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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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 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.

***

Proofreaders and Professors: 2013 365 Challenge #175

Another blog post written while walking the dog!

I’ve had an interesting day thinking about writing (to the point of brain ache!).

This morning I finished a book I got for free off Amazon (I won’t say which book, for reasons that will become obvious) and it was an interesting experience. I shall compare it to a G&T- enjoyable without it being clear why, because it had a taste both lovely and bitter. That bitterness was caused by editing, or lack of.

Followers of this blog will know my history with editing: the fact I can’t afford a proof-reader, never mind a copy-editor, and that it worries me.

Well, I finished this book, littered with missing words, random grammar, escapee-commas, poor structure (not starting a new line for each person speaking for example) and that’s saying nothing about the number of characters and points of view (though, to be fair, I never got lost). I had two immediate thoughts: My first thought was that I should drop the author a line to say I loved the book but found a bucket load of errors (obviously worded better than that). This was prompted by Kirsten Lamb’s recent posts about writing reviews when you’re an author (i.e. don’t, especially if it’s more a critique than a review). She suggests sending an email instead.

The Findaproofreader website

My second thought was, ‘I need a proofreader. I really don’t want to be that person who has that book littered with typos.’ So I did some research and came across a site called findaproofreader.com. They have a facility whereby you list your project and budget and people contact you with quotes if they’re interested.

I don’t have any budget, and I know even a proofread costs £500-£1000 for a book as long as mine, but I thought, why not? I put in my requirements and a budget of £100-£200, just to see if there were any takers.

The first response, almost immediately, told me I was being unrealistic and no one would proofread for under £2 per thousand words (and that’s with me saying Baby Blues is 112k words, which still leaves me 4,000 to cut out!) I might have been disheartened, but the next three messages all said, Yes, I’ll do it. I had two more people tell me my budget was too low, but I have ten people willing to take it on, provided my later chapters are as clean as my sample three (More work required there!) in the interests of building a relationship for future novels (when, presumably, the price will go up!)

Spot the dog!

My head is now whirring with thoughts on how to choose between them. I have a feel for ones I don’t think would fit, but I can’t really tell from a short email. (A few are unpublished authors, can’t decide if that’s good or bad). I think my plan is to pick a bad paragraph or two from Baby Blues and ask them to sample edit, to give me a feel for what their work is like.

The first respondent suggested if I pay peanuts I’ll get monkeys. Maybe. However, I’m encouraged by another person who said they’d normally charge £500 but the English in my sample chapters was so good they were happy to do it for less. Here’s hoping.

Oh, and the first thought? Sending the unnamed author an email? A little internet search revealed that his book has five star reviews and he’s a university professor, teaching fiction. I don’t think it’s my place to suggest he visit findaproofreader.com! Besides, I’m off to download book two. Sometimes (as someone said of Dragon Wraiths) a story can be great despite the typos. Whether I’d let him teach my children is another matter!

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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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“Llwyn-y-celyn. Someone should introduce the Welsh to the vowel.”

Claire walked up from the car park to the hostel and looked at the latest whitewashed farmhouse on her Welsh adventure. Something told her this one might be less luxurious than her previous night’s accommodation.

Inside, sofas huddled round a blackened fireplace, where a wood-burner held centre stage, and long wooden tables crowded in the dining room. I hope it isn’t full. Could get a bit cosy.

She walked through the building to her dorm room, passing a tiny dorm that felt like a broom cupboard, with painted stone walls and a sink just inside the door. Her heart sank, and she hoped her dorm had a little bit more space.

When she reached her room, Claire felt her cheeks lift in a smile. A bed. A proper bed, with no-one asleep above me. Glorious.

The room had a sloping ceiling, with a dark beam across the heads of the two single beds. Curtains framed a small window that might otherwise have been mistaken for a photograph. Claire went to take in the view, and felt herself relax. Wooded hills lured her out to explore. Flexing her sore shoulders and conscious of the bruise on her thigh from her tumble, Claire laughed ruefully.

“Thanks for the invitation, but I think I need something more gentle today. Kim won’t forgive me if I turn up to her wedding covered in bruises or with a plaster cast on.”

Boots laced onto sore feet, Claire decided to follow the footpath from the hostel to the glaciated crag and the Cerrig y Glesiad Nature Reserve. A few hours watching buzzards and admiring the view and she could cosy up on the sofa with her book. She hoped they still lit the wood-burner, even though it was nearly May. Huddling into her coat, Claire thought it didn’t feel like spring, never mind halfway to summer.

Claire stopped, as the path turned from the horizontal and headed skywards. She looked up at the sharp climb and groaned. Time slowed, while she contemplated the path and tried to reach a decision.

After some time, her ears picked up a new noise in the near-silence. A scuff, followed by a cough. She turned her head, and saw a man walking up behind her. Trying to ignore the lump of ice that dropped into her stomach, Claire forced herself to breathe.

This is a footpath. There are bound to be other people walking. Not everyone is trying to mug you.

She made herself smile in greeting at the newcomer, and wondered if she could pretend she’d just come down from the hillside and was heading back to the hostel.

“Morning.”

The man smiled, revealing even, white teeth. “Well, hello. I didn’t expect to meet anyone along here. You coming or going?”

“Undecided.” The word was out before Claire had time to consider.

The stranger laughed. “Bit steeper than you expected?”

Claire bristled at the hint of sarcasm in the man’s rich voice, She took in his well-worn boots and hiking clothes and knew this man thought she was a tourist.

“Just aching from my hike over at Talybont Reservoir yesterday. It turned into a bog-trot and I have bruises on my bruises.”

As she watched, his face shifted almost imperceptibly from disdain to respect. He gazed up at the climbing path and shrugged.

“View will be amazing. Why don’t you just climb to the top and take some pictures? They serve excellent local beer at the hostel, assuming you’re staying there? You can curl up with a bottle and ease your aches away.”

Without waiting for an answer, the man gave her a nod and continued on the path, reaching out to steady himself on the rock as he began to scramble up.

Oh, what the hell. Claire ignored the screaming protest from her back and her thighs, and followed the man upwards.

***

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

Sticky June: 2013 365 Challenge #173

Summer skies

Trying to write my Claire post today, it was hard to remember what the weather was like back in April.

It’s hot and humid here, with a promise of summer storms. I thought; What I need is a seasons dictionary, like the emotion thesaurus. So today’s post is dedicated to a freewrite on June in all its sticky glory. It is the summer equinox after all.

By the way, I reserve my copyright to the idea of a seasons dictionary, if it doesn’t exist already! Ha ha.

Seasons. June

Sticky with life, the hedgerows spill over with nettles and cow parsley, messy and exuberant. Yellow oil seed rape paints every field in luminous colour. The sky, high and hot, is the hue of murky water after a watercolour is finished. Clouds promise rain. Bees buzz in a range of pitches, their busy sound adding to the heat and exhaustion. Trees heavy with leaves, their glory days of spring colour over.

A sense of waiting. Waiting for the storm, humidity rising. Sticky sweat trickling down into the bra and between the shoulder blades. Children hot and cranky or laughing too loudly as they run through the fountains or play in the water.

Dog pants, running slow and heavy-footed. Pheasants call their two-noted cry in the distance while, nearby, the intermittent song of the sparrow, blackbird and thrush fills the silence. The brash beep beep of a reversing tractor cuts through the peace, a reminder that, somewhere, despite the heat, people are working hard. Flies swim and swoop in the heavy air, irritating the skin and blocking the way.

The ground is hard beneath my boots, waiting for the rain. My steps startle a bird and it flies abruptly from the undergrowth, the wing-beats quick and loud in the air. Sheep sit motionless, even their short shorn locks too hot for comfort.

Trees heavy with leaves

Everywhere abundant life, busy and quiet, eager and waiting, living, growing. Winter a distant memory, but an ever present threat. Grow, now, while there’s sunlight, warmth and water. Grow and keep growing.

The pods hang on the oil seed rape plants. Soon the flowers will blacken and die. The plants will die and yield their crop. The corn is still green. Farmers hope for a better harvest. One not drowned by relentless rain. Thinking the words seems to bring the promised downpour. Heavy drops splat into dry soil & sizzle on hot skin. One drop, two.

Footsteps quicken, heading for home and shelter. The dog wants to stay in the river, in the cool. Home now. Your coat is waterproof, mine is not. That smell of rain, wet dust and the scent of flowers as the drops release their fragrance. A breeze comes with the rain, cooling sticky skin. The rain is fresh. Footsteps slow. Let it rain.

Remember the washing on the line and speed up again.

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Claire drove past the sign and smiled. “At last, I’ve left the country! What a shame it’s only the border from England to Wales, rather than, say, France into Spain.”

The small sign with the red dragon was the only way Claire knew she had crossed into Wales. The road wound on ahead of her, just the same as she had been driving on since leaving the hostel. Welsh countryside stretched around her in a myriad of green hues. Her destination was Brecon, the namesake town of the Brecon Beacons that nestled at their foot. Claire had skimmed through the town’s website before leaving Kington, and had decided it would be the perfect place for lunch.

Before long, Claire could see the spire of the Norman Cathedral heralding her approach into town. She checked her phone: There was just time for a wander before her appointment at the Llangorse Activity Centre.

Claire experimented with the unfamiliar Welsh word, putting her tongue to the roof of her mouth in an attempt to repeat the clu of the Ll sound. After three or four attempts she decided to make sure there was no need to ask for directions.

Gazing around her at the pretty shop fronts and historic buildings that made up Brecon, Claire realised she was trying not to dwell on her afternoon activity.

Come on, Claire, don’t be such a baby. You’ve done this a few times now. It keeps the lovely Jules off your back and provides plenty for the blog in the way of high-adrenalin activity.

She shivered and felt an ache in her tummy, a sensation she realised brought with it a memory of Josh.

Claire closed her eyes, clenched her jaw, and stepped forwards.

“That’s it, Claire. Well done. Try opening your eyes, the view is amazing.” The deep voice ended in a chuckle, as Claire’s face remained scrunched up.

Wind whistled past her face, brushing tendrils of hair away from her sweaty brow. Prising open one eyelid a fraction, Claire looked ahead. Some way beneath her, approaching fast, was a wooden platform with several people standing on it. Behind it she could see the blur of blue that indicated the presence of the lake, and two more wires zagging off to the right and down the hill.

Blood pumped in her ears, blocking out the whoosh of the wind and the cheers of encouragement from below. Despite her closed lids, perhaps through a change in the air, Claire sensed something looming up ahead. Before she could open her eyes, tree branches surrounded her face and she slid to a halt. Hands reached out to unclip her from the wire, before leading her forwards to clip her onto the next one.

Not again. Claire had done one zip wire before, as part of the Tree Trek. One was a challenge, for someone terrified of heights.

“How many have I got left to do?” Claire could hear the wobble in her voice. Get a grip, girl.

“You’re on your third, so you’ve still got a dozen left. Awesome, right?” Claire felt the enthusiasm emanating from the guide in waves, and resisted the urge to push him off the platform to the ground 20 feet below.

Swallowing the metallic taste in her mouth, Claire nodded feebly and managed one more nod when the guide gave the signal to ask if she was ready to go again.

Yes, go on, get it over with.

Scrunching her eyes shut once more, Claire felt the platform fall away behind her, and let gravity do the rest.

***

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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“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.

______________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________

“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.

***

Enthusiastic Editing: 2013 365 Challenge #169

A lovely little editing book

I had an unusual day today:I enjoyed editing.

I was fortunate to read a post by Rinelle Grey before I started work this morning, about her four favourite writing books. I have one, and one is to do with sales. Of the remaining two, I was drawn to one called The Little Book of Self-Editing for Writers by Bridget McKenna.

Discovering that it was less than the price of a latte, I downloaded it and started reading. Which nearly resulted in no Claire installment for this morning’s post! I managed to drag myself away to dredge up a miserable 400 words before jumping straight back in.

It’s not a long book and I only skimmed it, but it really helped me focus on what to tackle next with Baby Blues. I hope one day to really polish and polish it, and I know I shouldn’t publish it until that has happened. But hey, it’s out in the world already…

My aim is to erase it’s most awful sins speedily and get back to Claire, or I won’t finish my 2013 challenge. I probably wouldn’t finish Baby Blues either because it’ll go back in the bottom drawer. So, for a flying edit, the book is brilliant. Particularly the check list at the end. It suggests tallying up the things that shouldn’t be in your book. Adverbs, filler words, things like Just (257), That (1220), Really (125). I’m not surprised about the number of ‘Just’s, as I wrote a post about it!

The numbers were astounding, as much for the ones I didn’t have loads of as the ones I did. Not a single ‘Absolutely’ in the entire manuscript, even though I say it all the time.

Killing adverbs in Baby Blues

I like numbers. They’re comforting. They’re a way to track progress. I didn’t used to be a marketing analyst for nothing. Numbers motivate me. It’s why editing is hard. When you’re drafting you can say, I wrote 7,000 words today, and smile at that. With editing it’s harder. Now I have numbers.

I started the day with 2040 words ending in ly. They’re not all adverbs, and not all adverbs end in ly, but what a great place to start. At the end of today, that number is down to 1760. I’ve managed to shave over 1100 words off the bloated manuscript total of 117,500, and fix several POV issues in the process.

It’s not the most structured way to edit, but it works for me. It was hard to tear myself away to vacuum upstairs and unpack the shopping. The dog almost despaired of her walk, although it’s glorious out here and I’m glad she convinced me. Lord knows what I’m going to do for Claire though. I want to get back to scrubbing out those adverbs. Not all of them – I’m not that patient – but certainly the easy ones.

I’m breaking all the rules of writing and deserve to be whipped, but quick fix editing? Yes please.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire registered the name flashing on her phone, and the world went still. She searched the empty lounge for a place to hide. Finding nothing, she turned her attention back to the phone, her thumb hovering over the buttons: green, red, green, red. Selecting one without looking, she held the phone to her ear.

“Claire?”

“Hello, Michael.”

“I, er, hello. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

The phone fell silent. Words came and went in Claire’s mind, but none seemed the right ones. She waited for Michael to give the reason for his call. At last she heard him draw breath, and she unconsciously held hers.

“I saw on Facebook that Kim’s getting married, weekend after next.” He paused again, and Claire had time to curse the innumerable connections that meant he could still keep tabs on her life. He and Kim were not friends.

“Yes, they decided to Carpe Diem. I’m maid of honour.”

She had a pretty good idea what he wanted, but decided to make him sweat. This time the silence lasted a beat too long, before words tumbled out.

“Do you have a date?”

Claire laughed. She couldn’t help it; she hadn’t expected him to be so blunt. What happened to the suave businessman, never at a loss?

“No, Michael, I don’t have a date. I’ve been rather busy of late.”

“Yes, I follow the blog. How was your week with Sky?”

“It was great, well, until the end anyway.”

“Why, what happened?” Michael’s concern buried deep into Claire’s tummy, sparking warmth.

“Dad called to say Ruth had taken a turn for the worse. We had to leg it to the hospital.”

“What’s wrong with Ruth?” The sharpness in Michael’s voice reminded Claire that he had met her family; that Ruth wasn’t merely a name. She recalled, too, that she had yet to tell Michael of her sister’s illness. Hard to avoid it now.

“She has cancer. Well, she had a tumour, in her brain. They removed it, but it seems to have spread.”

“Oh, Claire. Why didn’t you tell me?” He inhaled, and she could imagine him running his hands through his hair. “Why would you cope with something like that alone?”

“I’m not alone, Michael.” The words were colder than intended. “I have friends, family. It’s kind of you to be concerned, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

Michael’s words triggered a memory. Sitting in A&E thinking that, even though she didn’t need a man, it would be rather nice to have someone to take care of her. Then she remembered Michael’s habit of treating her like a Royal Doulton figurine, and decided there was a fine line between caring and suffocating.

“Ruth is in good hands. Mum and Dad are nearby, Robert came over and dealt with the doctors, and I can mind Sky whenever she needs. We’re fine.”

“Well, I’m here if you need me.”

“I know, Michael.”

“And if you want someone to go to Kim’s wedding. You know, as a friend.” He paused, and Claire could imagine him replaying their meeting at the airport. She wondered if he regretted going to a wedding with Debbie as a friend.

The words of denial were on her lips, when another thought presented itself. Maybe I should let him come. Maybe that’s what we both need. What do the Americans call it? Closure? Maybe we need to see that we’ve outgrown each other. It’s been months now. What harm can it do? It’s not like it’s a romantic weekend away: We’ll be staying in bunk-beds. She chose not to remember her encounter with the Scotsman in a top bunk.

“I’ll have to ask Kim. You’re not exactly her favourite person, you know.”

“You dumped me, Claire. I’m not the bad guy in all this.” The rest of her words seemed to register, as he stopped abruptly. “Wait a minute; what will you speak to Kim about?”

“Whether you can come to the wedding as my plus one. As a friend.” She emphasised the words. “You can make yourself useful as an usher or something.”

“Whatever you want, Claire. I’ll be the perfect guest.”

Claire winced at the hope and excitement in his voice. Damn, this was a bad idea. Still, it was done now. She could always say Kim had vetoed it.

The idea of Michael coming to the wedding seemed to alleviate the dread she had been carrying round for the last few days. At least I’ll have someone to talk to, to distract me from all that romantic bliss. As long as Michael doesn’t find out Kim’s pregnant. That’s a discussion I do not need to have with him.

“Okay, Michael. No funny business and no guarantees. I’ll talk to Kim. If you do come, it will be purely to keep my glass full and stop me dying of boredom. I barely know any of Kim and Jeff’s friends.”

“Understood.”

Claire hung up the phone. She felt like Pandora, wishing the box lid had remained firmly closed.

***

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.

***

The Wonder of Sleep: 2013 365 Challenge #166

Walking the dog

Life has been good recently.

With an extra half day of childcare to get on top of the housework, and lots of lovely feedback on my next book, I’ve been feeling unusual sensations: Confidence. Enjoyment.

The sun has been shining and it felt like summer in my heart, if not always outside the front door.

Then I started to struggle with sleep. And the school debate reared its head, so the sleep got worse. Now, for three nights in a row (at least, I’ve lost count) I’ve been woken every two hours, and everything’s gone to pot.

Spot the dog!

Last night I went to bed on a large glass of wine, hoping to sleep through. All it meant was the two-hour shifts of sleep left me groggy and unable to get up. I broke. Low and behold, my life reverted to what it was before. Crying before breakfast, shouting before morning snack. Unable to concentrate, unable to smile.

My family are amazing. Hubbie and kids were full of sympathy and cuddles. When I sobbed in Tesco because my Clubcard vouchers had expired, Amber said, “It’s alright Mummy,” before I’d even managed to apologise. I think maybe seeing the difference for themselves, seeing that it isn’t just words when I say, “Sorry, Mummy’s tired,” has made them take the tears and shouting less to heart.

Enjoying the evening sun

Doesn’t stop them being little monkeys of course but you can’t expect miracles from preschoolers.

So now I’m yawning and stumbling my way round the field with the dog, trying to smile at the sun but really praying for bedtime and a night where my lovely family don’t take it in turns to wake me.

On the plus side, I didn’t cry when I got back to the car this afternoon, with two tired and cranky kids, to find a scribbled note under the wiper that said, “You have a flat tyre.” I didn’t shout at hubbie when I rang him and he said, “Oh yes, that went flat when I borrowed your car last week, just pump it up, it’ll be fine.”

There’s something to be proud of on the darkest of days. Night night.

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“This isn’t a trek; this is just taking the bloody thing for a walk.” Claire looked up at the creature trying to eat her hat. “Cut it out!” The llama smirked at her down its long nose, and chewed insolently.

Claire caught sight of Maggie, her expression somewhere between amusement and disapproval. She held her finger to her lips and Claire looked round guiltily, realising there were children in earshot.

She tugged on the lead and the animal trotted on behind her, like the twisted off-spring of a dog and a giraffe.

The children laughed and giggled, as they walked the llamas along the country lane. At the front, a guide chatted about the local plant and animal life, although the children paid little attention. Maggie paused to let Claire catch up.

“Not what you were expecting?”

“Well, no. I went pony trekking in the New Forest. I was on the pony, not pulling it along behind me.”

“This is for the children, not you! They’re only 8 and 9 years old. Grooming and walking a llama is just their level. Plus we don’t have to worry about the health and safety paperwork if one of them were to fall off! Anyway, the fun comes later.” She threw a cheeky glance at Claire, who felt a heavy feeling in her stomach.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you were bored and wanted some company, some fun? Admit it, you’re having fun?”

Claire shook her head, her lip stuck out in a pout.

“Now you look like a nine-year-old.” The women laughed. “So, where to next, Claire?”

“Ironbridge Coalport, wherever that is.”

“Ah, that’s over in Shropshire. Lovely. Visit the Blist Hill Victorian Village, it will give you something different to write about on that website of yours. You can go for a ride in the horse and cart, if you’re tired of walking!”

With a nod, Claire tugged the lead of her llama and followed the giggling children back for lunch, wishing that Maggie could come with her to her next hostel. There was something infectious about the woman, something warm, that made her happy.

“Come on, Miss Carleton!”

Claire looked over her shoulder at the girl behind her and resisted the urge to swear. She gripped the rubber handles tightly in sweaty hands and willed her creaking knees to try harder. I will not lose to a nine-year old. She glanced over at the blonde-haired girl to her right, who was giggling so hard she didn’t hear the instruction to go.

Pulling hard on the handles, Claire bounced the space hopper along the grass towards the marker. Behind her she could hear her other team mates yelling and urging her on. Her thighs burned. I’m going to kill you, Maggie. She couldn’t see the woman, but she knew she was grinning, just as she had been when she volunteered Claire to take her place in the races.

I’ve seen her tramp along the road quicker than I could run. Playing the old-age card, so that I have to endure sack races and space hoppers: That’s just low. She scowled, but somewhere deep inside a sensation bubbled. Claire didn’t need to analyse it, she didn’t want to. Maggie would be too smug.

The feeling bubbled up higher, until the words were in her mind.

This is fun.

***