Category Archives: Parenting

Rainy Day of the Soul: 2013 365 Challenge #326

More rain

More rain

The school run home was miserable yesterday; the town snarled with traffic. A chat with mums at the school gate had me worried about what I’m meant to be doing for a dozen things, and my son sat through out his entire fencing class, refusing to join in, even though it was paid for. I broke. Again.

Anyway, I wrote this, while walking the dog. I wasn’t going to post it, as I feel I’ve written enough ‘raging against being a housewife’ posts recently. But I hate letting powerful words go to waste, however snivelling they might be in retrospect (and, of course, as a writer it’s all good stuff for future reference). So, this is what I wrote:

“Is it terrible that I want to say to my daughter, Don’t have kids. Or if you want them, don’t have a life first. Don’t go to university and get those degrees, don’t live on your own for a decade. Have your children young, while you still have the energy and the sense of humour, before you realise what you’re giving up. Before you reach a point when you’re out walking the dog and you don’t want to go home.

Before you work out that seven years of marriage means you’ve cooked dinner more or less every night over 2500 times without respite. That your loving husband will want to make it better, as your stare down the barrel of another twenty years of school run and homework and worry, and you’ll have to tell him there is no way to make it better. That you’re starting to wonder if it was all a big mistake and whether being lonely was as bad as you thought it was back then.

I want to tell my daughter, You have my genes, child, and you were raised by me. You won’t know how to nurture, you won’t know how to be a loving mother. You will spend all day trying to smile and be nice and gentle when inside you’re screaming. You’ll feel trapped by love and there will be days when you hate it and everyone it encompasses.

And then the guilt will drive you crazy until you’re walking in the dark, sobbing, with no where to go except home, where dinner isn’t cooked and the homework hasn’t been done and the dog needs feeding and the dishwasher emptying and you know hubbie will be playing on the iPad while the kids watch more TV. And you know they all love you and that just makes you the most selfish, ungrateful person on earth. That’s what I want to say.”

And then, when I told hubbie all this, he told me it was okay, cleaned the kitchen and offered to take responsibility for cooking. I told you he’d try to fix things. I settled for him doing dinner one night a week, because we have to be realistic! Then we just need to survive Christmas, come up with a plan for dealing with school communications and the school run, and everything will be fine. For now.

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

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Claire considered the boy trailing ten paces behind, hands still buried deep in his pockets, and chewed out a curse.

“Problems?”

Claire looked over at Conor, who was watching Jack pretending to sink imaginary ships through a gap in the wall.

“What am I going to do with the moody teenager? A fortnight of that and I’ll go bonkers.”

“Do you want me to have a chat with him?” Conor said quietly, all brashness gone from his voice.

“And say what? He’s no more likely to open up to you than me, is he?”

“Well, I am at least a bloke.”

“Really, I hadn’t noticed?” She smiled, her cheeks tight with tension, before her face dropped back into the frown it had worn all morning.

“I didn’t think you had,” Conor said. Before she could respond he walked on to answer a question from Jack.

Claire watched as Conor leant over to hear Jack’s words. The answer he gave was animated; his hands waving in explanation. Conor had been the proverbial uncle since they’d entered the castle grounds; playing with the boys, listening to the audio tour and sharing the interesting parts, complete with actions. It was obvious – watching him – that he was used to being around children.

As she approached, Conor gave her a slight nod before walking past her back to where Alex stood leaning against the castle wall, surreptitiously tapping into his phone.

“I like your friend, Auntie Claire,” Jack said, after Conor had left. “He’s funny. Did you know he has four brothers and a sister, all younger than him! He says he has loads of nephews and nieces, but they all live in Ireland. Have you been to Ireland? It sounds great. They all live near each other and play at each other’s houses and stuff, and they go to school down the road.”

He stopped suddenly and his cheeks flushed, as if embarrassed by his candour. Claire’s heart went out to this young boy who wanted nothing more than to be with his family and have a proper home.

Maybe that’s what going to a Boarding school does to you. Maybe you spend your life trying to find the home you never had.

She thought about her own schooling. Her parents hadn’t made them board, but they might as well have done. The school ran from 8am to 6pm with extra activities at the weekend. Between hockey and homework Claire thought she’d probably only seen her parents a couple of hours a week from the age of eleven onwards.

The sound of laughter floated across on the wind whistling around the castle walls, and Claire turned in surprise. It sounded like Alex.

It was. He and Conor were walking slowly towards them and, for the first time, Alex’s hands weren’t in his pockets, but rather were waving around in front of him as he chatted animatedly with her boss.

How the hell did he do that? What did he find to talk about to make Alex laugh like that?

She remembered some of their phone conversation the previous night and rather felt she didn’t want to know.

Who cares? If he can turn Alex into a human being, if only for a day or so, I don’t really care if he’s reciting the Miller’s Tale to him.

Alex approached almost shyly, looking up at Conor for confirmation. Conor nodded in encouragement, before suggesting to Jack that they go hunt for the canons.

“Conor said I should talk to you.”

Alex’s face had lost its humour, but he kept his head raised, even if he didn’t make eye contact.

“I’m sorry I’ve been a pain. Conor says he’ll tell you to send us home, if I make life difficult for you when you’re working. I didn’t mean to be an arse.” He flushed at the word and quickly amended it, “a git, I meant. Sorry.” He paused, staring out over the wall at the ocean beyond, as if he could see all the way back to Geneva.

“I don’t want to be here. Father didn’t even ask, he just told us. And, well, I have friends. And stuff.” His voice trailed off and he looked down at his trainers, scuffing at the stone as if he’d like to run away.

Claire wanted to interject that they were only staying with her for a fortnight, but something made her hold her tongue. She watched Alex as he struggled with his words, trying to maintain an air of supportive concern.

“Conor said I needed to man up and stop giving you a hard time. He said it wasn’t your fault that Father’s a…” He stopped again, and a faint blush put colour in his pale cheeks. He looked up then, his eyes wary.

Claire wanted to pull the boy into a hug, but she kept her distance. “It’s okay,” she said, instead, “I know what my brother can be like. I hadn’t realised quite what a pompous arse he’d become,” – Alex grinned at her choice of word – “and I don’t blame you for being grumpy at him shipping you boys over here without warning. It’s only two weeks. That probably seems like a lifetime to you, but it will fly by, I promise.” There was so much more she wanted to say, but she could see already that Alex wanted to escape. So she held out her hand and tried to catch his eye.

“Friends?”

Alex gave her hand a shake and gave a quick nod. Then he hurried off towards Conor and Jack.

***

Flexible Minds: 2013 365 Challenge #322

Morris Dancers

Morris Dancers

It seems everything has an up side, when you look at it. Hubbie and I are pretty rubbish at making plans at the weekend. The children don’t do any classes and we don’t have set routine things like cleaning or shopping because I do all that during the week. About the only thing we try and do is go swimming on a Sunday morning at the local pool.

The children had swimming lessons at a gorgeous private pool for a while, until it became far too expensive, and we kept up the routine all last winter. In the summer, of course, we swim in my mum’s little pool. But last week it was time to restart the weekend swim.

So, eventually, after I had written my post, and the children were fed and dressed, we made it to the pool. Only to find out it was closed until the afternoon to non-swimmers, because the pool was broken. (They have a snazzy moveable floor and they lift the ends to under a metre for the little kids. Only one end was stuck above the water level.)

Reindeer and elves

Reindeer and elves

We managed to just about redeem last weekend by a trip to the nearby indoor play centre, and we actually had a lovely morning. This week we made sure we had learnt our lesson. After we were up and dressed and ready to leave, we phoned the pool to see if it was open. It wasn’t. Unfortunately we made the mistake of letting the children hear the conversation and “Want to go swimming, now!” ensued.

We looked into going to a different pool but, like me, hubbie isn’t great at unexpected new. So we dithered. The children whined. They’d already had a whole day of broken plans on Saturday, after the abandoned trip to the zoo, and had coped with that brilliantly.

It turned out hubbie was a bit lost about the whole thing, too. I guess we all get something stuck in our heads. So, by mid morning, a plan was required. Grandad wasn’t answering his phone, the weather was too dismal for a walk.

A yellow elephant?

A yellow elephant?

Thankfully I remembered seeing a flyer on the kitchen table about Christmas events at our local garden centre! Hurrah, it was the day. We’d already missed the parade and the arrival of Father Christmas, but I was okay with that, as it’s a bit early for them to visit the grotto. But I knew there would be other activities, so off we went.

It was great. We met the horses that pulled Father Christmas’s carriage. There were morris dancers and most of the staff were dressed as elves. We had to hunt for balloons and flags, which had been given out during the parade (a nice old man found a couple under some shelves!), but even that was fun.

We didn’t bother with the Punch and Judy or the biscuit decoration because it was heaving. But we went to see the reindeer and we started to queue for face painting. There were six children ahead of us in the queue after twenty minutes (it was free!), when another genius idea popped into my head (I’ll do anything not to queue).

Spooky man with glass ball

Spooky man with glass ball

“Why don’t we buy a cake and go to Grandma’s and I’ll paint your faces when we get home?” I said brightly, muttering quietly, “As long as you don’t look in a mirror,” much to the amusement of a waiting mother. “Can I have a blue cat?” Littlest Martin said. “Of course,” I nodded, praying the cheap face paints I bought and never opened had blue.

So, that was the plan. We were lucky enough to find the balloon man with few children waiting, so we had some balloon models made on the way out. The children asked for Father Christmas and an elephant and got Father Christmas’s teddy and a yellow thing that looked more like a giraffe. They didn’t care.

We watched the spooky many with the glass ball and we went to the supermarket for cake. When we got home I painted a blue cat on my son’s face (my first attempt at face painting and it wasn’t so bad, considering my set doesn’t have black!) and my daughter did her own.

DIY Face Painting

DIY Face Painting

And, do yo know what? There were virtually no trantrums all day. A whole weekend of mixed up plans and last minute changes and they took it all in their stride. They’re three and four years old. They put me to shame! (I’ve been known to have a tantrum or two if things don’t go to plan.)

So even the bits of parenting you think you’re rubbish at – being consistent, making plans without letting the children know in case they change, changing your mind at the last minute, refusing to queue – even those things can turn out to have value.

Everything happens for a reason. 😉

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

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Claire’s ears thrummed with rage, as she drove blindly along the country lanes to the hostel. How dare he? How dare Robert interrupt like that? Wasn’t it enough that she was saving his arse, looking after his brats while he went of canoodling with his new lady friend?

She wrenched at the wheel, to avoid a pigeon sitting in the road, and nearly put the car in the hedge. Adrenalin coursed through her body, making her hands tremble. She loosened the vice-like grip of one hand and slammed it against the horn, even though the bird was now twenty yards behind her.

By the time she reached the hostel her anger was piled high like the stacks of clouds lining the endless horizon, obscuring the blue sky and promising a howling storm. Claire pulled into the right driveway, glad she’d already visited the hostel once to check in, and abandoned the car.

Striding into the hostel she wondered what exactly she was going to say to Robert. She hadn’t yelled at him since she was twelve; she certainly hadn’t had such an overpowering urge to gouge his eyes out since they were children.

The hostel seemed deserted as she stalked through the rooms, and her anger began to seep away. She reached the red lounge and stopped short at the sight of two boys wrestling on the sofa.

Great. I had to bump into the kids before finding Robert. I don’t even know which one is which.

Forcing a smile on a face that ached with tension, Claire slowed down to a walk, hoping these were indeed her nephews.

“Hi boys, great to see you. Where’s your father.”

“Bonjour, tante Claire, comment vas-tu?” the youngest boy beamed at her. Claire reeled as if she’d been shot.

Oh crap. Robert didn’t mention that the brats don’t speak English. What the…? I haven’t done French since school.

“Bonjour, ça vas bien, merci.” She smiled brightly, hoping no further communication would be necessary. Pummelling her brain for the word for father, she stuttered, “Où est ton père?”

One of the boys pointed out the door and rattled off a sentence that Claire didn’t understand. She tried not to look blank, but the amusement on the boy’s face suggested she’d failed. He mimed talking on a phone and Claire nodded. With a half wave she turned and hurried out.

Robert I am going to kill you.

She found him sitting in the courtyard, looking relaxed in an open shirt and sunglasses propped on his head, despite the clouds gathering above them. As she stood watching, he spoke into the phone in rapid French. Something about his demeanour brought to mind sweet nothings, although he spoke too fast for her to understand a word. When it didn’t seem likely that he would end the call anytime soon, she cleared her throat.

Robert looked up without a trace of embarrassment. He gave a cool nod and raised one hand as if signalling to a secretary to give him a minute. Claire felt the blood rise again, and looked around for something to hit him with. Robert’s eyes widened slightly and he said a rapid farewell before hanging up the phone.

“You’re here finally, then.”

Claire ground her teeth. “You’ve got some nerve. You called me away from a business meeting, you failed to mention your boys only speak French and now you have the audacity to act like I’m some tardy underling. You can take your brats back to Geneva with you, and you can rot.”

She took some satisfaction from the look of consternation on his face. With a vicious grin and a toss of her hair, she spun round and went in search of a cup of tea.

***

Art is the Answer: 2013 365 Challenge #320

Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale

Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale

Hubbie came home yesterday afternoon, after his night away for work, and was all smiles from the joy of having spent twenty-four hours with like-minded people, being listened to and appreciated. It seemed to confirm for me everything I wrote about in yesterday’s post, about the difficulty of being a stay-at-home-mum.

The word sacrifice is bandied about, sometimes, when talking about motherhood. The things we sacrifice to raise our children: sleep, serenity, the ability to pee alone. For some it’s a career, for others it’s the luxury of time or the ability to buy clothes for themselves instead of for their little ones.

And of course the sacrifice is worth it, most would agree with that. I gave up material things when we had kids, and realised I didn’t miss them. I’m quite happy hanging out in the same two pairs of jeans week after week, until they fall apart and I scour the charity shops for two new pairs to trash.

I’m happy not getting my hair cut, or spending endless money on scented candles and potted plants that will only get burnt/killed respectively. Hubbie gave me £100 to spend on clothes last Christmas and I spent about a fifth of it at the charity shop and then the rest on getting the air conditioning fixed in my car. It was money well spent.

The sacrifice for me was guilt-free time. I have always struggled with guilt (and I’ve noticed I’m unconsciously teaching my children the same things, which I hate). My father loathed idleness and I learned to never be idle, particularly if he was busy. He could aggressively vacuum clean like no man I know and god forbid the kitchen was messy if we wanted to get to gym class on time. So, if the house needs cleaning, I have to clean it. If there are shirts to iron, I must iron them. Walking the dog every day was a responsibility I took on the minute we brought her home, quivering in my arms in the front seat because she wouldn’t stay in the boot.

From Slow Down Mummy's FB Page

From Slow Down Mummy’s FB Page

Which is all fine until hubbie says, “How can we get your smile back? Shall we hire a cleaner?” and my answer is “No.” Cleaning is my job. I signed up for that when I gave up paid employment. Besides, as I said in my previous post, I find having a cleaner ridiculously stressful. No, the problem is more my inability to ignore the piles of laundry and the dirty floor and just write regardless. The cleaning will always be there: evil elves come in my house and chuck dirty water over the floor as soon as it’s mopped. It’s the ultimate exercise in futility. Writing, though, that’s there forever. If I write a novel, no one can take it away from me.

One of my blog followers, Hollis Hildebrand-Mills, commented on yesterday’s post, saying, “An artist, like you, I yearned for so much more……and at the same time, felt I was a good mother and wouldn’t trade places (who had the time to think about trading places?) with anyone else.”

It reminded me of a book I read, before I had children, called Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale, about a bi-polar woman and her life as artist, wife and mother. It is a wonderful, powerful, book. It showed me how I didn’t want to be with my children, and yet I could relate to such an extent with the conflicting desires of the need to create and the needs of the family, all wrapped up with the challenges of depression.

With martyr-tendencies, it would be easy for me to be the housewife: to go downstairs, like I did this morning, and numbly lay the table, make breakfast, let the dog out, empty the dishwasher, make the beds. But numb is the word. I can be that person, but by god she’s dull. I don’t need to become Rachel Kelly from Gale’s book (I thankfully am not bipolar, only very mildly depressive) but maybe it is important to make time for the creative things. To stay human. To stay sane.

From Slow Down Mummy

From Slow Down Mummy

There’s a meme that goes around Facebook every now and then: a poem about children asking their Mummy not to rush; about the importance of spending time with the children while they’re little, rather than doing the dishes. (See image above)

I’ve just searched for it and the poem is by Rebekah Knight and her blog is Slow Down Mummy. (There are some other lovely poems on there:  worth a visit) It’s a sweet poem, although I’ve always felt it just adds to the Mummy guilt, every time I see it and my usual response is, “If I don’t do those darn dishes, who will?”

I wonder if sometimes we also have to slow down and do something for us? Maybe I need to swap out the Mummy for Amanda and remember that there’s a real person in here that also needs nurturing, that also would like to kick the leaves or bake a cake; just for me, not because I feel I should for the children. My children are happiest when they’re creating – sticking, gluing, cutting, making up games and songs. As another of the images on Slow Down Mummy’s blog says, “Creativity brings Happiness.”

Maybe art is the answer after all.

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

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Claire sat at the table, building her presentation, trying to ignore the stunning view outside the window. The tall frames only enhanced the scene beyond, of boats bobbing on the water and children playing in the sand. Sparkling diamonds danced on the surface of the sea, taunting her and tempting her to put the work aside and daydream.

She’d been surprised at Conor’s choice of restaurant when she’d arrived. It was a tiny place that appeared to have been a coastguard station at some point. The walk back up to the car park would be hard going after a beer or two. It seemed a bit secluded for a work meeting, and Claire had felt a fizzle of anticipation in her stomach as she was shown to their reserved table by the window. The view really was spectacular: the restaurant was right on the beach, with a view of the harbour and the bay beyond.

Claire’s tummy grumbled as a waiter walked past with a steaming pile of muscles and another loaded with lobster. She was glad Conor was paying, although she had to remind herself it wasn’t a date, it was business.

She turned her attention back to the presentation. The screen shots from the two websites nicely emphasised her point, and she’d managed to incorporate some transitions and graphics that looked impressive, although deep down she suspected Conor wouldn’t be as fooled by such things as Carl used to be.

The challenge of having a boss with a brain, I guess.

She was just running through the final slides when she sensed someone watching her. She turned and met Conor’s gaze as he stood only feet away, his expression inscrutable. A jolt of energy shot through her, and her hands shook as she closed the laptop. When she tried to smile, her cheeks quivered and she quickly abandoned the attempt.

“Conor, hi.” She chanced a quick look into his eyes and they seemed to hold a mixture of amusement and remorse. A hesitant smile hovered on his lips. Then his face shifted, like a mask dropping over his features, and he was her boss again.

“Hard at work, I see. That’s what we like. Did you have any bother finding the place?”

He slid into the seat opposite her and immediately picked up the menu, as if he couldn’t stay long.

“No. Sat Nav. And yes, I was just finalising a presentation. I’ve found a great case study I thought you might like to run through.” She heard the wobble in her voice and silently cursed. If he was going to pretend like nothing had happened the previous weekend, two could play at that game.

“Great, well let’s order and we can run through it while we’re waiting. I can recommend the lobster.”

“Do you come here a lot? It’s not exactly on your doorstep.”

“I was based down here for a few months in a previous job. This place is a gem, especially at sunset.”

It was on the tip of Claire’s tongue to make some comment about wooing the ladies and she stopped, blood rushing to her cheeks. Despite the air of romance, this couldn’t be further from a date, and their days of banter were gone now.

She looked at the top of Conor’s head, as he studied the menu, and searched her brain for something neutral to say. Her mind went blank, so she turned to her own menu, although her eyes refused to focus on the words.

“So, you’re playing Auntie for a fortnight? You’re a sucker for punishment.”

Conor’s tone was less than friendly, but Claire seized on the opening. “Yes, apparently my brother and his wife have separated and the boys are being shuffled from parent to parent during the long vacation. Needless to say my brother isn’t equipped to deal with his chunk of childcare.”

“Why do you say it like that?” Conor looked up, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, looking after kids isn’t really every man’s cup of tea.”

“Depends on the man,” he said, then dropped his head again. Claire sat staring, trying to figure out the meaning behind his words. Really, he was even more of an enigma that Josh, when he’d been harbouring his big secret.

“Do you have kids?” The words were out before she could stop them.

Conor froze, his head still lowered, then shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”

The waiter chose that moment to approach with his pad open, and Claire resisted the urge to embrace him for his impeccable timing.

***

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

Scary Mommy Post

Scary Mommy Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kristen Lamb's beautifully honest post

Kristen Lamb’s beautifully honest post

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

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

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

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

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

Doing Sounds in the playroom

Doing Sounds in the playroom

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid map.

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

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

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

Well, that told me, didn’t it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is why I love my job.

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

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

***

Related articles (as usual, I haven’t read these yet but probably will!)

Spencer Bear Comes To Stay: 2013 365 Challenge #315

Spencer Bear's photo shoot

Spencer Bear’s photo shoot

Our daughter was given the class bear to bring home this weekend. In the pouring rain on Friday night I viewed his arrival with less than elation. Carrying an umbrella over his head to keep him dry on the trek to the car, I wracked my brains for something he could do during his stay.

We were introduced to Spencer Bear at one of the parent meetings, and were shown his diary full of photos and stories. Easy, I thought, plenty of examples to follow. Wrong. In his bag was an empty diary, two story books and the bear. No instructions or guidelines.

Oh my, such responsibility! Our diary entry will basically set the tone for the year. Make too much effort and we raise the bar for everyone. Put in a shabby effort and it will be the first thing people see everytime they open the diary.

Spencer at the park

Spencer at the park

We didn’t dare take him to Ikea: imagine if he got lost. We watch Peppa Pig; we’ve seen the Teddy Playgroup episode where the bear gets misplaced! I couldn’t take him to my mother’s in case he came back smokey – I’m not going to be the parent that sends a smokey bear back to school.

In the end we took him to the park and I snapped enough photos to fill the entire journal. I’ll have to winnow it down to two or three. Then I’ll have to decide whether to print them on paper or take a disc to the shops and get proper photos printed. Do I write the journal or get my daughter to do it? Make it funny, entertaining, poignant? I’m the classic over-thinker – not giving me instructions is just plain cruel.

As we’ve reorganised our house today, and unplugged the printer and computer as part of the chaos, I haven’t actually done anything to take into school tomorrow. I’m going to use it as the perfect excuse to keep the bear’s diary another day and get some tips from the teacher. Add it to the list of things I never knew would create stress when I became a parent!

P.S. Came downstairs this morning and darling hubbie had plugged in the computer. I love that man. Pasted ten pictures into a document and added a short note about going to the park. Printed it out, took it into school and asked the teacher if it was okay. When she realised the explanation page was missing from the diary she was furious! LOL. Wouldn’t want to be the poor soul who was meant to put it there! She seemed happy enough with our effort, though, so I borrowed a glue stick and job done. One less thing to worry about.

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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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“It’s for sale you know.”

Claire turned to face the woman who had spoken, unsure if she was addressing her or someone else. A lined, smiling face greeted her and grinned as she made eye contact. Then the woman gestured at the dining room around them, which was bustling with people getting breakfast.

“The hostel; it’s for sale. Such a shame, don’t you think?”

Claire nodded, tempted to turn back to her food. Then she remembered it was her job to gather information, and she wracked her brain for a response.

“The one at Salcombe is closing down, too. I guess it’s quite hard to run a business that’s meant to offer low cost accommodation in these old buildings. They must take some upkeep.”

“Oh yes,” the woman said, nodding emphatically. “Just fixing up my sixties semi costs a fortune, I can’t imagine what the upkeep on an old Georgian pile like this would be. Pity though. We’ve been coming here for years. It’s a bit spooky, but my grandsons like that.”

She gestured towards a gaggle of teenage boys gathered around the end of the table, stealing food from each other’s plates and shoving each other off their seats.

“There are bats, too, did you know? In the attic. Haven’t we all got bats in the attic though, dear?” The woman flashed another toothy grin. Claire smiled. It was hard not to like the garrulous old lady, and admire her for being there with her grandchildren.

“Isn’t it hard? Hostelling with children?” Claire thought about her conversation with her brother the night before. “I have my nephews joining me in a few days and I admit I’m a bit nervous.”

“You don’t have children of your own.” It was a statement, rather than a question. Claire shook her head.

“How old are your nephews?”

“Ten and twelve,” Claire said, flushing as she remembered getting it wrong on the phone.

“They’ll be no bother; it’s a good age. They’re not quite teenagers, so they’ll still bide you a bit. Make sure you wear them out and keep them fed: that’s the trick with boys.”

She emphasised her point by stabbing some sausage with a fork and popping it in her mouth. She looked thoughtful as she chewed, and Claire felt unable to turn away. When she was free to speak, the woman continued. “What will you do with them? Are you staying here?”

“No, I’m actually working – researching tourism in Cornwall – so they’ll have to tag along with me. I wasn’t expecting them you see; my brother called last night.” Claire stopped abruptly, unsure why she was telling this woman all her troubles.

The woman nodded knowingly. “Family: guaranteed to drop you in it.” She laughed at Claire’s expression. “Isn’t that what you youngsters say?” She continued to laugh, although whether at Claire’s surprise or her own joke wasn’t clear.

“What do they like doing, these nephews of yours?” she asked, when she’d stopped laughing.

Claire shook her head. No point hiding the truth. “I have no idea. I barely know them. They live in Geneva.”

The woman gave her a shrewd look. “And children aren’t really your thing? No, don’t feel bad or deny it. Motherhood isn’t for everyone. I have three boys, love them to bits. But if you’d given me a girl I’d have been stuck. No idea what to do with girls. Boys are easy; just make sure they know you’re boss.” She chewed another mouthful and Claire watched, mesmerised.

“They’ll probably be into those silly computer games. Make sure their Dad packs them and you keep them charged. Always useful for a bit of peace and quiet. I’m not one of these fuddy duddies who thinks they’re bad. Here in Cornwall, though? You’ll want to take them to the beach. Let them get mucky, take them swimming, enrol them in a surf school. That’ll give you plenty of time to get your work done. My daughters-in-law, they all work. Wasn’t the done thing in my day, but if that’s what they want, who am I to naysay them? Means I get to spend time with my boys.”

She looked fondly over at the teenagers, who had finished eating and were now wrestling on the floor with much yelling and punching. Claire shuddered. Suddenly her time with Sky – even the tantrums – seemed simple by comparison.

The woman looked back and seemed to sense Claire’s fear. “Don’t worry, my dear. You’ll be fine. Just think; after a week or two you get to give them back.” She gave her an arch look. “And it’s different when it’s your own. Don’t let your nephews put you off having babies. I’ve seen the hardest nut cracked by a helpless infant placed in their arms.” She lined her knife and fork up neatly on the plate and stood up.

“I must be going. Now these have been fed they’ll be up to all kinds of mischief until they use up some energy. Good luck, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” Claire said, with genuine gratitude.

Once she was standing, Claire could see the woman was tiny; five feet tall if that. She seemed frail, like a strong wind would knock her away. She tottered up to the writhing pile of boys, a smile on her face.

“Right, you lot,” she said, her voice firm and carrying. “Up you get.” The writhing didn’t stop, and she put one hand on her hip. “Now!” Her voice rang out through the room, and the boys jumped to their feet, towering over the tiny woman. They hung their heads and chorused, “Sorry. Grannie.”

The woman turned to Claire and winked, then led the boys from the room.

Difficult Decisions: 2013 365 Challenge #313

A plethora of school options

A plethora of school options

I’ve been awake since 5.30am, thinking.

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

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

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

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

Green spaces essential

Green spaces essential

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should see it in the school holidays!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

***

Some of the other posts I’ve written about it!

My Handsome Date: 2013 365 Challenge #312

My handsome date

My handsome date

Today I went on my first date in nine years with a handsome young chap with a charming smile. It wasn’t a fancy date, and I didn’t mind paying. Nor did I mind the chattering repetitive conversation. I only baulked slightly at the £6 bus fare to travel twenty minutes into town, or the money spent on a lunch uneaten, for the sake of a small plastic toy.

I rode the lift and the escalator as many times as he requested, I walked slowly and watched the pigeons. I left the museum willingly because “the noises were scary”. I gave him my (mostly) undivided attention (I am writing this in McD) and endured the humiliation of trying to figure out the bus timetable as a group of amused pensioners looked on and gave helpful advice (my last paying trip on a bus was more years ago than my last date.)

He has his hand around my heart, this young man of mine. I am proud to be out with him, to give him my time freely. I’m glad I cleaned house yesterday in all my angst, because I bought this day of freedom. I’m trying not to feel guilty that this is our first date or that his sister hasn’t really ever had one. Instead I’m trying to be proud of what we are doing rather than guilty for what hasn’t been done before.

Anyway, I must stop writing and get back to my date. We mustn’t miss our bus home, I’m looking forward to my cuddle on the top deck.

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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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“Hi, I’m Paul, I’ll be your instructor for today.”

Claire nodded at the tanned man standing in front of her, blushing slightly as he returned her greeting with a grin. She tugged at the neck of her wetsuit and looked around the group, wondering what she was doing there. There were ten of them on the beach, including a young lad with his grandpa and a group of thirty-something women giggling and blushing every time the teacher looked in their direction.

At her feet a brightly patterned surfboard rested on the sand, taunting her. Claire knew there was no way she would be standing on it by the end of the two hours, despite all of Paul’s enthusiastic assurances. She thought about her previous activities and accidents; falling off her bike; spraining her arm learning to snowboard. If she could stand on solid ground by the end of the day that would be enough.

She turned to gaze down the beach. The sand stretched endlessly, glistening under the morning sun. The sea slithered up and down the shore thirty metres behind the teacher, and she could see the sand beneath the waves.

At least it isn’t deep, so I won’t drown when I fall off.

As she followed Paul’s instructions, lying on her board and pretending to paddle, Claire felt glad that there were no witnesses.

Josh would be having a field day if he was here. I expect he surfs like a champion.

She looked at the white crests breaking along the horizon and gave a shudder. Paul had told them with an unnerving grin that the waves were just right for their lesson; maybe on the high side for beginners but better than a dead calm sea. Claire wasn’t sure she agreed. Although they didn’t look huge from the beach, she was certain it would be a different matter when they were pouring over her head.

She stood bemused as she learned she had a goofy foot, not entirely sure she understood what it meant. Ignoring Paul’s guffaws, she kept her focus on the lesson, repeating the pop up technique again and again until he was happy that everyone had grasped it.

“Right, peeps, I think you’re ready. Let’s go catch some waves.”

Fear clenched her stomach as the moment she’d been dreading arrived. Despite the sun overhead, the freezing water expelled the air from Claire’s lungs and she muttered a few choice curses. Seeing the grandpa frolicking in the waves like a five year old forced her to square her shoulders and dive headlong into the water. Once she was wet it wasn’t so bad.

The air filled with the sound of laughter as everyone in the group tried to remember all they’d been taught. Getting up onto one knee wasn’t so bad, and Claire’s body filled with elation as the wave caught her board and dragged her back towards the sand.

Paddling out again, despite the water being shallow enough to wade, Claire tried to stop caring what anyone thought, concentrating instead on getting to her feet. Her confidence was premature and she toppled off the board before she’d even got onto her knees.

She surfaced coughing and spitting out water, waiting for the teasing and laughter. As she looked around, the other students were too busy pulling themselves back on their boards or brushing wet hair from their faces to notice. There was a sense of camaraderie that she hadn’t expected.

Claire pulled herself back on the board and paddled out again. The wait for the right wave was a strange sort of pause. Then she saw the perfect line of froth and positioned herself to catch it. Paddling hard, she managed to get to her knees, ignoring the throb of pain as she landed too hard. The board pulled beneath her like a dog on a lead, and she tried to decide whether to enjoy the ride or attempt getting to her feet. Before her mind was made up, the board ran into the sand and it was time to start again.

It never felt tedious, grabbing the board and propelling it back out to sea. It was a game; choosing the right wave, waiting just the right amount of time, jumping on board at the precise moment so that she swooped back to shore like a bird.

Eventually, after falling off and into the sea more times than a toddler learning to walk, she managed to climb briefly to her feet. With a loud whoop of joy, she dug her toes into the waxed plastic and rode the wave back to the sparkling sand. As it ground into the beach she jumped off and punched the air.

“Well done,” Paul said, coming over to give her a high five. “You’re a natural. Are you coming back tomorrow?”

The smile slipped slightly and Claire shook her head. “Unfortunately not; I have to keep moving.”

“Nay worry. The day’s still young. Go get those waves, girl, they’re waiting.”

With a quick nod Claire picked up her board and ran back into the sea.

***

The Job you Can’t Quit: 2013 365 Challenge #311

Clean house, clean head?

Clean house, clean head?

I’ve had two major jobs in my life and I quit both of those as a result of stress. The first time the job was my first after graduating from university (aside from bar jobs and the like). I stayed for nearly two years until I had a nervous breakdown.

I’m the kind of person that likes to do everything to the best of my ability and I ended up working twelve hours a day, six days a week, without getting anywhere near on top of my work load. The more I did, the more they gave me. I was also working as a Guide leader and doing their accounts as well as some other stuff and in the end I imploded.

The company nurse (almost as her last act before they sacked her) signed me off sick with stress and the doctor diagnosed me for the first time with depression. So I quit, worked out around four months’ notice and went travelling.

The second job I quit was the last proper paid job I had. I had worked there for just shy of five years and it was feast or famine. I either had no work to do, because I didn’t fit into any department and they didn’t know what to do with me, or I was doing the work of three. I was ineffective and unstructured and pretty rubbish at my job towards the end, but they still rehired me as a contractor after I quit, because no one else knew how to do my job and they thought I was the bee’s knees.

Kitchen always the last to do

Kitchen always the last to do

There’s a pattern to my life: I like to get praise. I like to feel like I’m good at what I do. I like to feel valued. If there’s work to do, I will do it to the best of my ability. I hate missing deadlines, I hate letting people down, I hate saying no. I hate conflict or being told off or not making the grade. I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t realise I was working hard rather than smart, and making myself sick in the meantime.

Free from the work place I was a new person. I enjoyed life. I painted and wrote and mostly managed my own time. I had low periods of loneliness away from the work place, and feelings of low self worth because I wasn’t earning anything. But I wasn’t depressed.

Then I became a parent. Oh shit. If ever there was a job where the work was never done, the hours were lousy and the thanks rarely forthcoming it’s being a mum. And I mostly feel that I suck at it. On a good day I’m about average. I can just about praise the kids more than I yell at them, I can feed them more healthy food than rubbish, and I can put the laptop down long enough to read a story. That’s on a good day. On a bad day, like today, when I have PMT, I’ve had a cold for a fortnight, and the house looks like some scavenging bears used it for their party cave, I’m not a good parent.

I try. I try to keep my cool. But there’s a raging beast in me that escapes over trivial things. This morning it was the forty minutes it took to get the kids dressed, the fights with both of them that summer clothing is no longer appropriate, the lack of clean and ironed clothes because I haven’t stayed on top of it over the last two weeks, the twenty minutes of not-eating-breakfast-but-blowing-bubbles-in-our-milk-instead, and – the final straw – the taking everything out of my school bag instead of putting my shoes on, even though we’re all late for school.

Tidy bedrooms for five minutes

Tidy bedrooms for five minutes

I yelled. I screamed. I was angry. Then I calmed down and I hugged and I talked about the monster mummy that escapes. And my kids told me they loved me and it was mostly okay.

Only then we were really late, and I kept up a running commentary in the car about how late we were and how much trouble we’d get in if my daughter missed the school bell, and how we were now snarled up in the school-run traffic. Even when my kids tried to laugh me out of it, I told them it wasn’t funny. I was more mummy monster then than when I was yelling.

I left my son at nursery sobbing hysterically. He was still crying when I rang back fifteen minutes later to see how he was. I left my daughter clinging to the classroom assistant. I went home and sobbed. It took twenty minutes and some nice emails from hubby to get me out the car. Then I sobbed for at least an hour, when I was meant to be writing my post. My head aches. So I wrote some random Claire installment and I’ve spent the last two hours cleaning, trying to get some control back. But the dark monster still lurks.

I want to quit this job, where someone dirties my house as soon as my back is turned, and puts every item of clothing in the wash as soon as it’s ironed, and empties the fridge quicker than I can get to the supermarket, and takes away my smile and my love of life and leaves me yelling and crying. I want to quit. But I can’t. There’s no where to go. So, still crying, I will write my post, iron some more clothes, finish the vacuum cleaning, walk the dog in the rain, run to the supermarket and pick the kids up from school. I will give them a huge hug and tell them Mummy is sorry, even though they’ve heard it before. And, like I say to them sometimes, they’ll probably think, “Sorry isn’t good enough, Mummy. You have to not do the bad thing in the first place.”

Easier said than done.

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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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“Hello, Mrs Jenkins, it’s Claire.”

“Hello, Claire, how are you? Still travelling round the West Country? Kim reads your blog, although she says it’s been a while since you’ve updated it. I hope everything’s okay.”

As Claire listened to Mrs Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting she wondered how many other people had noticed her absence of posts and thought briefly how nice it would have been if someone had bothered to check she was okay.

“Yes, I’m still here. I’m staying at the Tintagel hostel tonight; just spent the day at the castle, so hopefully I’ll be able to write about that. I’ve been busy with work is all.” She hesitated, wondering if the lie sounded as obvious to her friend’s mum as it did to her.

“And how’s Kim?”

Mrs Jenkins sighed and the sound twisted Claire’s stomach with fear and guilt.

“Much the same, I’m afraid, still sunk in her melancholy. I understand, I really do. I’m as devastated that there won’t be any grandkids for me to spoil – I can’t see her sister ever settling down. But it doesn’t do to dwell. I’d tell her to get back to work, but she doesn’t have what you’d call a regular job.”

Her voice trailed off, and Claire felt her disappointment. As a parent you wanted your children to be happy and hopefully settled nearby. Kim’s mother must wonder what went wrong.

“Can I talk to her?”

“Of course, Claire. Sorry, here I am wittering on and you didn’t call to talk to me. Maybe you can snap her out of her misery.”

I doubt it, Claire thought privately, but merely said, “I’ll try.”

She waited while Mrs Jenkins went to find her daughter, and tried to decide how much she would tell Kim about recent events.

“Hello?” Kim’s voice, when it came on the line, contained none of its usual vivacity. Claire stifled a groan and, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, greeted her oldest friend.

“Kim, hi, how are you? Is your mum taking good care of you? I hope you’ve been out enjoying the sunshine.” She winced at her tone, and waited for Kim to complain she wasn’t a five-year-old. Instead her friend snorted with derision.

“Mum’s driving me mad, Jeff hasn’t been down once and the theatre company refuses to give me another role until I’m better, whatever that means.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you could do something else for a while. Work in a coffee shop, you know, just to get you out the house.” She injected a laugh she didn’t feel and added, “Isn’t that what unemployed actresses do?”

“This isn’t Hollywood. No big tips here. I didn’t go through drama school to earn the minimum wage making lattes for yummy mummies.”

Claire swallowed a genuine laugh. “You should start a blog, you’ve definitely got a way with words.” She regretted it instantly – the last thing Kim needed was someone making fun of her. But all her friend said was, “What, so I can just stop writing it one day, like you have?”

Claire took a deep breath. “It’s only been a week or so. I have been rather busy.” Running round after you for a start, she added silently. Sheesh, no wonder Jeff hasn’t been round. Then she reminded herself of everything Kim had been through and admonished herself.

“Conor tried to snog me,” she blurted out, to fill the uncomfortable silence. She waited, wondering if that would be shocking enough to rouse Kim from her darkness.

“Your boss? Why?”

Claire reeled. Of all the responses, she hadn’t expected that. It was a good question, one she hadn’t really thought of before.

“He was drunk, I guess.” That sounded lame. “He said he’d been wanting to do it since we met.”

“Did you snog him back? You might get a promotion. Isn’t that how it works in your world?”

The bitter, cynical words cut Claire. Then she remembered gossiping with her friend about a promotion in the office that could only have made sense if those involved were sleeping together. Even so, it was a hard accusation to throw at her best friend.

“I can’t believe you’d think me capable of that.”

“Oh, keep your hair on. You said he was cute, so what’s the harm?”

“He’s my boss! Besides, I don’t think of him like that.”

“Liar. You described him down to the green eyes and sexy bum. You don’t notice details like that unless you want to bed someone.”

Trust Kim to remember that when she’s heard nothing else. Claire wanted to defend herself, but the new edge to her friend left her unsure and vulnerable.

“Whether I like him or not is irrelevant; shagging the boss can only lead to trouble.” She tried to think of a way to change the subject, but couldn’t think of a safe topic.

“Look, my battery’s about to go. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay? I’m going to write a blog post. You should think seriously about starting one, you might find it helps.”

“Right,” was the only response Claire heard before she hung up the phone.

***

School Comms? 2013 365 Challenge #302

Maths Homework

Maths Homework

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not just your face?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Pumpkin Carving: 2013 365 Challenge #301

Getting stuck into the pumpkin

Getting stuck into the pumpkin

Today was hubbie’s ‘day off” so, after taking an hour in the morning to write my post, I took the children to the Farm for some Hallowe’en half term fun.

Our local farm always has some great activities on during the school holidays. This time they had a room full of craft (great, considering a huge storm is about to hit the UK, so indoor activities are essential) as well as the spooky house tour and pumpkin carving.

We skipped the spooky house tour – I think I’d like an extra parent with me before attempting that with under fives – but the craft room was empty when we got there, so we had great fun making paper spiders and cobwebs, Hallowe’en masks and origami cats. We played spot the difference and did spooky word searches and Mummy had lots of fun doing colouring in! 🙂

After that we ventured outside into the sunshine and wind, to see the animals. The larger beasts all look a bit sorry for themselves, covered in mud and sheltering from the incoming winter. We were lucky though – apart from a wind strong enough to blow us away, the weather was lovely. It was so nice to be able to get outside for the first time in weeks.

Which face is more scary?

Which face is more scary?

The kids made sand castles, fed goats and ducks, and stroked the horses. We went to see the baby quail chicks – oh my goodness but they’re tiny (I didn’t have a camera, unfortunately): they’re a week old and still only about half the size of a kiwi fruit (you have no idea how long it took to come up with a size comparison that made sense either side of the Atlantic!)

Then came the pumpkin carving. This is the first year either of the children has been able to actually do any of the carving, although I noticed the delightful job of scooping out sticky seeds still came to Mummy. My son wanted to recreate his own face on his pumpkin, while daughter went for a cat. I have to say, they did a pretty good job! (Shame about the photos, but you get the idea).

After a lunch of chips and ice cream (The clocks went back last night, so they’d already had a decent brunch, thankfully!) we had one more trip round the animals before heading off to the supermarket. An hour of shopping and all three of us were exhausted. Unfortunately, I still had bath time to tackle when I got home. Poor daughter is ripping up her neck itching after her unwelcome visitors, so we took some Twitter advice and washed their hair in tea tree shampoo, (to much chorusing of “it stinks!” Hopefully the crawlers think so too).

An hour of Daddy tiring time and then to bed. Unfortunately, somewhere along the line I appear to have picked up a cold, so tonight’s post is a bit lacking in glamour. As it’s half term tomorrow and I get no childcare for a week, all the posts might be a little under par. I’ll do my best! 🙂 I’m off for a dinner of pumpkin soup now (shop bought, I confess) as I don’t have the energy to cook anything else and hubbie doesn’t really do cooking!

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

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Claire had no idea what time it was as she swung the car into the hotel car park. Her twenty-year old banger didn’t have a dashboard clock and the black rectangle of her phone had as much life as a house brick.

I really ought to invest in a watch.

Smoothing down her trousers, Claire locked the car and headed into the hotel. As she walked, she let her heavy hair fall over her face. It wasn’t going to pass close scrutiny, but she could live without the curious stares of strangers as they tried to work out if she was injured or deformed.

The hotel lobby echoed with the clipping sound of her heels as she paced to the reception desk. When she spoke to the woman behind the counter she was surprised to hear a wobble in her voice.

“Hi, I’m meeting someone for dinner. I doubt he will have made reservations, is there somewhere I can wait?”

“Are you Miss Carleton?”

Claire’s face grew hotter, and she gave a minute nod.

“I’m so glad. Mr O’Keefe said he tried to call you, to inform you that he was running late, but was unable to contact you. Please wait in the lounge, and he’ll come and find you when he arrives.”

Damn, damn, damn.

Claire nodded her acquiescence at the receptionist and followed her directions to the lounge.

I can’t believe he tried to ring me when my phone was flat. Now he really is going to think I’m incompetent.

Claire ordered a latte and chose a seat in the dark shadows at the corner of the room. She wished she’d brought a book, and vowed to replace her much-missed tablet with her first pay cheque, assuming one actually arrived and Conor didn’t sack her for ineptitude in her first week.

For want of something to do, she pulled out the notes she’d made at the library, and tried to cram the information into her beleaguered brain. The facts and figures refused to stick. Her mind buzzed with concern at her boss’s imminent arrival and her body yelled in pain every time she shifted in her seat.

She had taken to counting the bottles behind the bar by the time she heard a familiar voice calling her name.

“I’m over here,” she replied, raising a hand, and making sure her hair still hung low over her face.

“Claire, hi, I’m so sorry I’m late. Last minute hiccup. I tried to call you.” Conor strode over to where she sat, wheeling a small case behind him and carrying a suit bag over his shoulder.

“Sorry, my battery died while I was out walking today and I didn’t get a chance to charge it. You know smart phones; they only stay charged for about ten minutes.” She kept her voice light and hoped that honesty was the best policy.

“Beautiful day for a hike. Where did you go? No, wait, let me just run these things up to my room. Why don’t you go through to the restaurant and I’ll meet you there?” He waited only for her to signal her agreement, and then he was gone.

Claire felt strangely flat, as she watched him weave his way through the tables and back out towards the lifts. As he disappeared out of sight, she had to remind herself this wasn’t a date, it was business.

***

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