Tears for Thomas: 2013 365 Challenge #182

Enjoying a tractor ride at Nene Valley Railway

Goodness me, it’s 1st July. I’ve made it through six months of my daily writing challenge. Last night, the sixth volume of Two-Hundred Steps Home appeared on Smashwords and has already had 25 downloads.

Baby Blues (Part One!) went to the proofreader last night too. It should have been all of it, but a crazy-busy weekend meant it didn’t quite happen. I hope to have finished editing the last 20 pages today, so the proofreader can have the whole manuscript, and I can get back to just worrying about Claire, promoting Dragon Wraiths (which will probably mean putting it back in the Select Programme, seeing as Smashwords has not produced additional sales), and catching up on some of the other projects that have been waiting for my attention.

July also means my daughter starts school in two months, and my son is ten weeks from his 3rd birthday. I know parenting continues to be challenging, but I do feel like I’ve survived a hurricane and can start rebuilding my house.

The penyy-farthing following us on the tractor ride

The penny-farthing following us on the tractor ride

Yesterday, visiting Thomas the Tank Engine, at the local steam railway, was a perfect example. We went to say farewell, as the little blue steam engine is going to hospital for his ten-year check up. The day was still tiring, still stressful, but oh so much easier than it would have been a year ago. No pushchair, no nappies (unfortunately it also means dashes to the toilet and forgetting to pack wet-wipes for the ice cream mess. Ah well.)

We watched the model railway, with James and Thomas, Emily and Percy (trains), as well as cameos from Postman Pat and Peppa Pig. (Photos will follow, when my computer stops being a pain). We sat in a cream and blue carriage while Thomas pulled us along the track and through a long tunnel. We went to a Victorian fair and had a tractor ride, sitting on straw bales. We had ice cream. We saw a man on a penny-farthing. A great day.

I watched mothers with pushchairs, with a toddler and a baby, and I wanted to help. I wanted to say, it gets easier. I wanted to reassure them it was worth the effort. I couldn’t, I don’t know how to do that without sounding patronising. But I hope they saw me with mine and saw a future where their children could both climb on the train unassisted and didn’t need carrying!

And now my daughter has tears for Thomas. She woke up crying last night, because she missed Thomas. This is a steam train we have visited maybe four times, which is going for a boiler overhaul and won’t be back for a year. My daughter’s capacity for empathy is bewildering and amazing in equal measure. One more thing to be thankful for, I guess!

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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 dragged at the car handle, but it wouldn’t open. She aimed a kick at the tyre and immediately regretted it, as her toe stabbed through the skimpy sandals she’d purchased to go with her maid of honour dress.

Behind her, she could hear that the band had started their next song. Slowly, the conversation returned, almost drowning out the sound of approaching footsteps. They weren’t the light ones she wanted to hear, but the heavy tread of an unwelcome male. For a moment she hoped it might be Jeff, come to reassure her that Kim wasn’t really that angry. Then she caught a hint of aftershave on the night breeze, and hope died.

Praying she could escape into the dark, Claire scurried round the car and wove through the others in the car park until she reached a Range Rover. Without thinking, Claire ducked down in the shadow of the 4×4 and listened. The footsteps stopped, and she felt he might hear her heart thudding in the silence, despite the sounds of the party in the distance.

“Claire?”

Michael’s voice rang out, closer than Claire expected. She flinched, but stayed ducked low, trying not to dwell on how absurd her actions were.

“Come on, Claire. I saw you come over here. The Skoda’s locked. Why are you hiding like a child?”

Because you sound like an angry parent. Claire clenched her jaw, and dug her nails into her hand. She concentrated on keeping her breathing shallow. Go away, Michael. You’ve done enough damage. Let me skulk off in peace.

The footsteps came nearer, crunching the gravel underfoot. Claire tensed, ready to run. She wondered if she should remove her sandals, but they were preferable to running barefoot across the stones. Michael stood between her and the hostel entrance.

“What are you going to do, Claire? Hide out here all night? I’m going to go and wait in our room, so you’ll have to face me eventually.” He stopped, as if listening for a response.

“You’re being childish, Claire. So Kim’s angry, so what? She’s the bride and, from what you say, she’s pregnant. Tears and tantrums go with the territory.” His voice sounded amused, patronising. Claire wanted to fly at him and gouge his eyes with her pink nails.

What did I ever see in him? What a self-satisfied prig. Kim was right. Thinking about her best friend – and the look of anger on her face as she inadvertently revealed her secret to all her wedding guests – brought bile to Claire’s throat. Her head thumped with too much champagne and she swallowed hard against the urge to vomit. That would give her away for sure.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. What a mess. She shivered, realising it was bitterly cold out in the car park, away from the heat of the hostel. Come on Michael, go away! She wondered if he was going to stand there all night, cornering her until she had to break cover or freeze. Then she remembered his threat to stand guard over her bag and car keys. What a tosser.

“Okay, Claire. Have it your way. I’m going to sit in the warm and wait for you to come to your senses.”

She heard the sound of gravel crunching, fading into the distance, as Michael carried out his threat.

“Damn!” Claire whispered, when she was sure he was gone. She stood and stretched out cramped muscles, resisting the temptation to lean against the Range Rover in case it set off the alarm. “How am I going to get my stuff back, without facing him?”

She stood in the dark and brushed away the tears, as options ran through her mind. She could bribe a member of staff to distract him, or call the police and tell them Michael was harassing her. Or she could get the RAC to get her into the car, tell them she had dropped the keys down a drain. Or she could just face him, and get it over with. Get the hell out, and leave him and his self-righteous preaching behind.

Shoulders back, chin high, Claire strode towards the building.

***

Lesson from a steam train (starrystez.com)
nvr.org.uk

Tidying Futility: 2013 365 Challenge #181

Playroom Carnage: We’re taking Baby Annabelle to France

I have taken to saying / tweeting lately that Cleaning with children in the house is like trying to paint a boat that’s still in the water. Utterly pointless.

Dragged myself out of bed this morning to tidy up, after a night if calpol and cuddles for fever boy. (Fever broke at 4am) I found craft sand all over the playroom after Daddy and daughter craft last night, so cleaning had to start there.

After ninety minutes of sorting, tidying and hoovering I found the playroom floor. It looked lovely.

Then Saturday morning TV ended and the children decided they wanted to go on holiday to France. They packed bags and babies and buckets of other junk (they’ve watched Mummy pack too often!) and the cushion corner became their car. I’ve been reading recently about the importance of play for the sake of play, and that mess is good. So, I am turning a blind eye.

Sometimes it takes effort to do nothing. No one said it was easy to be the parent you want to be. Lord knows I don’t manage it very often. But for now I’m off to hoover the lounge, and then LOCK THE DOOR!

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“I, Jeffery Philip Westwood, take you, Kim Louise Jenkins, to be my lawful wedded wife…”

Claire stood next to her best friend and tuned out the familiar words. It was the first time she’d been part of a wedding, although she had attended a few. It felt different, standing at the front, with the registrar so close. She was almost scared to breathe, in case she interrupted the ceremony. Gazing at the side of Kim’s face; her eyes sparkling, her lips quivering in a smile as she locked eyes with Jeff, Claire thought she could set off a firework and the bride and groom would be oblivious.

Her shoulder-blades itched. She could feel Michael sitting behind her; could sense his eyes boring into her back. It wasn’t hard to imagine his thoughts, as she stood this close to an altar. Although they’d never discussed marriage, the fight that had ended their relationship gave her a pretty good idea where Michael’s desires lay. People didn’t want children without wanting the full family experience.

The formulaic exchange of promises droned on. Claire recalled the awful night, four months ago, when her rosy view of the future had ended. When she’d realised how desperate Michael was for children. Their discussion had confirmed for her how equally-desperate she was not to have them. There hadn’t been anything to say after that.

And now, my best friend is married and with child. Wouldn’t Michael have a field day, if he knew. Resisting the urge to look behind her, Claire squared her shoulders and prayed for the weekend to be over.

The sun hovered low on the horizon. Dinner had been survived, and the free alcohol was going down a storm. Claire stood in the corner of the terrace, watching groups of friends mingling and separating in a slow, elaborate dance. Laugher echoed on the breeze, and through the people, the occasional flash of cream silk showed the bride at the centre of things.

Kim had managed to persuade some high school friends to turn up with their drums and guitars, and live music drifted out from the great hall. Claire had sent Michael for drinks, glad to get away from his pervading presence. Now the chores were done, he had taken to standing behind her shoulder like a bodyguard, scaring away anyone else brave enough to attempt to approach for a chat.

Claire mused that it would have been infinitely preferable to have come alone, and feel like the awkward spinster, rather than have the dark cloud of her past literally following her around, raining on her parade.

She felt a touch at her elbow and turned to see Michael holding out a glass of champagne.

“Have they run out of gin?” Claire frowned. Champagne made her giddy. What she needed was good, hard liquor.

Michael looked awkward for a moment, before saying, “Tonic. They’ve run out of tonic.”

It was clearly a lie. Claire sighed, the pent-up frustration of four months gusting forth like a hurricane.

“Enough, Michael. Stop trying to control my life.”

Michael’s head jerked back, as if she had slapped him. “I’m not trying to control anything.”

“Then why bring me champagne when it’s obvious they have plenty of gin and tonic. This is a licensed bar, not a village hall party. Are you hoping I’ll get drunk and you will get me horizontal? You can scrap that idea right now.”

Michael’s eyes hardened. “That’s not fair, Claire. You asked me to come, and all you’ve done is avoid me. Now you’re acting like I’m your father one minute, and some oik in a bar trying to get laid the next. I am none of those things.”

“Then stop acting like it. What happened, Michael? We used to work, once. What went wrong?”

“Nothing.” He took a step closer and she unconsciously stepped back, avoiding his outstretched hand. “Nothing went wrong. We had a misunderstanding, that’s all. I still love you.”

His words made her shiver. “If you do, then leave me alone. Please. I’ve moved on, Michael.” She wanted to add, I’ve out-grown you, but managed to hold her tongue.

“Is it still about the baby? We can talk about that. We never talked about it properly.”

“There was no baby, Michael, except in your mind. I was late for my period, that’s all. I wanted you to reassure me I could do what I needed to do, if I was pregnant. And you went all doolally on me, practically picking the baby names and decorating the spare room.” She glared at him. “I wasn’t ready for happy families, not then, not now.”

“But, I thought… All that time with Sky.”

“You thought, because I had fun with my niece, I was ready to be a mother? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You want to start again?”

He didn’t respond, but the shift in his expression told her she was right.

A boiling heat rushed through Claire, darkening her vision and causing her hands to tremble. “Get the message, Michael. I am not interested.” Her voice rose. “I do not want a baby. Kim can go ahead and have one, if she wants. Get married, have the happy ever after, but not me. I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“Kim’s pregnant?”

Michael’s voice rang out across the terrace, just as the band finished one song and were about to start another. His words caused a hush to fall across the assembled guests.

Claire felt the world close in. Me and my big mouth. She turned, seeking out Kim in the crowd. Her friend stood several feet away, her face white. Claire took a step forward, apologies on her lips. Kim gave her a furious stare and swept away.

Dropping her arms to her side, Claire prayed for the world to end. Of course it was a secret. Now her Director knows, everyone knows. How much trouble is she going to be in? She’s never going to speak to me again.

Michael reached out a hand, whether to blame or reassure her, wasn’t clear. She shook him off, and ran from the terrace towards her car.

***

Learning to Fail: 2013 365 Challenge #176

Me in sixth form (it was fancy dress, btw)

I stumbled across a great post in my reader today, about how hard it is for perfectionists to succeed. I used to think I was a perfectionist. I grew in a household of high expectations, particularly with regards to academic achievement.

I was the Straight A girl. When I got caught smoking by the dinner ladies, the first time I dared take a drag on school property, they threatened to suspend me for two weeks (or maybe it was two days, I can’t remember. With a single working mother, it wouldn’t have mattered if it was two hours, she still would have killed me). It took tears and form tutor intervention for the head of year to relent.

People got caught smoking all the time. A different head of year once told me to caution my bad-boy boyfriend (another story!) to stop smoking or he’d have to give him detention. Detention! Why was I threatened with suspension? Because I was one of the top pupils, who won all the awards and aced all the exams. Apparently I was setting a bad example to the younger kids I was caught with. (Never mind it was their cigarettes I was smoking and I was only there in a supportive role to a friend who had received some bad news).

Anyway, I digress. Being the best was important. But at least at school perfectionism is quantifiable. You get the grades, pass the exams, win the awards. You don’t make many friends or learn any hobbies, but that doesn’t seem important. What’s worse is, you never learn to fail.

Parkinson Building, University of Leeds by David Martin (no relation)

Parkinson Building, Leeds Uni by David Martin (no relation)

My first failure was not being accepted into the youth orchestra. (Apart from losing at sport, I did a lot of that, but sport is softly uncompetitive in state schools, so it rarely hurt.) It hurt not to get into the youth orchestra but I knew I was rubbish at violin and, besides, my Mum would have hated driving me an hour each way on a Saturday.

Then I failed to get into Cambridge University. But I was able to blame my tutors for lack of preparation (and I didn’t really want to go and was happy to get into the redbrick that was my first choice). The only thing that hurt was the snotty rejection letter, which I wish I still had! I even passed my driving test first time, goodness knows how.

There’s a theme, can you see? Until I graduated from university, I never failed at anything I cared about. Aside from relationships, and that’s a whole different endless anecdote.

Then I didn’t get a job I really, truly wanted. I was devastated. Crushed. I was a failure. I’d gone for something important to me, and I had not got it. Life over. Then, when I did finally get a job, I had a nervous breakdown before two years were out. Why? Because I couldn’t accept not being able to do everything that was thrown at me to the best of my ability. I couldn’t accept less than perfection. I was helping run a Guide unit, doing their accounts, training to be a leader and doing the Queen’s Guide award, working twelve hour days more often than not, and trying to keep up with new friends.

Making Pancakes

And I’d never learned how to fail, how to say no, how to say help! It took another twelve years for me to discover what my husband has always known: sometimes 65% is enough.

Now, with parenting, with friends, with housework, with my writing, I have learned that accepting good enough doesn’t mean I’m lazy, doesn’t mean I’m a bad person and certainly doesn’t mean I’ve failed. Too many times the kids have heard me say to my husband I’ve failed because I couldn’t find a school jumper, we ran out of nappies or the kids only ate pancakes for dinner.

The children had pancakes for dinner today. Cupboards are bare because the shopping doesn’t come until tomorrow. I haven’t failed. They’re fed. They had strawberries with them. They’ll eat veg tomorrow.

Kristen Lamb’s blog teaches that writers need to Ship. Whether it’s blog posts or novels, the only way to get better is to finish, get it out there and, if need be, fail. Writing a daily blog has taught me to ship: There are days I know my prose is nearer 40% than 80% but, hey, no one is grading me anymore, and the best I can do is hope to write something better the following day. Consistency is better than perfection.

What I have learnt, from the post I read today, and Kristen Lamb and others, is that the key is to fail forwards. Learn, move on, don’t dwell. It’s okay to fail.

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Claire peered through the hatch, trying to ignore the stench of body odour coming from the man next to her. Breathing through her mouth, Claire focussed her gaze on the pewter sky and resisted the urge to tut. Red kites were impressive, granted, but they flew regularly over her parents’ house. She didn’t need to wait in a dim shed just to watch a bunch of them being fed. Her mum’s next door neighbour had a table at the bottom of the garden where she left meat for the kites. No big deal.

The numbers on her phone ticked over to 3 o’clock. Come on, come on. Claire tapped her foot impatiently, and then wondered what her hurry was. It wasn’t as if she had a more pressing engagement. The morning had been spent wandering around a thirteenth-century castle, including stumbling through a damp limestone cave in the bowels of the fortification, with a hired torch.

The views from atop the castle mound had been breathtaking and she’d collected a batch for the blog, including a few with cows standing in the foreground. It was an incongruous place, but she couldn’t face anything more strenuous, like canoeing or cycling. Kim’s wedding gave her the perfect excuse, if not one she could offer to Carl. In an attempt to avoid intervention from the dreadful duo, she had decided some more spectacular photographs were the answer.

The hostel manager had suggested this trip to the Red Kite Feeding Station, for more stunning photographs. So far all she had experienced was an olfactory attack from the other hide members and a desperate need to pee.

Three o’clock arrived, as did a man with a bucket. Two or three dozen birds had gathered in the area without Claire noticing. They flapped their wings in anticipation as the food arrived and circled above the feeding station.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The noise of beating wings was deafening, even inside the hide. The dull grey sky filled with birds, wing feathers pointing like splayed fingers. There were so many it felt as if someone had photo-shopped the sky, overlaying the same two or three birds over and over in different poses of plummeting motion.

The birds swooped down and rose at speed, talons full of food. Even with her smartphone, Claire was able to capture a few incredible images. No longer conscious of the smell emanating from the person next to her, she focussed her entire attention on the writhing mass of birds. Nature, red in tooth and claw.

And then they were gone.

Her heart still hammering from the adrenalin of it, Claire followed the others out of the hide and strolled to the café.

I’m sure when Carl insisted on high-adrenalin activities, he didn’t envisage they could happen without me breaking a sweat.

***

Glimpse of the Future: 2013 365 Challenge #174

My angels playing the piano

We had a glimpse of the future today, or hopefully what the future might be like. The weather was kind and, having decided to let the children have an entire day at home, they were out in the garden by 8am.

Days at home are rare, as I find the hours go quicker when we’re out and about. The children behave better too, and I’m not tempted to try and do anything but watch them and maybe check the odd email.

As a result they view a day to themselves as a high treat.

They’re at an age where they play together quite well, such as games of Mums and Dads, with one of the dolls as their baby. There are the usual sibling scuffles, particularly because my daughter has a bike but my son still only has a trike. We were intending to get his big boy’s bike for his birthday but, as that’s 3 months away, I’ve been scouring ebay for one. [And found one, hurrah for ebay!]

So they played and I did housework and got the cover ready for June’s installment of Two Hundred Steps Home. Four hours flew by. I made lunch and dinner while they played the piano (watch the video here).

Garden mayhem

After lunch I gave them a wee lesson in Mummy’s Quiet Time, reading my book while they read theirs. It sort of worked, without too much shouting and huffing from me! We filled the paddling pool and had the sun-cream screaming session (for followers of me on Twitter), and they painted the decking with rollers and brushes and chalk until five o’clock.

I even managed to do one of ‘those’ jobs. You know, the ones that nag and nag and get worse because you maintain you haven’t got time, until every time you look at it you feel sick? We have an oak worktop in the kitchen and it’s my job to keep it oiled. Has been since before my son was born.

Only I haven’t. I managed for two years and then it slipped. Now the bit round the sink is rotting. So it’s been easy to think ‘Ah, too late anyway’.

Well, today I took action. Spent an hour cleaning it, only to find the oil had set in the bottle. Not to be deterred, I poked it with a spoon and found liquid oil underneath. Hurrah! Kids managed to stay away long enough for me to spread the oil, (although daughter did rush in to say son had fallen off the slide and I may have replied, ‘If there’s no blood it can wait’… You have to know my son to realise this is not a callous response but one born from a boy with a tendency to cry wolf.)

Anyway, long may such wonderful independent behaviour continue (of course I’ve put the kibosh on it by writing about it! The first rule of good child behaviour is not to talk about good child behaviour).

Maybe the school holidays won’t be so scary after all.

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Claire gazed at the hostel nestled into the hillside, and smiled. The sprawling whitewashed farmhouse was much closer to her imagination of Welsh accommodation than the Victorian house she had stayed in the night before.

The sun shone overhead – a walk-on cameo role in an otherwise overcast morning – and its rays lit the white walls in sharp contrast to the backdrop of green. Eager to leave her bag and get her hiking boots on, Claire headed in to find her room. After her adventure at Llangorse, she intended to keep her feet on terra firma. The guidebook mentioned hill walks and waterfalls and, provided there was no abseiling involved in the latter, that sounded just fine.

Claire had decided to drive to the opposite end of the Talybont Reservoir from the Danywenallt hostel, to do a walk she’d found on the internet. It was only five miles and would hopefully be done by lunch, as she’d failed to pick up supplies when she left Brecon.

Looking at the trail now from the car park, Claire was wondering if she’d lost her mind. The path led steeply uphill, passing alongside a waterfall. She could see the path was wet and probably slippery. With her wrist only just healed, Claire wondered if she could blag a blog post from the online description, rather than risk the walk.

A blackbird hopped along the path, searching for grubs, its head tilted and its orange beak glistening against the dark ground. He seemed to be inviting Claire along on an adventure.

“Oh, go on then. But I’m blaming you if I fall and break something else. You have to go for help, can you manage that?”

The blackbird took off at the sound of her voice, and watched her from the safety of a tree branch.

“Great, now I’m talking to birds. I am losing my mind, it’s official.”

Claire followed the path along to a ridge apparently called Craig Fan Du, according to her map. It sounded like a kung fu master or a dish of melted cheese. As she reached the ridge, the path vanished and the sinking feeling returned to the pit of her stomach. I do not want to get lost today, not up here.

She followed the ridge, scanning left and right for a path. Her tummy grumbled, as if reminding her that she’d come out without any food or water. Idiot girl. I should know better by now.

Spotting the path, Claire headed to the right hand side of the ridge. The path ran along the edge of a cliff and she prayed the rain stayed put in the heavy clouds hanging above her head. It looked like it would be treacherous underfoot if wet. The path led along to a river, where a waterfall crashed into the water, filling the air with spray and noise. Claire looked round, trying to find a bridge over the river. There wasn’t one. Great, wet boots. Lovely.

The water wasn’t deep, so Claire unlaced her boots and slung them round her neck. Tip-toeing through the icy water, trying not to slip and wet more than her feet, Claire was relieved to make the opposite bank. Okay, note to self: read the walk notes before heading off.

She trudged on, unsure exactly where she was on the map. At last she reached the war memorial and plane wreckage which was listed as a highlight of the walk. Standing alone in an isolated valley, surrounded by debris, Claire suppressed a shiver. Ghost stories were exactly that as far as she was concerned, but out here, with only trees and sheep for company, it was easy to hear the cries of the dying airmen blowing on the wind.

The route gave her a choice now, as the path petered out into sheep tracks and patches of boggy ground. The rumbles in her tummy were getting louder and it was taking all Claire’s effort to pull her feet free of the bog with every step.

Half way across the valley, her boot stuck fast. Pulling hard, Claire left the boot behind and toppled facedown onto the muddy ground. She lay, panting, her face coated with more mud than a Japanese clay mask. I hope Welsh bog is as good for the skin. Tears pricked in her eyes but she realised a different sensation was bubbling alongside hunger in her tummy.

Gradually the feeling rose, and she realised it was laughter. Claire rolled over on her back, the bog squelching as it released her. For some reason an image of Michael came into her mind. She imagined his reaction if he could see her now. Michael, who went hiking and hostelling with Debbie, but had never taken her on anything but five-star experiences.

Did he think I wouldn’t enjoy it, or was it Debbie that dragged him into the great outdoors? Maybe he sees me differently; a china princess to be cherished. She contrasted the image with Josh, who would be doubled-up with laughter and most likely would take photographs before offering to help her up. Shaking both images aside, Claire shuffled back to her buried boot and pulled it free. So much for not getting wet. Trying not to wince, Claire stuffed her soggy foot back into the boot and pulled the laces tight.

The map notes said she was only half way. Determined not to be disheartened, Claire crawled to her feet and set off downstream towards the woodland. The woods closed protectively around her, as a group of waterfalls provided surround-sound entertainment. The path wound alongside the river, with the cascading water chuckling and chortling, keeping her company.

This time a footbridge crossed the river and led Claire further into the woods. The waterfalls took her breath away, not just the noise and immensity of the water, but the glinting rainbows caused by the occasional shard of sunlight brave enough to break through the clouds. There was something passionate and untameable about the cascades of water, all white with fury and rushing with deafening noise, that resonated in Claire’s gut. They possessed a freedom she was only now beginning to understand.

At last the end was in sight. Claire no longer cared about wet boots. She strode across the stream, following the barely visible path back to the car park. Stomping along the final yards, footsore and soaked to her underwear, Claire reached the car and wished she could give it a hug. She settled for sliding into the seat, resisting the urge to remove the sodden boots. That would have to wait until she was back at the hostel. All she wanted was a cup of tea and a hot shower.

Looking in the rear-view-mirror, Claire was surprised to see the grin beaming through the dried mud on her face. That was fun.

***

http://www.walkscene.co.uk/map_view_61/Talybont_waterfalls_walk.html

Love, Spelled T.I.M.E: 2013 365 Challenge #171

Running through the Mirror Maze

I recently came across an article / blog post on Linkedin, by someone called Dave Kerpen, about the importance of balancing career progression with spending time with the children. It’s aimed at fathers but I think it’s relevant to any parent, working or not.

The article presents, in a lovely balanced way, the constant battle between spending time with our children and providing for them. As he so eloquently put it:

It’s all too easy to skip the family dinner in the name of helping to put dinner on the table.

Gardens of Surprise: keeping cool

It’s something we’ve had to deal with in the past, when hubbie’s work has taken him away at short notice, resulting in missed parents evenings or carol concerts, or when he travelled overseas regularly, leaving me to be a single parent for a week at a time.

It’s one of the reasons I didn’t go back to work after my first child was born. I worked as a contractor and my day could start at 6am and finish with me getting home at 9pm.

You can’t easily have two people working those hours and raise children, although I’m sure some people manage it.

Mummy, why does the lady have a big tummy?

When he worked from home, hubbie had the opposite dilemma: the kids got used to him being around for lunch and struggled with the idea that he was in the house but unavailable.

Then came the six months following the redundancy, when hubbie was home but desperately looking for work. And now it looks like he might have to commute further to get a new contract: missing bedtime most nights unless we keep the children up late.

I feel it too, when I’m buried in drafting or editing and it’s tough to raise my head above the parapet. Or I’m running a promotion and check Twitter far too often, until my son tells me to put the phone away.

Whatever job you do, or even if you don’t work but still have housework, laundry, cooking and all that jazz to deal with, finding a balance is hard.

Ready, steady, run!

The article had two particular lines that resonated with me. One was the article title: Your Career Highlights won’t be on Your Tombstone: your kids’ names will be. A bit black and white in a world of hues of grey (funny how I shy away from writing Shades of Grey these days!) but a useful reminder of what’s important.

The other line was a quotation from John Crudele: “How do children spell LOVE? T-I-M-E.”

My children spend more than two-thirds of their time at home with me, but they don’t always get my time. So today, when I picked them up from preschool, I took them to the Gardens of Surprise, a local attraction with water fountains and a sculpture garden. It was 26 degrees and humid outside and hot equals cross for me, so it was a gift for all of us.

Kiddies and the Giant Rabbit

For three hours we stomped on fountains, splashed through water walls, climbed trees, explored the woods for sculptures, visited the ice house, met a giant bunny and ate ice cream. It was fab.

At the end of the day I asked my daughter if it was nice to spend some lovely time with Mummy, and whether she felt like she’d had my attention for a few hours.

Her answer? “Not really, Mummy.”

Ah well, back to work then.

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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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“Kim, it’s Claire, how are you?”

“Hello, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. How’s the wrist?”

Claire looked at her bare arm, amazed that she had forgotten about it completely. It seemed months since her snowboarding incident, rather than just a week.

“It’s fine. I took the bandage off a couple of days ago. I haven’t exactly been straining it.”

“Where are you, then?”

“Kington, Herefordshire.”

“Where? Why? That’s practically Wales. I thought you were going to stay near the hostel for the wedding?”

Claire laughed. “I have to move hostel more or less every day, and there are only a handful round here. Besides, I can’t stay in Kington at the weekend, so I had to get to it and mark it off the list. Nice hostel, big red brick building, en-suite room.”

It was Kim’s turn to laugh. “You can take the girl out of the five-star resorts, but you can’t take a need for luxury out of the girl.”

“I’ll have you know I normally stay in a dorm.” She didn’t add that Carl and Julia challenged her expenses if she didn’t. “But this place is mostly small rooms and they happened to have a single free.” That was her excuse anyway.

“No need to defend yourself, I’d be staying en-suite every night if I could afford it.”

“Me too.” Claire heard the wistful tone in her voice. There was no romance sharing a bedroom with strangers. Not even Scottish ones. She flushed. That particular incident wouldn’t be shared with anyone.

“So, why are you calling? Mum has all the wedding planning under control. You just need to be there on the day, with whomever you manage to pick up as your plus-one.” She giggled.

Claire resisted the urge to tell her what happened when you shacked up with strangers in a hostel. An unwelcome image of the girl asleep on the floor flashed into her mind and she shoved it away.

“That’s why I’m phoning, actually.” She took a deep breath. “Michael called me yesterday.”

“Good God, what did he want? I thought you gave him the heave-ho months ago?” Kim kept her voice light, but Claire could hear the undercurrent of enquiry. They’d never discussed her break-up with Michael. It was too painful to revisit at the time, and other things had taken over since then.

“He wants to be my plus-one.”

“He what? The cheek of him! He hates me. And Jeff.”

“No, he doesn’t. You’re just very different, that’s all.” Claire winced at the memory of Michael meeting her best friend. They’d got on like dog and cat.

“You could say that. He’s an over-bearing, over-protective, old-fashioned, chauvinistic prig.”

Claire reeled at the litany of flaws. “Don’t hold back, Kim, you say what you really mean.” Her voice had a slight edge that was not lost on her friend.

“Are you defending him? Why did you dump him, if he’s so marvellous?”

“I had my reasons. He’s not as bad as you think, you know. You brought out the worst in him. You and Jeff, all over each other in the bar. He’s more reserved, that’s all.” Certain memories flickered in her mind. “Well, in public anyway.”

“You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?” The accusation stung for its veracity.

“No! No, but I don’t want to be the single bird at your wedding. He’d only come as a friend. It would be good. Give us closure.”

Kim snorted down the phone, but didn’t say anything. There was a strained pause, and then they both spoke at once.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be harsh–”

“I don’t have to bring him, it’s your wedding–”

They laughed and apologised. After a minute of, “After you,” “No, After you,” they resumed their conversation.

“Bring him, Claire. You don’t know many of my friends and if it allows you to move on, find someone more suited to you, then that’s a good thing.”

Claire smiled at the barely-hidden barb. “Okay, I will. He can make himself useful, pouring drinks or ushering people around.”

“Cleaning up vomit, looking after the drunks.”

“Kim!”

“Sorry.” She laughed, and changed to subject to the tricky question of red roses versus lilies.

As she hung up the phone, Claire replayed the conversation in her mind. She knew that Kim wasn’t Michael’s greatest fan, but the vehemence of her dislike surprised her.

Is Michael all those things? She didn’t remember him that way. He’d been a gentleman, in every sense of the word. Gentle, kind, thoughtful. Sure he opened doors and booked restaurants, but that didn’t make him old-fashioned, just unusual. Compared with her previous boyfriends it had been wonderful. And of course there were other things he excelled at. She blushed and forced the thought away.

That’s history now. He wants something I can’t give him. The weekend will be good; we can part as friends and move on.

Claire gazed unfocussed at the bright yellow walls of the hostel lounge and let her mind drift, ignoring the sense of anticipation building in her tummy.

***

Narcissistic Self-Absorption: 2013 365 Challenge #170

Playing tennis

My daughter had her first taster session at primary school today, and it inevitably raised the subject of schools again.

She’s happy with her current placement and so am I. What was interesting, though, was spending the day with two of my baby-group friends and raising the question of State vs Private schools with them for the first time.

They’re both State school teachers, and their children will be in my daughter’s class in September. I therefore wasn’t expecting an endorsement of private education.

However, what I hadn’t really expected was the strength of their negativity. I’m not a political person and it never occurred to me that State vs Private was such an emotive subject. (Okay, I’m naive).

Phrases like, ‘You might be able to afford the fees but can you afford the lifestyle?’ came up, even though one of them had looked aghast at me the week before, when I’d suggested getting my kids clothes from a cheaper supermarket, and admitted that I’d happily send my child to school in a jumper with a hole in.

Tennis balls hanging from the washing line

The nuances of okay and not okay are too subtle for me to comprehend. I’ve never been very good at fitting in, although I’ve always tried desperately hard to do so.

Also both my friends already have children at school and I felt I was getting it all wrong by ordering the wrong uniform in the wrong sizes and taking at face value the letter that says summer dresses are only for the summer term. (I haven’t ordered one as a result, even though my daughter is desperate to wear one. Apparently they’re fine for September. Who knew.)

It’s like joining the parenting club all over again. So maybe it’s going to be as bad whatever school she goes to, and if it’s one where I don’t know any other parents, well at least I won’t know if I’m getting it wrong!

I did get a whiff of a sense that I might lose some friends if we decide on the private school. I’d be sad, for me and for Amber, but can’t help wondering if they’re really friends in that case.

My best friend and her son live in a different town and our friendship – and that between her son and my children – has survived him going to a different school, (as long as his school friends aren’t actually there) so I won’t be without friends, whatever our decision.

Next stop Wimbledon

I also read an interesting article today on shyness and how it can make people narcissistic in their self-consciousness. That’d be me. I’m clearly destined to be paranoid and delusional whatever, so it may as well be on a grand scale! Sometimes I’m rather proud of being different. Maybe I’ll be the one who doesn’t wear make-up and Boden on the school run. The world won’t end.

I tried for neat hair and make-up today, so I didn’t embarrass my daughter at her new school, and the faff it took finding time and space to get ready wasn’t worth the look of shock on my friends’ faces or the surprised ‘Wow, you look amazing’.

Though, of course, that was nice.

What were those three rules again from the comments on my last post on Education?

You’ll always get it wrong, your kids will think you got it wrong, and none of it really matters in the end.

A good friend I bumped into today, whose kids attend private school, said pretty much the same thing.

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“When did you last have your hair cut?”

The stylist lifted Claire’s hair and let it fall again. Claire looked up at his face in the mirror and caught the faint sneer as he pulled his fingers roughly through her hair.

“I don’t know. A few weeks.” She did a quick tally in her mind. “Two months. I had it done before my leaving do. It’s only been two months.”

With a small tut, the stylist turned away and called to an assistant. “Wash this, please. Plenty of conditioner.”

Claire allowed herself to be led towards the sinks, feeling abashed at the terrible state of her hair. It didn’t seem fair. She hadn’t straightened it or done anything more than brush it into a ponytail for weeks. It should be in excellent condition. Okay, maybe being out in the sun and wind didn’t do it much good. And she often only managed to wash it with shampoo before the shower ran out of hot water. But still.

“Is that water okay for you?”

Claire realised the timid question was directed at her. The water was too hot, but she nodded and gritted her teeth. Attempting to relax into the chair, despite the sink digging into the back of her neck, Claire closed her eyes. The assistant massaged her scalp, digging deep with nails that were too long for comfort. As her head was pulled this way and that, Claire inhaled and admonished herself to relax.

A hair cut was a luxury she hadn’t managed in a while. There hadn’t seemed much point on the road. But that morning she had woken with a clear urge to have it done, and had phoned around the local towns until she’d found a salon with space.

The massage complete, Claire shuffled back to her chair, where the assistant asked her if she would like a drink, without quite meeting her eyes.

“Tea, please. Earl Grey if you have it.”

The assistant glanced at a machine in the corner, and Claire braced herself for something more akin to dishwater than a tasty beverage.

“What are we doing with it, then?”

Claire winced as the stylist dragged a comb through her wet hair. She met his eyes in the mirror and tried a smile. It bounced off his tanned skin, as he continued to frown.

“Your hair is thick, isn’t it?”

Stifling a sigh, Claire nodded. Every new hairdresser said the same. “Yes, it’s thick and heavy, no it doesn’t hold a curl or a style. I just need it tidied up, please. With some feathering around my face.” She indicated the shorter sections that were meant to tuck under her chin but currently hung nearer her chest.

With a look of disappointment at the lack of challenge to his consummate skill, the stylist sectioned Claire’s hair and clipped most of it up on her head.

“No highlights or lowlights? I can see some growing out.”

Claire tried to shake her head, but he had it pinioned. “No thank you. Keep it natural, please.” A tiny thought flickered in her mind, Michael prefers it natural. She ignored it.

An hour later, Claire’s head felt gloriously light, as her hair bobbed above her shoulders, curling under in a way she knew she’d never achieve at home. It shone like polished mahogany. The stylist had cursed at how long it had taken to straighten her mass of hair, but it was worth it.

Claire swung her head a little on the pretence of shaking away the shorn locks clinging to her cardigan. She felt like a woman in a shampoo commercial.

With a beaming smile, she took her credit card back from the lady on reception and left the salon, head held high.

***

Baby Shower: 2013 365 Challenge #168

High Tea: now you see it…

I went to my first baby shower today.

They’re not a big thing here in the UK (or not in my experience anyway): we tend to make more of a fuss once the baby is born. It was lovely to be able to chat with the mother-to-be while she was awake and full of beans, rather than half asleep and exhausted, and for the focus to be on her rather than a bundle of joy that would rather be feeding.

We played lovely games like ‘name that baby food’ and ‘taste the chocolate in the nappy and identify it’. Also a new experience! (I confess I just sniffed the chocolate in the nappies!)

The interesting part for me was how, as a group of friends, we tried so hard to get the balance between supportive and honest. Five out of six of us already have children, so when the mother-to-be started sharing horror stories people have told her, about birth and after, we had to walk the line between ‘oh yes, that happened to me’ and ‘don’t be silly, you’ll be fine.’

…now you don’t

Really, though, what person tells a 33-week-pregnant woman all the details of episiotomies and C-sections? By that point you’re ‘on the train’, as my friend kept saying: it’s too late to get off.

Isn’t parenting like that though? Always running the line of honesty versus compassion when it comes to discussing it with people yet to get to the point you have reached? (Whether it’s babies or teenagers.)

It’s the same with the blogs I follow. Some of them are all about telling you it’s okay to be the less-than-perfect parent.

Like this one on the Scary Mommy blog about the school holidays. (Interestingly, some parents still feel the need to leave vicious comments along the line of ‘if you hate your kids so much, why did you have them?’ I mean, really? It’s meant to be hyperbole, it’s meant to be sarcastic. Don’t take it so seriously!)

On the other hand, some posts gently remind you, on occasion, to strive to be a better parent. Like this one from Raised by My Daughter about the glory of holding a child’s hand and being dragged off into their world of adventures. This was my response to the post this morning:

I really needed this post, thank you. My son’s nearly three and at the tugging, Mummy come see, stage. But I also have the 4yo insisting I watch her ballet or listen to her story. I confess the hand-pulling mostly irritates me because I’m generally too exhausted to get up. You have reminded me to try and find the energy to get up and go exploring more often and see it as endearing rather than annoying. Thank you!

So, to my mother-to-be friend, if I were to give you advice (which I won’t, because you won’t need it), it would be Don’t judge others, keep a sense of humour, and follow some great blogs.’ These two would be a good start (check them out, if you haven’t before).

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Claire wandered around the china museum without seeing it. Her mind whirred with unwelcome thoughts until her skin tingled, vibrating like a busy computer. Fear for Ruth and Sky tangled with vague dread about Kim’s wedding. She was unclear whether it was the event that bothered her, or the fact that she would be attending by herself.

A memory presented itself at the door of her mind and asked to come in. Claire tried to deny it entrance, but it insisted. There in her head was a vivid image of Michael, with his ex-girlfriend Debbie, at Manchester airport. She could hear him speaking, although she wanted to block out the sound.

“We were coming back from a wedding. An old friend of Debbie’s. Debbie didn’t want to go by herself and I said I’d go. As a friend.”

The words swirled in an eerie rendition of Michael’s deep voice, like a sound-bite in a news bulletin heard on the radio again and again.

“As a friend.”

She considered it. But we’re not friends, not like that. If I invite Michael to a wedding, he’s going to get the wrong idea.

Claire followed the guide and tried to tear her mind away from unpleasant thoughts to concentrate on the here and now. She watched the spinning potter’s wheel, the capable hands moulding and guiding the clay into a beautiful shape.

I wonder if Kim would like a vase for a wedding present. Glancing at the walls of delicate pottery, Claire remembered the baby growing in her friend’s tummy. Not such a good idea. A weekend away at Ragdale Spa would probably be more useful.

Claire felt heavy, as she plodded after the guide and attempted to concentrate. Her limbs dragged down until they felt impossible to lift. With effort, she took pictures of the flickering light in the kiln, the fine china of the gallery, the conical chimneys, towering against a murky sky.

Coffee, that’s the answer.

She scanned the area for café signs, but couldn’t see any.

“Excuse me?” Claire approached the guide, unaware whether she had interrupted her or not. Her muffled ears weren’t picking up sound as they should. The lady turned, a questioning look on her face.

“Is there a coffee shop here?”

The question was greeted with a look of bewilderment and Claire decided she probably had interrupted the guide mid-flow. It was too late to be embarrassed. So what if this stranger thought she was rude?

“There isn’t, I’m afraid, but the Youth Hostel is a short walk away; there’s a café there.”

Claire nodded and turned to leave. She was halfway back to the hostel before she realised she hadn’t even said thank you.

***

Watching and Failing: 2013 365 Challenge #167

Cosy Bunnies

Had a strange instance of parenting fail today. I’m blaming the lack of sleep. Today was not a great day to take both kids to the Farm by myself. Normally I like going to one of the Farms, they’re relaxing places with plenty to keep the kids amused. As it took two hours to even get out the house, due to my tiredness and their inability to do something as simple as brush their teeth, my nerves were already stretched before we left home.

I paid for them to paint a plaster of paris plaque in the craft barn. Both chose fairies and all was good until I tipped out the black water and got some fresh, as it was muddying the watercolours.

Littlest Martin threw a paddy because he wanted black water, and proceeded to prove his point by painting his fairy black.

Painting fairies

For some reason it made me mad, to the point I had to leave the room. But not until I’d got grumpy with him and accused him of being ungrateful. All because he liked black.

And because I wanted to paint a fairy and make it beautiful. Ironically his black fairy is very effective, much more so than his sister’s multi-coloured one, or anything I might have painted.

I do try to let them do their own thing, although covering stuff in black paint does irritate me for some inexplicable reason. (Maybe I get frustrated with the art stuff because that’s my thing, particularly colour.)

On a good day it wouldn’t lead to anything from me but a gentle, ‘How about blue?’. But, when I’m tired, it seems I’m more of a two-year-old than he is. Thank goodness kids are forgiving!

Painting the world black

Later I was able to sit and watch the children across the playground, out of earshot. It was lovely.

There’s an irony in choosing to sit and watch the children unobserved, when generally they spend all day saying, ‘Watch me, watch me!’ because I’m reading a book or checking my email. Maybe it’s the gift freely given, or that it’s nice to watch without having to be an active participant. ‘Watch me!’ really means, ‘Praise me and applaud my marvellous efforts,’ or ‘Watch me so you’re no longer watching my sibling,’ or ‘Tell me I’m better than them, tell me you love me more.’

This passive watching, as my two sit side by side in a sand pit happily digging, not flicking sand or annoying each other, this is a joy not a chore. I have felt in my life that my family are never watching. Maybe they’re doing this lazy, passive watching-at-a-distance. It’s a nice thought.

And then you make eye contact, and it’s broken. 🙂

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Claire hurried forward and slid onto a wooden chair at the back of the gathered audience.

I hope Maggie wasn’t having me on, telling me to come here. I wonder if she knew it was St Georges Day?

Claire looked around at the people hemmed in on either side. A flutter of panic rippled in her stomach. After a morning spent with small children, what she needed was quiet repose and coffee. Her internet search on Blists Hill after lunch had revealed the St George’s Day activities and it had been too good an opportunity to miss.

She’d arrived at the hostel to be informed by the manager that she had five minutes to get across to the location before the performance began.

Inhaling deeply to control her ragged breathing, Claire felt as if every eye was on her, judging her for her frizzy hair and the sweat trickling down her neck and chest into her bra.

The set in front of her didn’t looking inspiring. A wooden board with the English flag painted on it and a tatty basket in front isn’t exactly West End theatre. Claire tried to remember that Shakespeare’s plays hadn’t been big on set design either.

A hush fell over the gathered crowd and a person came onto the stage. Claire sat enthralled as she watched the rendition of St George and the Dragon, enacted brilliantly with a handful of actors and a dragon costume. She was no longer aware of the uncomfortable chair or the drying sweat on her forehead.

As the play finished, Claire looked around at the clapping crowd. Even the children seemed to have enjoyed the performance. Part of Claire felt pleased to know that modern children weren’t above being entertained by something that wasn’t 3D animated with surround sound and a bucket of popcorn. She wondered if Sky would have enjoyed it.

Thinking about Sky brought to mind the long-overdue call to Sky and Ruth. With a quick look at her phone she realised Sky would still be on her way home from school. Instead she changed some money into pounds, shillings and pence, and wandered through the Victorian streets, buying bottles of curiosity cola and other knick-knacks to send home to Sky.

The cola bottle reminded her about her assignment. I wonder if I could weave it into a blog post. Hmmm maybe Coca Cola wouldn’t be too impressed if I wrote about a rival brand. It seemed strange thinking about work in this old-fashioned location. Her shiny glass office and life of travelling to client meetings seemed a world away now.

“Hello, Sky, it’s Auntie Claire. How are you?”

“Auntie Claire, hello! We learned about fossils at school today. Did you know they’re hundreds and millions of years old?”

Claire sat back into the bench and let her niece’s words flow over her. The jumble of images made her smile, as she pictured the blonde head bent in concentration over rocky fossils and pictures of dinosaurs. There was something very real about listening to Sky talk about her day at school. Seeing the world through fresh eyes; feeling the youthful excitement at every discovery. A tired world felt and experienced anew

In turn, she told Sky about the Victorian town, with people in costume and old fairground games, and the rendition of George and the Dragon.

“How is your Mum?” she asked, when the conversation came to a natural pause.

“Sleeping. Nana says I mustn’t disturb her.”

“Is Nana there?”

Sky didn’t answer, but Claire heard running feet and a call down the corridor. She waited, hoping her mum was in a good mood.

“Yes?”

“Hi Mum, it’s Claire.”

“Oh. Where are you?”

“In Shropshire. Kim’s getting married next weekend, so I’m staying west to attend the wedding.”

There was a pause, and Claire imagined her mum processing the information. She waited for the inevitable comparison to her own spinster-state. It didn’t come.

“Well, about time. I never understood that long engagement thing. In my day if you wanted to get married you did, and had as grand an affair as you could afford.”

Claire looked round at the Victorian town, thinking her mum sounded like she came from that era rather than thirty years ago, when she and her father had a pretty lavish affair, if the photos were anything to go by.

They talked some more about the wedding and Claire was grateful to her mum for not asking who she would go to the wedding with. At last there was only one question left to ask.

“How’s Ruth?”

“Fighting. I wasn’t happy when she told me you’d let Sky meet up with that good-for-nothing ex of hers. But it’s given her something to fight for. It’s good to see. The medication will only take her half the way.”

Claire felt the knot in her stomach release at her mum’s words. As long as her sister was fighting, that was the best to be hoped for.

“Give her my love,” she said, before saying farewell. The clock said 5pm but, to Claire, it felt like bedtime.

***

Advice versus Instinct: 2013 365 Challenge #164

My little man growing up

Yesterday’s post on private versus state education sparked an interesting discussion, and it got me thinking about parenting and advice. It is natural to ask others for advice when you’re unsure, or facing a major decision in your life. I, especially, like to seek a myriad of opinions before forming my own.

Maybe it’s the academic in me: I tend to ‘research’ things. Maybe it the Libran in me (if you follow star signs) – forever sitting on the fence. I can’t buy a vacuum cleaner or book a hotel without reading ALL the reviews, until I can’t reconcile between the one-stars and the five-stars and I no longer have any idea what my own opinion is.

Well, that’s okay. If it’s a rubbish vacuum cleaner or a crappy holiday, learn and move on.

The problem with parenting is that the need for advice is HUGE and there are many many people to ask for guidance. But, unlike a vacuum cleaner, the product isn’t the same for them as for me. Their children are not my children, their lives are not my lives. Their upbringings, local areas, houses, family, careers, husbands, wives, great-aunt Noras are not mine.

This is normal, right?

And so, while their advice is helpful, it can be only that. Which is fine, when you are rested, and calm and in control of your own sanity.

There have been times, though, when I haven’t trusted my own judgement, and I have taken other people’s advice too much to heart. Forgetting, of course, that their kids are not my kids, and so on…

It has taken me five years and much heartache to get to a point where I trust myself, my knowledge of my children and my values, to make parenting decisions by myself rather than by committee.

The education debate is a classic example. Don’t get me wrong: I love the discussion it generated and I genuinely value every response. But it didn’t make my decision any easier, because every single situation is different. I have access to a fee-paying non-(overtly)-religious co-ed school. My state schools are amazing (in this ten-square-mile area I am blessed to call home) and so on. The best piece of advice was provided by Miss Fanny P, and is applicable to all parenting decisions:

i) as a parent you always get it wrong 😉
ii) however hard you try they will get to 13/14 and tell you they are in the wrong school and it’s all your fault
iii) they all do get there in the end.

These are things to remember in every situation. Add, ‘Remember to smile’, and you’re done. 🙂

And of course there’s a difference between solicited and unsolicited advice. As a new parent, I had equal amounts of both! Sometimes I wanted sympathy without solutions, but it is human nature to fix. I do it myself, ALL THE TIME. I hate myself. When a mother is having problems with sleep or feeding, I wade in: even though I never solved those things myself.

My beautiful, stubborn, boy

The same is true now with potty training. I had a whinge on Facebook a while back (I may even have asked for advice, which was silly) and the comment list was endless. Including someone who recommended I take my child out of nursery for two weeks and put him on the toilet every half hour. Goodness me. Just thinking of taking my child out of childcare for that long gives me the shivers, never mind battling him on to the toilet like that.

This evening he had the screaming heebies because I tried to carry him to the toilet when he declared he was ‘having a poo’ sitting on our beautifully embroidered piano stool.

Thankfully he seems to have more or less taken to potty training by himself, despite my huge reservations when nursery put him in pants against my wishes. We had a few more accidents than with my eldest, but then I think nursery started him a few weeks too early. I had to go with it and now I’m glad I did, but I have to admit they did most of the hard work on the two days a week that he’s with them. And that’s because he doesn’t fight them the way he fights me!

I had a clear idea for this post (I asked hubbie for a topic and he said ‘potty training’) but it seems to have turned into a random ramble. Apologies. It’s been a long day. But one without any potty training ‘accidents’. Hurrah! Long may it continue. If only choosing a school and knowing we’ve made the right choice were that easy! 🙂 Thanks again for all your views.

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“So, the eco lodge it is.”

Claire sighed and sipped at her second latte. Her side-trip to the Motorway Services to buy coffee had made her next destination inevitable. Although, with nothing to fill her day except getting to her next location and finding an activity, there was no real reason to go to the nearest hostel.

I could be in Scotland by tea-time if I wanted to. But she knew her brief was to travel as a visitor might, and that meant hopping from hostel to hostel, with one eye on the petrol-gauge and the other on the budget.

The National Forest hostel held little appeal. Any place that sought to reduce the effect of her stay on the environment screamed lack of creature comforts in too loud a voice. It ticked another one off the list, though, and that meant she was one step nearer freedom.

Claire looked at the building ahead of her through tired eyes. It wasn’t what she was expecting. Where were the trees, for a start. This is the National Forest. I expected a building hidden by dark pines, with no sight of the sky. Not this blank-faced brick pile on the edge of a field.

The building itself looked like a Travelodge. It was so far the other end of the scale from Stratford-Upon-Avon’s Georgian mansion it made her soul ache. Well, Claire, this is what you get for letting gin rule your life. If you’d kept your clothes on you would still be surrounded by historic grandeur.

With a heavy heart, Claire swung her car into the driveway. At least it’s new and clean, I guess. Not the straw-bale and lime building I expected an eco hostel to be.

Claire’s expectations were further stretched as she parked and entered the building. Modern furnishings, bright décor and clean lines spread out around her. It wasn’t dissimilar to the interior of Stratford. I guess that’s the YHA brand. Bland and clean.

In her room the bunks had drawers underneath for belongings, and there was an ensuite wet room. No hole in the ground or shack out back with cold showers.

You’d think by now I would learn not to give in to expectations.

The manager had let her leave her bag in the room but, as it was only 10am, she needed to vacate for the day. His recommendation was that she go llama trekking. Claire managed to swallow her immediate response and nod, as if that might be the perfect way to spend the day after waking at dawn with a strange man in her bed.

Locating the rather small self-catering kitchen, Claire made herself a mug of earl grey and curled up on the sofa, prepared to spend her day with Katniss. She didn’t want time to think.

“Claire! It is Claire, isn’t it?”

With a thudding heart, Claire looked up at the sound of the voice. Memories of the night before intruded without permission and her stomach tightened. She didn’t recognise the woman approaching her across the room, but the smile on her face was encouraging.

“Don’t you remember me? It’s Maggie.”

Claire recalled the woman who had tramped with her to buy gingerbread, and felt her face respond in a mirroring grin.

***

Evaluating Education: 2013 365 Challenge #163

If my children go to a private school will I have to learn to iron?

I received a prospectus for our nearest public (private, fee-paying) junior school in the post today. Our daughter is enrolled in the state school and due to start in September, but I read it anyway because, why not? I’ll tell you why not! It took us long enough to choose the right primary school, without bending the brain yet further.

We’ve often talked of sending our kids to private school at some point. It would stretch us financially, but so does sending them to nursery so I can write (and they can make friends). You make your choices. Cheaper cars and holidays, no dinners out or weekends away, clothes from charity shops. Easy choices, actually, as they’re not things that bother us too much. But I’d always figured there wasn’t much point paying for education at 4 years old when there’s a perfectly good primary school funded by our tax (well, hubbie’s anyway!)

Our discussions about private education have never been straight forward, either. It’s not just the money. What if our children became ashamed of us and our concrete-coated ex-Council house? What if Mummy has to start shopping at Boden and wearing make up on the school run? What if an old car isn’t good enough? Would I need a Chelsea Tractor to fit in?

My little princess

I remember childhood embarrassment. Hiding in the foot-well as Dad dropped us off in his latest rusty yellow banger or when my stepdad picked us up from the school disco in his dressing gown and clogs. I was never embarrassed of them as people, though, or of our house. It would never occur to me not to invite someone home.

I do remember the chagrin of not having the same possessions or going on skiing holidays. I remember a whole school year of enduring taunting from a child several years younger than me, the grandson of my mum’s boss, who’d been put in state school after years of private education. He used to tell everyone I was his Grandmother’s secretary’s daughter, in that plummy voice that made me want to hit him.

What if I felt like that about my own children? I’ve battled insecurity and a lack of belonging all my life, and I dearly want my children to have a different experience. That’s the lure of a private education. The attention, the sport and music, the extra curricular activities, all help children find their niche and excel in it. That gives confidence and contentment that lasts well beyond the relevance of academic grades.

I see it time and again, comparing the friends with at least some private education versus those with none. Who wouldn’t want that for their child?

I’d have to learn to wear a mask over my foot-in-mouth honesty

But will my insecurities mean I suffer and they suffer with me? Will I lose my sense of belonging with my Mummies community, so they can find their place in the world? And should that stop us? Just reading the prospectus left me torn. Because that belonging starts right at the beginning. It says “there is no assessment for Reception year”, which implies there is after that. We might decide we can afford the school in a year or two, only to have them reject us and our child.

There are other factors too. Reading one of the ‘Related Articles’ below, suggested by WordPress, there are arguments I haven’t even considered.

Is it right to perpetuate the class divide by sending our children to a private school? Will they get a sense of entitlement, rather than learning that hard work is the only way to get results in life? I would still want them to work in the summer holidays, as I did, but would that fit with their life/friends/social engagements? It’s a tricky decision and one that will never be straightforward.

We all want the best for our kids. If only we knew what that was.

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Claire tapped some commands into the SatNav and continued driving. Her throat begged for water, dry to the point it was hard to swallow. Inside her pulsing brain, her thoughts raged through the pain.

What is wrong with me? My best friend is practically a wife and mother, and I’m still doing the walk of shame at 5am.

Her cheeks burned as the events of the last twelve hours ran through her mind in unwelcome clarity. While Kim has a career, a man who loves her and a baby on the way, what have I got? She glanced around the inside of her car. A rusty old Skoda that’s my only travelling companion, a boss that wants to sack me, and a daily blog that needs more attention than a new-born brat.

Following the monotone instructions from the small plastic box attached to her windscreen, Claire tried to ignore the stream of self-loathing pouring into her mind. It didn’t work.

I wanted to stay at that gorgeous hostel for a few days. Visit Stratford, maybe take in a play. She thought about the programme to As You Like It tucked into her handbag, picked up from the hostel reception. The manager had informed her that she would probably be able to get a Monday night ticket, if she didn’t mind where she sat.

Instead I go and ruin it by getting semi-naked with a complete stranger. Not to mention bouncing on a bunk-bed in a single-sex dorm. I’ll be lucky if they don’t revoke my YHA membership.

Attempting to stop the torrent of thoughts with rationality, Claire tried to put the incident into context. Shacking up with total strangers and frolicking with them back in the bedroom was closer to her original impression of what hostelling was all about. But, then, she had pictured flea-infested bedding and filthy facilities. All her initial preconceptions had been proven to be rubbish.

Motorway lights paraded past in a blur, as the dawn dragged the darkness from the sky. Claire willed her eyes to remain open, and concentrated on the road ahead. Her eyes ached from staring out of the alcohol-induced fog filling her skull. At last The SatNav announced her favourite words.

“You have reached your destination.”

Claire looked up at the services. She chose not to think about the fact that she had passed one Starbucks only minutes from the hostel and travelled an additional 20 miles to find one that might be open. Her phone said 5.30am. Please be open.

Collecting her bag and phone and, checking the keys were in her hand, Claire pushed down the lock and slammed the car door.

The services were quiet, with only a few lorries parked in neat rows, and a handful of cars dotted around in careful solitude. The sun was only just thinking about hitting snooze on the alarm, and the sky remained steel-grey. Trees and shrubs added life to the paving and tarmac, and the services building reared up ahead in glass and tile. The words Claire longed to see emblazoned the building to the right of the entrance. All around was an air of peace.

Stratford might be a beautiful, ancient town, steeped in history. But service stations offer promise: journeys, moving on, respite and refreshment. They’re soulless, yes, but wonderfully anonymous with it.

The doors opened with a quiet hiss and Claire headed towards Starbucks. It was closed.

“Opens at 6am, love,” called a voice from behind the counter. “You can always go to the Coffee Nation.”

“I’d rather drink from the toilet,” Claire muttered quietly. She checked her watch. 5.35am. Taking her iPad, Claire found a seat and opened her book. The important things in life, like husbands, careers, good coffee, were worth the wait.

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