The Wonder of Silence: 2013 365 Challenge #115

Puddles more fun than Paddling Pools

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

God help my kids.

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

I broke.

Dancing in Puddles

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

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

The world ended for a while.

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

Fishing for Fir-cones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I miss my Mummy.”

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

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

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

***

Sitting With Silence (lifehealingcenter.wordpress.com)

Gnattish Attention Span: 2013 365 Challenge #114

Afternoon craft

I have been officially crap today. I can’t even blame the new novel as I haven’t really got my teeth in it yet. Some days I just can’t focus. Lack of sleep (Aaron was awake every two hours last night and pretty much every night for a fortnight) is the main culprit. (I hope)

Then I bury myself in a downward spiral of rubbish parenting. I check my email (not helped by having a two-day email conversation with my sister who lives in the US) and Twitter and that irritates the kids, so they get whiny and annoying. So I withdraw further and spend more time doing chores or checking things on the computer, so they get more irritating and thus it continues.

What to do though?

Summer’s Here!

I’m not someone who naturally sits still. Even when I’m writing I get up every hour and put the washing machine on or walk the dog. When the children want me to sit and watch them playing in the paddling pool I manage about five minutes and then I have to move. Today I had to keep moving or fall asleep. We went to Rhyme Time, visited the Methodist drop-in so Amber could play with her friends, got new books at the library and had the paddling pool up all afternoon. But still I sit here at bedtime feeling like I was a terrible parent today because I wasn’t ‘present’. Aaron even told me to ‘Listen!’ this morning (I say that to him all the time. His command had more effect on me than the other way around.)

Anyway, I don’t feel bad as such. There are good days and bad days and mostly the kids had fun today. It’s just I get frustrated at my inability to give the kids my attention. My sister and I have spent our two-day email conversation discussing schooling options. She took her family to America partly to enable her children to attend a free school called Sudbury Valley. We talked in our emails about homeschooling or unschooling, both options I couldn’t imagine undertaking.

One of Many Tantrums Today

I have huge respect for anyone who home schools their child. It’s definitely an area I feel (for me) is best left to professionals, not least because I have the attention span of a gnat.Too much time spent with me and my kids won’t be able to focus on anything. They’ll learn (probably have already learned) that normal behaviour is flitting from one chore to another and saying ‘just a minute’ a lot and checking emails when meant to be fetching sun cream or hats or milk or any of the other hundred demands I get in a day.

I know you don’t get to choose, but I really hope they remember the craft and the cake baking, the story reading and the trips to the zoo, rather than the let down of Mummy’s scattered attention and constant tiredness. Fingers crossed.

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“Come on, Sky, let’s go get some fresh air.” Besides, ten defeats in a row at Connect 4 are more than I can stand. I’m going to have to win at some point and then there will be tears.

“But it’s still raining, Auntie Claire.”

“We won’t melt. You can wear the waterproofs I bought you. I’ve been looking online – apparently there’s a miniature railway that runs from here to a place called Walsingham –”

“Walsingham? The place with the Shrine?” Sky’s face lit with interest. “We learned about that in school. Yes, can we go? I’d like to see the shrine and say a prayer for Mummy.”

Bloody hell, where did that come from? Claire couldn’t have been more shocked if Sky had asked to strip naked and run through the streets. Actually, given her niece’s willingness to run around the hostel room naked, even that wouldn’t have shocked her as much. Ruth isn’t religious, as far as I know? Certainly Mum and Dad aren’t. She thought back to the homework Sky had shown her. I guess hers is a Church of England school.

“Of course we can go, darling. I don’t know much about it but I’m sure there will be guide books. Do you want to go on the train? We can drive there otherwise.”

Sky’s forehead furrowed in thought. “If we go on the train it will give you something for your blog, won’t it?”

Claire felt her niece’s kindness like a hammer blow. Maybe my niece isn’t a spoiled brat after all. Guilt at her previously unfounded views of the girl flushed her cheeks red. In an attempt to hide her reaction she reached over and pulled Sky into a hug. “That’s very thoughtful, sweetheart. Yes, I can write about the train ride on my blog.” Although Carl won’t think it exciting enough unless you fall out the carriage and under the wheels. I don’t suppose there’ll be much drama at a shrine either.

“Look Auntie Claire, there’s the train! I can see steam. I didn’t know it was a steam train.” She clapped her hands and stood on tiptoe to get a better look. All along the platform bedraggled parents stood waiting with bouncing children in a rainbow of overalls and waterproofs. I could do a good trade in coffee right now. Or gin.

As the train slid to a standstill next to the platform, Claire stifled a groan. Oh my god, look at it. It’s tiny. We could walk to Walsingham quicker than that thing. She shoved the thought away and took some snaps with her phone. At least it’s something visual for the blog. I wonder if Ruth would mind if I posted some pictures of Sky? Maybe I can attract a new Mummy audience? She cast another glance along the line of waiting parents. They look like they could use a laugh.

The rain drizzled to a halt as they left the station and within minutes they were bathed in midday sunshine. Claire turned her face to the window and let the rays bathe her face while Sky sat opposite her, face pressed close to the glass taking in the scenery. Every time they went under a bridge – which seemed to be quite often – she whooped in a way that Claire thought only children in TV programmes did.

She found her niece’s delight in the little things endearing. When did I last get that excited? Even a pay increase raised little more than a smile and a feeling of ‘about time too’. When do we lose that pleasure in the mundane? A strange grief for her own lost childhood swamped Claire. Maybe that’s why people have kids: so you can see the world through their eyes and enjoy it again.

Tiredness dragged at her shoulders and eyelids and the remaining days of the Easter Holidays stretched out relentless in mind. Not sure that would be enough for me. You see the evils in the world too, I bet. Worries and fears that didn’t exist before. Sod that. Settling back into her seat, Claire closed her eyes and tried to grab some rest before Sky began asking questions.

***

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

My Three Darlings

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

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

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

I love my Big Sister

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

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

Drove hubbie nuts.

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

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

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

My Little Bean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well done, Sky. Two out of three?”

***

Panning for Gold: 2013 365 Challenge #112

Panning for Gold in New Zealand

We’ve had a great family Sunday today, taking the kids for a proper pub meal out in the sunshine before going to buy play sand at a DIY store. That’s what Sunday’s are all about.

I also spent a chunk of time in bed reading The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett because I’m still wiped. When I wasn’t reading I was sifting through my brain to locate ideas for my new novel.

I tried to explain the process to my husband and I decided it’s a bit like panning for gold. I throw a load of ideas, some mine, some influenced by books I’ve read or movies I’ve seen, into a big pan in my mind. Then I sift and sift until something sparkles. I know it’s a nugget because my heart starts to beat a bit quicker and I feel super awake, no matter how tired I am.

The thing I find hardest, however, is sifting out the real gold from the stuff that has been planted there. When we did Gold Panning in New Zealand on our honeymoon there was a vague chance of real gold, but the tour guides also put a tiny nugget in for us to find too. When I’m tilting and tipping for ideas sometimes the nuggets I find have come from another author.

There’s gold in them there hills

I never plagiarise deliberately, but I read a lot and I read within the genres I like to write. So ideas come that I think are mine, and as I look at them from all sides I realise they seem familiar. My question then is always, how much can you borrow before it becomes plagiarism? There are no new ideas in writing: there’s only so much you can do with 26 letters after all.

Today’s nugget involved my protagonist using books written by his father to investigate a strange place (I don’t want to give too much away as I haven’t actually written anything down yet!). Seemed like a new idea until I remembered Shadow Forest, where the children use a book to negotiate the monsters hidden in the forest. Now, is that close enough that I’ve stolen the idea from Matt Haig? Or is it far enough away that I can use it in my story?

When I wrote academic papers during my degrees I would cite references for everything because I was terrified of plagiarism. If only you could do that for novels: I didn’t mean to steal this idea but it was just SO good it sunk into my subconscious and came out as I wrote. Worst still is what happened to me in my dissertation: you write the whole thing and then you read a paper that has all the same arguments. I read a novel after writing Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes that had a very similar beginning. It looks like I’ve stolen my entire first chapter, even though I wrote mine first.

Does anyone else ever worry about inadvertently stealing stuff from other authors? How do you tackle it?

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“Hey Claire, how’s tricks?”

“Kim! You read my mind. I’ve been meaning to call.” Claire tucked her feet under the duvet and curled up round the phone, prepared to enjoy a good gossip with her best friend.

“I should think so, you old trout. I haven’t heard from you in a month. I have to read your blog to find out more about your Aussie fella and getting mugged. What happened to ringing your mate?”

Claire flushed hot and glanced down to where Sky lay sleeping next to her on the bed, glad her niece couldn’t witness her embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I feel like I’m living in a bubble. It’s easy to forget there’s a real world going on away from these infernal hostels.”

“So, you’re not really enjoying your challenge? The blog’s great. I’d love to meet your Aussie friend. He sounds yummy.”

“You’d have to go a long way to do that. He’s flying home with his wife and kids any day now.” Claire swallowed hard and hoped Kim wouldn’t detect the wobble in her voice.

“Oh dear. You fell for a married man, didn’t you?” Kim’s voice was a perfect blend of sympathy and censure.

“I didn’t know he was married when I met him.” Claire spoke without thinking, before realising her hot words amounted to an admission of guilt. Not wanting to analyse the emotions pumping through her chest, Claire sought to change the subject.

“I’ve got my niece with me at the minute.” Sky stirred beneath the covers and Claire lowered her voice, not wanting to wake her. “I’m looking after her for the Easter holidays.”

“Oh.” There was silence.

“What is it Kim?” Silence was not a normal state of affairs when Kim was on the phone. Normally the challenge was squeezing a word in sideways.

“Jeff and I were thinking of coming to see you, that’s all. From the blog we gather you’re in East Anglia still. Be nice to have a day or two away. The rehearsals are fun, but a girl can only be Puck for so long.”

Her voice was light, but Claire could tell her friend was unhappy. “When’s opening night? I hope I’ll be able to come and see you perform.”

“Oh, not for a few weeks. Yes, do come.” There was still a chill. Part of Claire felt irritated. It’s not like Kim and I are the kind of friends who call every week. She wondered if there was another reason for her friend’s call, but a day spent with Sky had left her drained of all energy and emotion and she didn’t have the strength to delve behind Kim’s words.

“So, when are you and Jeff thinking of coming? We’re in Wells at the moment but we’ll be in Hunstanton for the weekend.”

“Sunny Hunny. Lovely. Why don’t we come and stay there? If we can’t get into the hostel we’ll book a B&B.”

“Are you sure you and Jeff are up to socialising with a six-year-old?” Claire realised how ungrateful that sounded. “Not that I won’t be delighted to see you both. It’s just she’s, well, quite full on.”

Another silence drenched the line. Claire’s tired brain tried to pick through the possibilities; for once her radar concerning her friend felt way off beam.

“That’s fine. Jeff likes kids.” Kim’s voice sounded strained. Claire wondered if her friend had guessed the cause of her own break up with Michael. That must be it. She doesn’t want to talk about kids and relationships because she knows it broke mine.

“Okay then, hun. Send me an email or text once you know what your plans are. If Jeff loves kids he can entertain Sky while we have a proper natter.”

“Thanks. I’d like that.”

As she hung up the phone Claire couldn’t shake the feeling that Kim was holding back. I’m probably imagining it. I’m so tired nothing makes sense anymore and I’m jumping at shadows. Nothing bothers Kim; she’s indestructible. She tried to think it through but her eyes refused to stay open. Even though the iPad cheerfully informed her it was only 9pm she ignored it, glad none of her erstwhile colleagues could see her hitting the sack when they were probably only just leaving the office and heading for the bar.

I’d take twelve hours of Boardroom bullying and office shenanigans over keeping up with a six-year-old any day.

***

Introducing George: 2013 365 Challenge #111

Planting Sunflower Seeds at Sacrewell Farm

While lying in bed cursing the sore throat and stiff neck that have besieged me this afternoon, a germ of an idea planted in my mind and squirmed into the soil, like the sunflower seeds my kids planted at the Farm today.

I recently finished another great kid’s book and saw that, as with many of my other new finds, it was published by Chicken House. The name rang a bell and I realised it was the name of the publishers that were part of the competition I didn’t enter with Dragon Wraiths because the manuscript was too long.

I visited their website to see if they accept submissions and they’ve just launched the competition again, with a deadline of 1st November.

Ooh went my brain. It’s a long time to 1st November. There’s time to write something new. After all, I started Dragon Wraiths this time last year and had that finished by last November. And that was over 100k words. The maximum for The Chicken House / Times competition is 80k words. If I plan it out this time (at least a bit, I am a pantser after all) I could stay within word count.

On the Tractor Ride

Now of course this breaks all the rules of being a writer. You’re not meant to write for gain or fame but only for the love of writing. Thing is, I love writing but I need a goal and a deadline, at least to get me going. I’m proud of Dragon Wraiths and that was written for a competition (and ultimately prize money).

But I didn’t get up every nursery day and write 5,000 words just for profit (which would be a foolish aim anyway: everyone knows writers don’t make money). I wrote it to find out what happened to Leah, to find out how the story ended. But on dark days the thought of maybe winning £5000 did help keep me motivated.

So I lay in bed earlier this evening, feeling foggy and sore, and searched through my mind for a new idea. It felt a bit wrong, looking for an idea rather than waiting for one to arrive. But people who write hundreds of books must have to do that. I knew what genre at least: I’ve been aching to try my hand at a fantasy middle grade fiction since enjoying The Divide, The Extincts, Stone Heart, Shadow Forest, The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents, and now Ravenwood. And, after some throwing around of ideas, I tapped out the opening scene to a new novel. One I hope might generate characters that will survive to a sequel, since my favourite books are the ones with lots of volumes around the same central characters. I like characters to become my friends. My only dilemma right now is it might involve Time Travel. Again. According to some agents I follow on Twitter, Time Travel has been done to death already. Oh dear.

Penny the Chicken eating Lunch

Is it bad, that I’m motivated by entering a competition? I hope not. I read Sally Jenkins lovely collection of short stories, One Day For Me, this morning because I couldn’t get the sequel to Ravenwood as an ebook. All of Sally’s stories were written for competitions. They’re still great. It’s accepted practice for short story writers to write for specific markets and hopefully financial gain. Why not novels? If it’s rubbish it won’t win so no one’s hurt.

Matt Haig, author of Shadow Forest, says otherwise and I respect his opinion but I hope there are grades of love versus money. Writing for love is a given or I wouldn’t have survived to episode #111 of Claire, through insomnia and flu and dearth of ideas. But bills need to be paid and everyone wants to think their novels might be read one day. Therefore, alongside trying to find new adventures for Claire, I’ll be creating George and his new world. Hopefully Claire won’t suffer (I’m actually hoping a new project will kickstart my imagination as I’ve been really struggling with Claire recently).

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“Auntie Claire, I don’t feel very well.”

Claire looked down at her niece and recoiled slightly at the green tinge of her skin.

“Are you going to be sick? Lean over the side for heaven’s sake. But not too close! I don’t want you falling in.” She looked around at the other passengers and prayed Sky didn’t vomit on any of them. Something of her reaction must have come through her voice, because a clammy little hand sought out hers. “Sorry, Claire. I don’t mean to feel poorly. I’ve never been on the sea before.”

Patting the frozen hand, Claire tried to remain calm. The white tips of the choppy waves weren’t helping. It hadn’t seemed that windy on the shore, but here in the harbour the small craft was rocked by gusting blasts that whipped the waves to froth. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. I might have known Sky would get sea sick, especially as she’s still recovering from her fever. When she remembered Sky’s amazement as they first arrived at the coast, Claire couldn’t feel it was a bad move. Her mouth had dropped into a perfect ‘o’ of wonder at the grey sea spreading out before them to the horizon.

“It’s so big,” she had said quietly, her eyes wide and staring.

The tour guide called out, interrupting Claire’s thoughts. “You can see grey seals now, if you look towards the shore. There are still some youngsters playing if you look closely. We’ll get in as near as we can.”

“Look, Sky,” Claire said brightly, “baby seals.” Sea spray soaked her skin and she knew it was frizzing her hair to an impossible mess. Snuggling deeper into her jacket, she felt Sky’s hands and face to ensure she wasn’t getting too cold.

Sky raised her head to look at the slick grey animals frolicking in the sea near the boat. Her complexion was still green and Claire hoped the distraction would help her keep breakfast on the inside. I wonder if I dare get out my phone and take some pictures for the blog. If Sky is going to throw up I might not get another opportunity. The boat pitched suddenly and she felt her own stomach lurch. I might even be joining her.

“If you look closely you can see common seals as well as grey seals. The common seals are actually rarer than the grey seals so we’re fortunate to see both today.”

The Guide’s words rolled over Claire like the sea as she focussed on getting a few snaps before another gust of wind sent her or her phone overboard. Feeling a tug at her sleeve, Claire could sense Sky trembling beside her. Tucking the phone back in the safety of a pocket, she pulled her niece onto her lap and hugged her close.

“Alright, sweetie. Just keep breathing through your nose and concentrate on the seals.”

“Here, love, give her one of these.”

Claire looked up to see a kindly face peering out through a fur-lined hood. Glancing down, she saw a pack of polo mints nestled in the woollen glove reaching out towards her.

“Thank you,” she said with real gratitude. Pulling off her gloves, she retrieved a mint and handed it to Sky. She was rewarded by seeing the distress on Sky’s face ebb slightly, like the outgoing tide.

Flashing a smile at the stranger, Claire hugged Sky close again. “That’s it, poppet. You’re being very brave. Well done.”

After a few more days with me, the poor girl isn’t going to want to see her Auntie Claire again. Somehow the thought made her sad.

***

Relentless Parenting: 2013 365 Challenge #110

Learning how to Muck Out

I don’t have many words today.

Lack of sleep, residual illness and a day with hyper children have been a recipe for spectacularly crap parenting. Plus the research I did for yesterday’s Claire post left me concerned about how much homework Amber will be expected to do, come September. It sparked an interesting debate on my Facebook page and I feel better for the welcome perspective, but when I’m low little fears become huge. Sometimes parenting seems relentless and my resilience sadly lacking.

I also managed to go to the wrong surgery for a doctors appointment about my infernal knee, and I’m scared to walk the dog in case she runs off again.

Feeding the Lambs

Looking for the positives, Amber has decided she wants to be a farmer after watching the rangers muck out the lambs for half an hour at the Farm this morning. I think that’s a much better ambition than being a show jumper (especially as she’s never ridden a horse, but happily knows that pigs make sausages and cows make burgers.) They both got to feed the lambs too, because it was raining and cold and there were about five people at the farm. A bit different to Easter week.

Amber’s Creation

We also had a great craft session in the afternoon. I managed to leave Amber to her own devices with a project rather than helping her achieve perfect results (as I normally would), because Aaron decided he wanted to decorage a dog, not a dolly. I made him a dog out of some green felt stuffed with cotton wool (Well it’s meant to be a dog anyway) but he’d lost interest by the time I finished it. Amber’s dolly looks like the result of a deep sea accident, or maybe something designed by Vivienne Westwood, but she loves it. And I’m delighted that she’s broken free and created something that looks nothing like the picture on the box. The hardest thing about Amber’s homework will be letting her do it by herself and make her own mistakes.

Mummy’s more precise version

As part of my research for today’s post I needed to find out how six-year-olds write. I browsed the great Radio 2 page for their 500-word story competition (a writing competition for children), but most were written by slightly older children. Great stories though. My favourite is Cow on a Bus: it’s read by Richard Wilson and is very funny.

Instead, for my research, I dug out an old school book of mine hubbie found during the last clear-out. I have no idea how old I was when I wrote the contents, but judging by the handwriting it must be between five and seven. This was my story including all typos, spelling and punctuation (i.e. none) – if I get a chance tomorrow I’ll scan in the page (including illustrations) for giggles.

One day there lived a little boy he was walk in the woods he met a big giant the boy said he hat a secret tell me what is it I will not tell you I will pick you up and put you in my pocket and he walked to the castle and on the way he met a bigger giant the bigger giant said what is that in your pocket a little boy the two giants walked on to the castle on the way they meta the biggest giant so far when they got to the castle they put the boy on the table and he told them the secret they all ran away and he went home and told his mummy

At least my punctuation has improved since then! 🙂 Hubbie asked what the secret was. I have no idea. I probably never did! Right, time to dredge up some energy for Claire post (it’s 11pm. Have been faffing with photos and research all evening. Tut tut.)

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Claire looked down at the painstakingly formed words, written in pencil in the lined workbook. It didn’t look like much. With a glance at her niece’s eager expression, Claire swallowed her apprehension and began reading.

One day a girl walked in the woods. She was looking for a handsome prince but only found a slimy croaking frog. I wish my fairy godmother would come and turn this frog into a prince. The fairy godmother arrived in a sprinkle of stars. I have come to grant your wish. She waved her wand but gave a loud sneeze and with a puff of smoke she turned herself into a frog. Oh bother said the fairy godmother as she hopped away with her wand in her mouth. She wondered how to turn herself back into a fairy. The princess couldn’t help because she had run away.

The fairy godmother talked to the other frog and found out it didn’t want to be a prince, it liked being a frog. The fairy frog hopped until it came across a cottage in the woods. A girl with gold hair was climbing out a window, running from the sound of roaring bears. Little girl said the fairy godmother, if you wave this wand and turn me back into a fairy I will help you escape the angry bears. The little girl picked up the wand and ran off with it into the woods. Drat said the fairy and hopped through the window. Hello Daddy Bear said the fairy frog, that little girl with gold hair has stolen my wand. Never mind that said the bear she ate our porridge and broke our chair. She is a naughty girl.

The bears and the fairy frog ran after the little girl. They found her stuck in a muddy puddle waving the wand and shouting at a slimy frog sitting on her head. Mummy Bear took the wand and turned the fairy frog back into a godmother. The fairy godmother thanked the bears and the frog and turned the little girl into a wasp. You naughty little girl, you will be a wasp until you are sorry for stealing the porridge and my wand and for breaking Baby Bear’s chair. The fairy godmother waved goodbye to the bears and the frog who didn’t want to be a prince and went home to bed.

Claire read the story and smiled. She certainly has imagination. There are full stops and capital letters too. I wonder if I should add punctuation? How much are parents meant to get involved in their child’s homework? Looking up at the expectant expression on Sky’s face, Claire decided to leave the masterpiece as it was. She hated it when Carl found fault with a presentation that had taken hours to prepare: why burst the girl’s bubble by suggesting she add speech marks? Maybe they could work on them later.

“Well done, Sky, this is very good.”

Her niece beamed and then nodded. “Yes, I know. I’m very good at stories, Miss Henley says so.”

Slightly taken aback, Claire hesitated before laughing out loud. Oh for the confidence of youth.

***

A Doggy Tail: 2013 365 Challenge #109

Storm Clouds

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

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

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

Gorgeous Skies

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

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

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

My Over-zealous Softie

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

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

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

__________________________________________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Homework Idea Sources:

Scatty and Battered: 2013 365 Challenge #108

Wind-battered Bamboo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The sound of knocking dragged Claire from deep slumber.

“Just a minute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

The Power of Perspective: 2013 365 Challenge #107

My Sleeping Angels – Holding Hands

Were it not for the tragic events that happened in Boston yesterday this would probably be another ranty post about the horrible day we’ve had; how I’m sick of (what I now take to be) Flu and sky-high temperatures, flushed cheeks, pale husband and endless snot.

How I want to lie in bed and be ill and feel sorry for myself. Or else yell at everyone for the fact that it has to be me that’s last person standing, even though I’m barely able to remain upright. How my head feels like a vice is clamped to it and there are nails through my sinuses. How the kids have gone from whiny-cuddly to mad energy and back as quickly as the clouds blowing over our house.

All those things are true.

My Precious Boy

But, when I logged on this morning, and read about the horrific events that ended the Boston Marathon, none of that mattered any more. My sister and her family live close to Boston. Thankfully they’re all fine. How many families are not fine, though? How many families wish the worst they had to deal with was a flu virus, some back ache and shivering? I made the mistake of clicking on Twitter photo links without fully understanding what had happened. I saw images that will haunt me because I tend to shield myself from horror. The bane of a writer’s life (and a parent’s life I guess) is far too vivid an imagination. Those could be my kids. My husband. My family.

The posts that have helped today (all listed below) are the ones that don’t talk of revenge: they talk of making a difference. We can’t necessarily help the families across the pond who are suffering. But we can help people around us. Begin small. I tried to keep my temper today and look after my family, grateful that they are mine to hold. Tomorrow I will look wider. Try to help someone near me, even if it’s buying a Big Issue or donating to a homeless shelter. We can all make a difference, we can all turn our back on hate and bring good to the world. Of course we want the people who did such a thing to be brought to justice, but hatred breeds hatred. There is enough darkness in the world: we must strive to find and bring forth the light.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Claire reached for her phone and blinked until she could focus on the time. 4.07am.

“Urgh, seriously? Surely it must be morning already?” Her voice, made rough by dryness, sounded strange in the silence. She felt around until her hand clasped the bottle of water by the bed. Once the sand-paper in her throat was soothed, she rolled over and slid a hand onto Sky’s brow. It burned. The girl’s hair was matted and damp with sweat and Claire resisted the urge to find her hair brush and restore the bird’s nest back to its normal glossy mane. Tangled hair is the least of my worries.

Rolling back over, she felt on the bedside table for the in-ear thermometer the woman in the room next door had lent her for the night. I have no idea why someone brings a piece of kit like this on holiday, but I’m extremely grateful. Taking care not to wake Sky, Claire slid the thermometer into her niece’s ear and pressed the button. The green light flashed bright in the near-dark and the beep – signalling the reading was ready – echoed loudly.

Sky twisted her head away and coughed. Claire held her breath, praying she would go back to sleep. The girl shifted restlessly, kicking at the sheet wrapped around her legs. At last she was still and Claire felt able to shine her phone at the thermometer to take a reading. 38.8C. She knew from reading the NHS website that anything over 39 was cause for concern. Claire sank back against the pillows and tried to think. Her own head felt muggy. Please don’t let me get sick too.

A quick calculation informed her she could give Sky more Calpol if she wanted. But that would mean waking her up, even with the handy syringe the lovely lady with the baby had lent her. My first stop tomorrow is to a chemist. There’s obviously a reason why mothers carry such a well-stocked first aid kit with them. I wonder why Ruth didn’t provide one? A mental image of the last time she saw her sister flashed into her head.

Poor Ruth, she wasn’t thinking much of anything. Besides, I don’t suppose they venture more than ten miles from home. From what I can gather she and Sky have never been on holiday. Shifting up, so she could sit against the headboard, Claire thought that was probably wise: Travelling with children was nerve-wracking and Ruth was a nervous parent at the best of times.

Something stabbed deep beneath Claire’s ribcage, like cramp. She analysed the pain and realised it was guilt. They probably couldn’t afford to go on holiday, from what Sky has told me. I never realised things were so tough. Her planned trip to the Maldives seemed like an unholy extravagance. When this is over, and Ruth is better, I’m going to take my sister and niece somewhere nice. Warm and Sunny. Five-star. Room service. She looked at the sleeping child. Medics. Baby sitters. A fully-stocked bar.

***

Marathon Monday 2013: We Always Come Together (anniecardi.com)
Boston Marathon Bombing Reveals the Best in People and a Dark Side to Twitter (warriorwriters.wordpress.com)
After Tragedy (teatincture.wordpress.com)
The Boston Bombing and Butterflies (culturemonk.com)

Smiley, Happy People: 2013 365 Challenge #106

Watercolour Painting

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

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

Sleeping Bunnies

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

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

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

______________________________________________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***