by owning a little one and Kara bouncing up might have done untold harm. Or not. Unless I meet them again (and pray to God I don’t) I’ll never know.

But my ranty words on Twitter in the initial aftermath are still there and the truth remains that Kara is still a fairly disobedient dog. My anger, I realise, came from knowing I was to blame and for not considering their story, their situation. That sucks.

At least I can stand here, in this nice remote field, and watch Kara’s joy as she runs for the sake of running. She’s already forgotten the incident. We can learn a lot from our canine friends. [Written on my phone while walking the dog.]

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Sky looked up from the game she was playing on Claire’s phone and tilted her head like a sparrow. “Auntie Claire, will you help me with my homework?”

Claire looked over at her niece in surprise. “Homework, at your age? I don’t think I had homework until I went to secondary school. What would I have been? Eleven?”

Sky looked blankly at Claire. “We get reading and spelling and sums. Not during the holidays though.”

With a flush of guilt Claire realised she was relieved not to have to teach spelling. Without Spellcheck I wouldn’t have a clue. Why bother sending your child to school if you have to teach them when they get home?

“So, what homework do you have for the holiday? Your Mummy didn’t say.”

“I forgot to tell her. I have it here.” Sky pulled her bag onto the bed and rifled through the contents, eventually retrieving a crumpled sheet of A4 paper.

Claire took it and smoothed the creases out before reading the contents.

For your Easter Homework please choose one of the following two options.

1. Build an Easter Garden. Research which flowers grow well in pots and tubs using the internet and non-fiction books. Read about the Easter Story, including the events leading from Palm Sunday to the Resurrection and consider the symbolism of ‘growing things’ at Easter time to represent new life.

2. Write a story using your imagination. Plan it with a story mountain so you know it has at least five parts to it (beginning, build up, problem, resolution, ending). Try to start each part of your story in a different way (action, description, speech). Maybe try to rewrite a traditional Fairy Tale. Don’t forget capital letters and full stops (some of you are also using paragraphs, commas and speech marks).

Claire closed her mouth and gazed at the sheet. What the..? She’s SIX. I don’t even know the Easter Story from Palm Sunday. Never mind how we’re going to grow an Easter garden and carry it around in a Skoda. And what the hell’s a story mountain? Inhaling deeply through her nose, Claire looked up at the guileless gaze of the pixie girl sitting cross-legged on the bed. Her mind felt foggy, like it did when Carl plonked an unexpected project on her desk or moved a deadline.

“Er. Okay. Which, um, which one did you fancy doing, Sky?” Not the garden, not the garden, not the garden.

The pixie face split wide in a smile. “I thought we could write a story. You do writing for your job: I’ve seen you.”

“I don’t write fiction, sweetheart, but I’m happy to help you write your story.” It is her homework: I just have to facilitate it. I hope her imagination is better than mine. And she knows what a story mountain is. I think Google might become my friend. She sat on the end of the bed, the homework sheet hanging from her hand.

“Can I do the fairy tale thing? I thought of a story. What if a Fairy Godmother got hiccups or kept sneezing and it made her magic go wonky? What if she tried to turn the frog into a prince and turned herself into a frog instead?”

Sky giggled and bounced up and down on the bed. “Then she wouldn’t be able to do any magic because she couldn’t hold her wand. Or maybe she could hold it in her mouth but then she’d sneeze again. Or hiccup. And become, um, a butterfly. Yes. No. She could become a pumpkin. No, a bird. A magpie. And she could…”

Claire listened to Sky’s imagination spilling out into the monochrome hostel room, filling it with colour and life. If I had ideas like that I would have more followers on my blog. Or I wouldn’t have to be here at all: I’d have made Director without jumping through Carl’s stupid hoops.

Thinking about Carl’s involvement in her current situation made Claire’s temples ache. It’s probably time I came to a decision about Carl and his stupid assignment. She looked at Sky, scrabbling through her bag to retrieve a blue workbook and sparkly pink pencil case.

First things first. Carl can wait. I have to help the next Roald Dahl create a masterpiece.

***

Today Was Doggy Heaven (charliespaniel.wordpress.com)
Breed Profile: Beagle (muttsonthemoveah.wordpress.com)
Doggy Door (harobedretsiger.wordpress.com)

Homework Idea Sources:

Scatty and Battered: 2013 365 Challenge #108

Wind-battered Bamboo

It’s looking like my darlings won’t be going to nursery tomorrow, as littlest Martin still has a temperature of 102F and eldest Martin looks like an extra in a zombie movie. Unless they magically recover over night I’ll have to keep them both home: meaning another four days without a break.

We’ve lost about £1000 to this flu virus, between lost wages and missed nursery sessions. Never mind a week of shoddy blog posts and a house full of grotty, snotty temper.

The weather has warmed to a balmy 19C (66F) but a relentless wind blows until we feel as battered as the shredded bamboo in the garden if we venture out.

I realise that many parents never get a break. And some parents have grandparents down the road who can help. Everybody has it different. My parents get back from holiday late tomorrow (I have to remember to collect the dog and buy milk and bread at some point) but I’ll be as welcome as the Flu virus if I turn up before the kids are healthy! Can’t blame them. Who’d want to come back from a fortnight of sun to get sick?

In the mean time we battle on through the tears and the grumps and the boredom and try not to inflict our germs on the world. I took them to the garden centre today, knowing it would be deserted and we could be fairly confident that we wouldn’t be coughing within a metre of anyone (the guidelines, apparently). I’d like to be more than a metre from the coughing too, I have to admit. A week of little sleep and a sore head means my nerves are a bit frazzled. I feel like Mrs Bennet.

Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters

“Don’t keep coughing so Kitty, for Heaven’s sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”

“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times them ill.”

“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully.

I'll Huff and I'll Puff and I'll Blow the Roof Off

I’ll Huff and I’ll Puff and I’ll Blow the House Down

Poor Amber apologised for coughing earlier when I let slip some grump about the syncopated rhythm of the two of them. Bless her heart.

I grew up in a house where noise was forbidden (boiled sweets and crisps were sucked, music was rarely played, chattering frowned upon) and I try really hard not to recreate that environment, even though such an upbringing has made me just as sensitive to noise as my father.

At least I have Jane Austen’s words to keep me in check. Which they do. A lot. Who wants to realise they’re turning into Mrs Bennet? (The longer I’m a parent the more I have sympathy with the woman and I’m sure that could never have been Jane Austen’s intention!)

Ooh look, another rambling blog post managed. I’m slightly amazing myself at my ability to keep up with postaday despite the headache and the tiredness. A bit like churning out essays on virtually no sleep. Unlike my essays though, I don’t think my posts are going to get inexplicably high marks as a result of sleep-deprived genius (it happened rarely, but it did happen! One tutor threatened to reduce my A grade when I confessed the essay was written at 2am in two hours. I thought that should have made the grade higher!) The rambling diary bit I can do, but what on earth am I going to do with Claire? Hmmmm.

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The sound of knocking dragged Claire from deep slumber.

“Just a minute.”

She rubbed sleep from her eyes and swung her feet out of bed, glad sharing with Sky had ensured she’d worn her pyjamas. As she reached the door, Claire wondered who came knocking in a hostel where she knew no one. Maybe the baby’s mother wants the thermometer back. I guess people with babies get up early.

Unlocking the door, Claire peered round and met the cheery gaze of Peter, the hostel manager.

“Good morning, I’m sorry, did I wake you?” He frowned, but it didn’t diminish his smile for long: a mere cloud scudding past the sun.

“Er, I guess. What time is it?” Claire brushed her hair back from her face, dreading to think what she must look like.

“It’s just gone ten o’clock. Sorry to disturb you. The lady next door is leaving today and wondered if she could have the thermometer back? There’s a Pharmacy in town where you ought to be able to purchase one, should you wish.”

Claire nodded and turned to retrieve the device. She handed it into Peter’s waiting grasp, unable to find any words.

“How is little one this morning?” He peered instinctively past Claire into the room, then seemed to realise how intrusive that was and averted his gaze.

Swallowing in an attempt to moisten her parched throat, Claire gave a shrug. “It was a long night.”

Peter nodded and Claire wondered if he had children. Maybe this night-time experience was some parenting rite of passage that all had to endure. Her head pounded as if she was the wrong side of a heavy night. How do parents do it? At least I get to give her back after a fortnight.

“If you need something to entertain little one today, they have Easter activities at Holkham Hall. Face painting, Easter egg hunt, that kind of thing.”

A tiny voice called out from the ragged pile of covers on the bed. “Will the Easter Bunny be there with my eggs?”

Claire laughed. “You seem brighter, Sky. Would you like to see the Easter Bunny?” Please let there be a bloody bunny.

“Say Cheese, Sky: let me take a photo for your Mummy.”

Sky leant against the brown rabbit in the Victorian gown and shone a wide smile. Her eyes glittered with latent fever and Claire hoped whoever was under the bunny costume didn’t catch her niece’s germs. Surely there are enough cold viruses wandering round at an event like this?

Claire looked around at the painted faces of happy children; the egg-shy game; the clusters of families eating ice cream, and felt a strange sense of belonging. Normally she’d run a hundred miles from such an event. Especially on April Fool’s Day. I guess I’m the fool today, shaking hands with a giant bunny and wandering around with a sick girl whose face is covered with painted tulips.

As Sky skipped over and hugged Claire’s legs, before showing off the chocolate egg in her hand, Claire felt a smile stretch her tired face. She yawned, then laughed as Sky yawned too.

“Let’s go find the coffee shop. Auntie Claire needs some caffeine.”

***

Am I Still Contagious? (everydayfamily.com)
When to Keep a Sick Child Home (everydayfamily.com)
Writing and Work Ethic (www.lulu.com)

Smiley, Happy People: 2013 365 Challenge #106

Watercolour Painting

We’re so not. Smiley happy people that is. But I’m tired of depressing titles. I’ve had lovely comments today, on Twitter and here on the blog (and from random shop assistants, including one who suggested I put a cut onion by my bed.) I don’t want to be morbid and talk about our paltry cold: it’s just I have nothing else to say and, well, a daily blog is a daily blog, headaches and sneezing and all!

You see, it turns out the Martin girls were just a day behind the boys. Having soothed Aaron all night, applying milk, drugs and hugs, his fever broke at 5am. I was hopeful that meant a nursery day for them and a day’s rest for me. Then Amber walked in all flushed and her temperature measured 38.8C (101.8F). I could just about bring myself to send a child who no longer had a fever, but not one still burning up. No nursery for them then.

Sleeping Bunnies

I struggled through until 11am, determined not to succumb, especially after being mean about hubbie yesterday. But boy oh boy, my throat’s on fire and no drugs are touching the headache. Sorry hubbie, I should know by now to be more sympathetic. I always get a cold bad if I’ve been dismissive of his pain. I managed to steal an hour in bed while hubbie cooked lunch (well, put a pizza in the oven!) and then slept in Amber’s toddler bed with her in the afternoon. Must buy her a big-girl bed.

Thank goodness Daddy was home today and able to pitch in. We all managed to muddle through, although I had to pull a few tricks out of my ‘how to survive to bedtime with preschoolers’ box. Out came the emergency sticker books and watercolour paints. On went the Sleeping Bunnies song on You Tube. Favourite dinner of mash and gravy was cooked.

I nearly broke when they refused to watch TV mid-afternoon (my attempt to get them to sleep as neither will admit to needing a daytime nap) but Daddy stepped into the yawning hole of pain. Walking the dog nearly finished me off, but here I am at half past nine, tucked up in bed with only my Claire post between me and sleep. Needless to say it might be a short and random one today! Night Night.

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Claire sat watching the moody green fairly flit across the screen with a growing sense of unease. Her face was dark with doubt as she looked down at the hot bundle snuggled against her on the sofa, hoping to see the girl’s eyes closed. They weren’t. Sky’s feverish gaze was fixed to the small television, watching as Tinkerbell threw a jealous tantrum at Peter Pan’s flirtatious behaviour.

I don’t remember this movie being so misogynistic. Look at those stupid mermaids vying for Peter’s attention. They can swim under water for heaven’s sake, what do they need to fight over a man for? I wish I knew how much a girl of six understands? This is meant to be kids’ entertainment but it’s no better than putting Eastenders on – all jealously and revenge and evil bastards.

She went through the other movie choices and mentally reviewed their suitability as bedtime material. Bambi? No, now is not the time to discuss mothers dying. Claire shivered. Little Mermaid: about a girl who gives up her voice to be with the one she loves. Not a great role model. Sleeping Beauty, Snow White: Both wait to be rescued by a handsome prince. Silly girls. Aladdin? Man uses lies and trickery to win the girl. I think not.

She sighed, feeling as if some childhood dream had been wrenched away. What did I watch? The Rescuers? That was about mice, no sappy princesses there. Watership Down? I suppose that was a bit dark and spooky. Better than these though: These movies are not helping little girls grow up to fend for themselves.

She spotted one she hadn’t seen before. Tangled. Ah Rapunzel. I wonder if this is the one with the frying pan. Claire waved the box where Sky could see it and the girl perked up.

“Yes, that one, put that one on.” She threw a scornful glance at the television, where Peter Pan and the Lost Boys were pretending to be Red Indians while Wendy stood grumpily by.

“This movie is stupid. That silly fairy needs to grow up and Wendy needs to smile more.”

Claire looked down, shocked, at her niece’s sharp invective. Maybe I don’t need to worry about her after all.

***

Embracing the positive: 2013 365 Challenge #100

Quality time with Daddy

Day two without Daddy and we’re still smiling.

We met baby group friends in the park this morning and ended up spending the day with them, dividing child care and managing the various tantrums of four children aged between 2 and 6. It was rather depressing to discover that 6 can be as whiny and unreasonable as 4 – I’d hoped there was light at the end of the parenting tunnel.

At the park, my psychiatric nurse friend gave me a much needed talking to about guilt and childcare, echoing what hubbie had already said last night, to the effect that writing IS my job, even if it pays a pound a day. The kids will have to go to school so they may as well learn they have to go to nursery, and we manage the tears and tantrums. It doesn’t solve my concerns that nursery is too small especially for littlest Martin but I have to manage that by stopping off at the park on the way home and making their home days active.

It’s easier to moan than fix things and I’m awful at letting guilt excuse inactivity. However, as my husband said when he didn’t really want to get out of bed this morning: Time to grow up.

We realised last night that we’re hippies at heart but ones who like a few material possessions. And certainly hippies that couldn’t home school. So certain things in life have to be put up with. I have to put my fears of school shackles aside and embrace the positive. Not something I’m good at. But as my nurse friend wisely said: “your low self esteem came from being told often enough that you weren’t good enough. If you tell yourself often enough that you are, eventually you’ll come to believe it.”

Sounds like hard work to me but I’m willing to give it a go! Time to accept that confidence needn’t be arrogance and guilt and excessive humility are not attractive traits. Gosh, I feel like I’ve been on the therapist’s couch today. No wonder I’m tired! Embracing the positive: A good thought for my 100th post.

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“I’m bored.”

Claire looked over at the little girl on the sofa next to her. A crumpled magazine lay discarded on the floor and she stared at Claire, arms folded, bottom lip jutting out like a bad collagen injection. The pitch of her voice stabbed through Claire’s headache like a stiletto heel. Swallowing her irritation, Claire pushed a smile in place and lowered her book.

“Sorry, sweetie, have you finished your magazine? We’ll go up to bed in a while but, as we’re in a shared dorm, I thought it might be nice to sit down here in the lounge for a bit.”

Claire had no idea what she was going to do once the little girl was tucked up in the bottom bunk. She wasn’t looking forward to another battle over why Sky wasn’t allowed to sleep on top either. The idea of explaining to her sister that her niece had fallen five foot from a bunk-bed during the night was not something she could contemplate without horror.

Sky’s sulk didn’t show any signs of waning. Claire sighed, her cheeks aching from the forced smile. “What would you do at home before bedtime?”

“Mummy reads me stories, or I watch The Simpsons with her.”

The Simpsons? At bedtime? No wonder the girl has nightmares. Searching her brain for an alternative to enduring whatever banal stories Pony Magazine had to offer, Claire caught sight of a teenage girl on the opposite side of the room, engrossed in a game on her iPhone.

“What about computer games?”

Sky’s eyes lit up and then died, like a short-lived supernova. “Mummy doesn’t allow computer games. We only have one computer and she uses it for her work. She says they’re all silly games that will rot my brain.”

And watching the Simpsons won’t? I wonder about my sister sometimes. No wonder she’s so tired all the time. Aren’t games designed as free childcare?

“Well, why don’t we see if there are any apps on the iPad that your Mummy wouldn’t disapprove of? What about reading and writing ones?”

The tiny face fell. “They sound boring. Jenny has one where you paint fingernails, can we download that?” The girl scooted across the sofa and snuggled next to Claire, tucking herself under Claire’s arm. Not sure whether to sigh or smile, Claire pulled her iPad onto her lap and began searching for apps.

Twenty minutes later she returned to her book, glancing over occasionally at Sky to make sure she was okay. Her niece’s face was tight with concentration and all trace of boredom had gone. It can’t be that bad, surely, if it makes her happy? Ruth doesn’t need to know.

Retrieving her paperback she thumbed through the pages until she found her spot. Katniss was in the trees hiding from Peeta when the shrill of a ringing phone broke the silence. Damn. Turn that phone off, will you? The noise continued until Claire realised it was her phone, jangling in her pocket.

With flushed cheeks she fished it out and looked at the number. Her dinner sank to the pit of her stomach and she considered hitting cancel. Don’t be a coward. Slowly releasing a deep sigh, Claire selected answer and put the phone to her ear.

“Hello?” With a glance at Sky, she got up and walked over to the window. Her niece didn’t register her departure.

“Claire? Hi, how are you?”

The voice caused her dinner to start a tango in the bottom of her tummy. “Hi Michael. I’m fine, thanks.” She heard him hesitate and hoped her frigid tones would cause him to cut the call short. I doubt it. Michael must have a leather hide not to have got the hint already.

“I rang to see how you are? After the mugging and all. You haven’t posted much on Twitter recently. Not that I’m stalking you or anything,” he added quickly, as that exact thought went through her mind. “I was just worried.”

“I’m looking after Sky for a couple of weeks.” Of course, Michael doesn’t know about Ruth’s illness. It seemed strange, Michael not knowing something so essential to her life. She tried to decide whether he needed to know now, and concluded he didn’t.

“Really?” The shock in his voice made her grimace. “I thought you hated spending time with your nieces and nephews.” There was something else in his voice too. Was it hope?

“I do.” Let’s put an end to that seed before it germinates. “Ruth needed some time, that’s all, and I couldn’t say no.” She looked over her shoulder. “Besides, she’s old enough to be good company. Most of the time.”

“Children are, you know. They say the funniest things, and they make you really live life. Everything is new and fresh seen through their eyes.” His voice was soft; it made Claire shudder.

“Yes, well. It’s about time I put this little lady to bed. We’re in a shared dorm and it might take a while.”

She heard him breathe out, and knew she had offended him with her curt response. Serves him right for not knowing when to quit.

“Of course. Well, as long as you’re okay.” He paused.

Don’t say it, don’t say it. Please.

“I miss you.” And he was gone.

***