June Journals #19 ~ Striving to Grow

Well, they passed.

Despite my daughter’s tears starting before we left home, and increasing to sobs of ‘I’m NOT doing it’ as we stood outside the exam room, she did her exam and passed easily.

Not so easily for my son. He passed too, but I suspect only because Sensei was being kind. Actually, kind is the wrong word. Apparently he ‘yelled’ at my son for getting his kata turns all wrong (which he did, and totally deserved being told off, because he refused to practice).

Unfortunately, my daughter came out even more terrified of Sensei and even more determined not to take another karate exam ever. I suspect she’ll calm down, but it didn’t help that I’d portrayed him as a nice bloke for two weeks to calm her fears.

Anyhoo. They passed. And now it’s decision time.

I watched the next belt exams today, and I think they’ll get through those fine too, with some practice. But I’m not exactly sure why they should.

The more I think about it, the more I think it must be hard for karate to be a passion at this age. It’s a bit like learning times tables and spelling all the time.

Because the exams are every four months, a large chunk of their lesson time is spent on revising for exams. And even up to the higher belts, it’s all a matter of remembering punch combinations and kata routines.

There’s no particular skill.

Now I’m probably going to be shot down in flames for that statement. Let me quickly clarify that I wanted to do karate with the kids (they wouldn’t let me – too embarrassed) and I’d still love to do it. There’s a thrill in feeling the muscles perform a perfect punch or getting my leg up into a kick. But I saw quickly that I wouldn’t have the memory for it.

Too much of school is about remembering stuff, rather than learning, enjoying, being excited. Growing, stretching, expanding. And karate feels a bit like that.

If I can just wander off at a tangent…

I was following the kids across the park the other day after school, carrying all their bags, listening to them squabble, wondering what it was all about. You know, life.

Beech Tree

There’s a huge beech tree in the park. It’s gorgeous, with it’s red/black leaves and majestic sweeping branches. I looked at it and wondered where I was going wrong. Why couldn’t I be a tree. Just be.

And then I had a mini-epiphany. A tree doesn’t just exist. It grows. It strives. Its sole aim in life is to get stronger, taller, better, and to pass that on to its offspring.

Grow.

That’s the point. The point in life is to grow. If something isn’t making us grow – as a person, as a family member, physically or emotionally, then we probably shouldn’t be doing it.

I watched my children playing this afternoon. My son sparring with the mini boxing gloves I bought him. My daughter cartwheeling along the wooden ‘beam’ we made her, over and over and over again until she landed one on the wood. They were growing. Their skills improving. And the joy in their achievements was palpable.

I think my daughter’s right. I think she’ll grow more as a person doing gymnastics and dance; grow more confidence in herself and her body doing the thing she loves, than she will at karate.

My son still has a lot to gain from martial arts. The discipline, the listening, the learning to control his muscles and his temper. But is karate the right one for him? I’m not sure. I wish there was a Kendo class nearby. He gets his passion from football. Perhaps what he still has to learn from karate is humility. He didn’t think he’d fail today, and didn’t seem all that bothered when he nearly did. Sometimes I admire his self-belief, and sometimes I can see it landing him in hot water.

And me? I still have a lot to learn about this parenting and being an adult lark. Never mind growing, I’m still trying to grow up.

June Journals #18 ~ Exam Day

Karate Kids

Today it’s my children’s karate exam. I said back on day 5 of my June Journals that I didn’t know how I was going to get my daughter to do the exam when she was adamant she wasn’t.

In the comments I suggested a cunning plan of inviting Granddad to watch. It worked. Eventually.

To begin with, she cried and wailed when I said she had to do the exam because Granddad was coming. It felt like walking a tightrope. I hung in there through the tears and eventually we got to the bottom of her fear.

In the last exam, Sensei – the head of their particular club – came and ran through the bit of the exam my daughter finds hardest, the kata. It’s a sequence of moves (20 for hers) that have to be done in order. For the adults, it has to be done completely from memory, but the juniors have a ‘count’ and an indication of what comes next.

But Sensei was a little disappointed with their group and wasn’t afraid to show it. And if there’s one thing my daughter hates, it’s disapproval.

I’m afraid to admit (in case anyone who knows our karate club reads this!) that I put an image in my daughter’s head to ease her fear. An image of Sensei in a pink tutu and red heels – because for their last exam their examiner was a woman in high heels, who kicked butt doing the moves despite her footwear. And my daughter loves shoes!

I managed to get her laughing (rickety rope bridge across crocodile infested waters conquered!) and she admitted that she did really want to do the exam she was just scared.

That was a revelation for my husband and me. After the tears had passed, it seemed she wanted the push, she wanted to be made to do it: to have the decision taken from her. So, Miss Fanny P, you were right – sometimes you do have to shove them out their comfort zone.

My NZ Skydive

It reminds me of when I did a tandem skydive in New Zealand. I’m terrified of heights and was palpitating long before we reached 15,000 ft. If I hadn’t been strapped to the front of a person who had every intention of jumping from that plane, whether I wanted to or not, I would never have done it.

I was only in the plane in the first place because I’d met an 80-year-old granny who’d done it the day before.

It was amazing. I couldn’t breathe by the time we came out of free-fall, and I wouldn’t do it ever again if you paid me millions of pounds (well, possibly then), but when I landed I felt like I could conquer the world.

Fear. It’s a funny thing.

Perhaps my daughter and I need to read ‘Feel the fear and do it anyway’.

June Journals #17 ~ Loss and Empathy

I try not to engage with the news on this post. It becomes political – always – no matter what you say. So, for the sake of my family, I try and keep my opinions below the radar.

Whether it’s the fact I’m a Liberal Leftie with a Monarchist lean, or that I’m a Bremain with a hope for reform, or that I’m a non-Christian who lives and upholds (most) Christian values. It’s really no-one’s business but mine.

But I can’t write a trite post today. I can’t share pictures of my finished Jester or brag about running nearly 5k or talk about tennis. I just can’t.

There has been so much sadness this year. So much. The mind can’t take it in.

Famous people, icons, people that inspired me, taken too soon by illness.

Right-wing newspapers vilifying people fleeing war and oppression.

A handful of [redacted] so-called football supporters ruining it for the majority.

Gorilla’s dying. Children dying. Decent people ranting and pointing the finger.

Orlando.

I. Just. Can’t.

I have to stop reading the news. I actively avoid it most of the time, because my heart breaks open. I despair for the world my children will inherit.

Instead I gather my news from Facebook.

I watch videos of a man rescuing drowning kittens or a group of boys saving a dog. I look for the positive, humanist stories that keep my faith in humanity.

I hang out with my liberal leftie friends who are all for staying in the EU, who care about the environment and fairness and believe love is love is love. Whose hearts also break at every tragedy and who don’t immediately blame and judge.

I follow Jeremy Corbyn for heaven’s sake. You don’t get much further left.

And then he posts this:

JoCox

I didn’t know who Jo Cox was before today. As I say, I’m not overtly political and I don’t follow the news. But reading this, seeing this picture of the kind of politician I wish we had more of in this country (the world), I felt bereft.

Perhaps because she’s about my age, with two young children and a husband who will mourn her. Children who will ‘grow up without their mum’ (this made me choke). Perhaps it’s the honest goodness she radiates, or that she is everything I wish I could be. Whatever it is, I feel her loss acutely.

Most of all, I am touched that Jeremy Corbyn remembers her first as a person. The comments underneath are not so kind: immediately they are political, immediately they are blaming and hateful, disrespecting the values this woman clearly represents.

I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of the hate and the trolling and the virtuous do-gooders so quick and ready to have – and share – an opinion even if it isn’t appropriate or even valid.

I’m sick of the blame, and the need to be right, and the refusal to even attempt a shred of empathy.

Empathy.

What ever happened to that? One thing my kids have learned from having a mother with depression and an inability to hide her emotions is empathy. I will cherish it, nurture it, encourage it, even if it means they’ll feel pain. At least they’ll feel.

If the world took one second to try not just to see something from another person’s perspective, but actually live and feel their thoughts and emotions, we wouldn’t be so polarised. We wouldn’t be so quick to judge. There is no ‘other’.

A post that sums it up perfectly (but is too long to share in its entirety here) was published by 4BoysMother – Melissa Fenton, Writer on Facebook today, in relation to the boy snatched by an alligator at a Disney Resort. Here’s an excerpt.

4BoysMother

This is what empathy looks like.

June Journals #16 ~ Fox Poo and Funny Weather

Almost Done

Yesterday the weather forecast reported humidity at 80-90%. I think I understand my lethargy now!

It gave me the perfect excuse to sit in Waitrose – in their air-conditioned café to be precise – and do some of my study. And sew up some more of my son’s jester.

It’s a laborious process but it is fun seeing the final toy come together, even if it doesn’t much resemble the picture.

In fact I spent most of the day sewing. Except for the short time when I walked the dog – choosing a route through waist-high grass so she wouldn’t get all muddy on our normal route.

Big mistake. Big. Huge.

I could smell something awful as we reached the end of our walk, and thought I must have trodden in something. But, oh no, it was the dog, who had rolled in fox poo.

It stinks.

And it lingers.

Thankfully I saw on one of the kids’ TV programmes that tomato ketchup is good for getting rid of the smell. Even though the dog managed to shake tomato ketchup all over me, it did seem to work on the stink. Thankfully. Although the phantom smell will linger in my nostrils for days.

Amazingly, despite a dismal forecast, the torrential rain stayed away for my son’s cricket training. The sun shone hot on the pretty little ground, while the ominous grey clouds circled around the edge and grumbled to themselves like cantankerous grannies.

Thankfully I don’t have children in the later classes though, as it began to pour at 7pm. And thunder too, I suspect, although I couldn’t hear it. But our dog, who hates thunder, paced around like a lost soul until bedtime.

Stunning Weather

It’s a shame, because the rain is a blessed relief. As the first few drops fell, a cold blast burst through the window like the bringer of joy.

It reminds me of my short stay in India. One of my housemates ridiculed me for going in August – the monsoon season – but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

Yes it was hot and sticky and yes the rain was torrential like I’d never seen before (but have seen plenty of since), but if I hadn’t gone I would never have truly understood the exhilaration of walking in a dress and sandals in a downpour, happy to be drenched to the skin.

The weather saved its finale for the bedtime hour. Sullen storm clouds still dyed the sky purple, and rain fell in buckets, but streaks of sun lit up the trees as if they glowed from within. And a double rainbow shone, as if to say, ‘hang in there, it won’t rain forever.’

Stunning.

June Journals #15 ~ Run Rescue

Image from Pixabay

Goodness me, I’m halfway through my June Journals. Thank goodness for daily blogging or I might be going a bit bonkers.

I’m just so tired. Ever since a crazy day on Saturday, when I did two runs as well as painting a load of fencing, I’ve been exhausted.

I don’t think I overdid it: My two runs probably only amounted to about ten total minutes of running, and I’m used to clocking up 10-15,000 steps a day.

Even so, I can’t stop yawning.

Perhaps it’s the humidity. Although it’s rained non-stop (or perhaps because it’s rained; although this isn’t the Indian Monsoon season it feels pretty near), and the temperature is only 18C to around 22C, it feels hot and sticky and horrible.

Maybe it’s being premenstrual. Sorry, it has to be spoken of. I do slow down and get sluggish. And eat carbs. And chocolate. And drink lots of coffee. But I’ve been trying to eat plenty of fruit and drink water. Honest.

It might be a bug. My parents have had the horrible flu I had at Easter and I wonder if I’m fighting it off.

Or maybe it’s ennui*. Or hayfever. Or depression. Or laziness.

Whatever the cause, I feel like a cat in a sunbeam. I. Just. Can’t. Move.

Image from Pixabay

I had a nap today, if four hours in bed counts as a nap, and felt 100% worse. Usually I’m good at naps. I wake up a bit groggy but full of energy. Today I had bad dreams, those half-awake sort, where you’re not quite sure whether you’re really shopping with your daughter and spending £100 on a pair of jeans in Topshop or it’s actually just a nightmare.

When my alarm went off to walk the dog I couldn’t open my eyes. Just couldn’t.

It was awful.

So I pulled on my running clothes. I don’t think I actually thought I’d manage a run, but I couldn’t walk the dog in the rain in an East dress (the coolest thing I own in both senses of the term!).

Then I strapped on the iPhone. And opened the app. I’m in week 4 of the 8-week Couch to 5k and I don’t want to stop now.

And then I ran. Like a slug. Slower than I normally walk, with those shuffley steps that aren’t really running. Week 4 starts stepping up the running time, and it was hot and sticky. Plus the fields are so overgrown it’s like doing mini-hurdles, getting over nettles and cow parsley.

But I ran.

Troll. Pixabay

And afterwards I felt better. I had some energy. I stopped yawning and almost felt awake.

Before you super-fit people start gloating, and nodding, and thinking, ‘We knew it. Exercise is always the answer,’ it lasted about half an hour.

By the time I’d done the school run in the rain, cooked tea and fed the dog, I was crawling back into bed, dizzy and yawning and with eyes half closed.

I slept for two hours.

I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe I’m a troll. Like in Terry Pratchett Discworld novels. Perhaps I only function when it’s cold.

Unlike the flesh and blood Troll of Scandinavian folklore that turn to stone only when exposed to daylight, Disc trolls are stone all the time, but become dormant and sluggish during daylight. […] Though apparently unintelligent, this is due to heat negatively affecting the conductivity of their silicon brains – Wikipedia

Whatever the answer is, I wish it would just sod off. I liked the energetic productive me of a week ago. And, while we’re at it, the rain can sod off too. It’s cricket Wednesday.

*Ennui: “A feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.”

June Journals #14 ~ Silent Uncertainty

Competition Novel

When I decided to stop working on my novels for a bit, and concentrate on my blog and the garden instead, it was with a sense of relief.

It isn’t the writing that’s hard – well, some days it is – but more it’s the silent uncertainty.

When I write a blog post, even a mediocre one, I know if somebody reads it. And generally at least one or two people do. If I’m lucky I’ll get a like or even comment. It’s a lovely feeling.

As I have been fortunate enough to stay below the internet troll radar by being boring, unknown, and uncontroversial, the comments are supportive and encouraging.

Not so with books.

I can spend a year writing a novel which even my family won’t read and feed back on, because they’re too close for constructive criticism.

Without Beta Readers, my only sources of feedback are agents and reviewers. They’re not exactly a chatty bunch. If you hear back from an agent at all, it’s a polite, “this is not for me” message, after weeks and weeks of painful silence. Reviews, which are even harder to get, are all or nothing. Black and white. Fulsome praise or scathing disgust. I have come to dread them.

Out with Agents

As someone driven by external validation, despite years of trying not to be, this lack of feedback on my efforts saps all motivation. Currently I have one novel in a competition, and two with agents, and the rest, as Hamlet would say, is silence.

It paralyses me.

Do I work on a current book, without knowing what’s wrong with it? Do I write another one, without knowing which bits I’m getting right, or whether anyone will ever actually read it. Should it matter?

How do novelists slog at a book for ten years, true only to themselves and their story? Where do they bury their self-doubt?

I should really join a writer’s group, although I’m currently a little thin-skinned for that. I’d probably weep at the first unkind word and give up writing forever.

Except I miss writing.

I miss producing books, discovering characters, creating. Filling that blank page.

So I’ll pour those words into my blog for now and try for patience.

Thank you for being listening voices in the void!

June Journals #13 ~ Dear Neighbours

Our Room of Noise

Dear Neighbours

I’m sorry I bought my children a karaoke machine. I know my kids are already noisy enough, screaming on the trampoline at all hours, and playing the drums. Badly.

I’m sorry my husband and I sang the whole of Bohemian Rhapsody, even though we’re terrible singers and it’s the first time I’ve ever sung karaoke (for that reason).

On the plus side, it turns out our microphones weren’t actually on. It could have been much worse.

I’m sorry our back garden acts like an amphitheatre and all noise is strangely echoed around the entire village. I know, because I hear them when I’m walking the dog, nearly half a mile away. I cringe. I feel your pain.

Blurry Rock Star

While we’re at it, I’m sorry I sometimes yell at them like a fishwife, with language a sailor would be proud of. What can I say? We’re not all born to be calm parents.

Look at it this way.

I hear your cars roaring as your teenage boys come home at midnight. And I know I have all that to look forward to.

I hear your babies screaming and having tantrums and I give a tiny smile of relief that those days are passed. Unless they’re your grandkids, in which case, I look forward to that with joy. Grandparents can give them back.

When your dog barks at your lawnmower for half an hour, I feel better about mine barking at the postman like he’s here to rob the house.

Neighbours, please accept my apologies for living our noisy crazy life. Be tolerant. It will be over in a few years.

I hope.

June Journals #12 ~ Reliquishing Control

It’s no secret that I’m a bit of a control freak. Not like I used to be: I don’t think you can parent for any length of time without easing up a bit. That or go bonkers.

But some projects I like to cling to. Others I’d happily share – cooking, laundry, getting up in the night – but funnily enough people seem quite content leaving them to me.

Painting the garden fence is a project I wanted to keep, despite the enormity of it. Partly for a sense of accomplishment. To be able to look out and say, ‘I did that. Me. All by myself.’ And partly because painting is kind of my thing, and I like it to be neat.

Stain, I’ve discovered, is anything but neat. I have three times as many little brown freckles on my arms and face when I finish. So when my son asked if he could help this morning, my ‘no’ was firm and immediate. Then my daughter came out in her painting clothes, and look so crestfallen at not being allowed to help, I gave in.

I thought I’d regret it, but it was mostly okay. I yelled a couple of times as they covered each other in stain, but actually they did a good job on the fence. The grass is also brown, but it’ll mow.

Oh my, but they were covered. I was quite happy when they started a water fight, but as fights soon end in tears, I suggested they wash the trampoline instead.

Genius. They had so much fun sliding around in the foam. Definitely storing that away for another day.

So some fence got painted, and the trampoline is clean. Relinquishing control has its benefits now and then.

June Journals #11 ~ Love Your Library

Our Lovely Library

We spent yesterday after school at our local library.

Usually Friday is Lego Club, but this week is Bookstart Week so they had colouring out instead.

I love colouring, it’s very therapeutic.

I also love our library. We go there at least a couple of times a week as we walk past after school. It’s just the best.

The staff work so hard to make it a welcoming place for children – even kids like mine who don’t go for the books.

They don’t have to be quiet (and frequently aren’t), there are toys and clubs to entertain and educate, and the staff are as good with children as the primary teachers. They don’t even mind my daughter cartwheeling everywhere.

Colouring Fun

Learning isn’t just books. Learning to share toys, building Lego creations, playing on the computers, interacting with the staff, it’s all great stuff.

I think people view libraries as out-dated, superseded by Amazon and Google.

That’s baloney.

Just as I think the emphasis on prolific reading as a sign of intelligence, and screen-time as pure evil, is also baloney. It depends on what’s in the book and what’s on the screen.

Some of the books aimed at my daughter’s age are just awful, enough to put her off reading for life, whereas many of the programs and games she engages with are massively educational and great for teaching human emotions. Well, the emotions of teenage dancers at least!

Oceans of Fun

Our library is tiny, and shares its space with the council, the Sure Start centre, and the registrar office. Yet it offers so much. Lessons in technology for silver surfers, chess club, Lego club, singing for the little ones, craft courses, history nights, music nights, school holiday activities.

And even though they hire out DVDs for a week cheaper than a Box Office download, above all they offer a place in the community where you aren’t expected to spend any money.

What’s not to like?

So if you’re at a loose end, even if you hate to read or don’t have kids, pop in to your local library.

You might be pleasantly surprised!

June Journals #10 ~ Domestic / Duvet Day

Taking Shape

My son was up all night again coughing, and I could barely wake him at 8am, so I kept him home from school.

I try to send the kids in if I can – I know attendance is important to the school – but equally it makes me cross that the kids are rewarded with a book for 100% attendance. So I never mind making sure my kids aren’t praised for something they have no control over.

I’m such a rebel. Ahem.

Although my ‘me’ time is precious, it’s fairly easy having a sick boy home, as he’s happy to watch TV all day, meaning I can still get stuff done and don’t get worn down by endless chatter.

Thankfully I rather like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (especially since the kids started karate and I recognise some of the terms) so it wasn’t awful doing the ironing watching that instead of Cinderella (I love that movie. One day I’ll write a post about why!)

I also got to work on sewing up the Jester. The making-up directions are not as clear as the knitting pattern itself, and I wish Alan Dart had included a few diagrams. I also suck at mattress stitch, but thankfully most of the seams will be hidden by pointy bits and bells!

The kids are a bit nonplussed: my daughter said the face looked like a duck, and then cried when I suggested that wasn’t the most tactful thing to say. My son thinks the toy’s bum is too big. Saying nothing. I’m proud of what I’ve done and that (should be) all that matters.

I even managed to squeeze in my Couch to 5k run after hubbie got home, although it was too hot to run fast. I rather spoiled it by coming back and polishing off my daughter’s dairy milk bar, but, hey, baby steps. Better than eating the chocolate and not doing the run!

I can’t believe it’s Friday already. Time is on roller skates these days. Best get on with my course: otherwise I’m going to blink and the kids will be home for six weeks instead of an extra six hours.

Eek.