Christmas Craft and Childhood Memories: 2013 365 Challenge #331

My Pringle Pots

I sat up until 2am this morning, creating Christmas pringle pots for my children, after sleeping on the sofa from 8pm to 11pm. By the time I got to bed I was wired, and didn’t fall back asleep until 5am. I woke again at 6am with a need to write my blog post, so here I am.

I love it when my brain and body are fizzing with the need to get things done. I just wish they wouldn’t combine to pick such obscure times to do it.

I’m quite proud of the pringle pots, actually. And they’re not even to enter into the competition at school, but because we’ve managed to double book ourselves and so my daughter is unable to go to her school Christmas fair on Sunday. The school fair is one of those hyped events that I’m learning go with being a parent of school-age children.

Actually, a mother said to me the other day that school feels like a part time job we didn’t sign up for. Absolutely! The craft, the paperwork, the fundraising, the instructions and rules and regulations. It easily takes me a few hours a week of time and considerably more of thinking and worry. And the pay is lousy!

Grandma & Family (I’m bottom left)

So, school have been collecting things or asking for money for things for the Christmas fair all week. Chocolate for the tombola, raffle tickets, admission tickets, the pringle pots. I’ve looked down the list of events and I think I can recreate Face Painting, Tombola, Make a Badge, and Tattoos.

I’ve printed some Admit One tickets for the children to buy and use, and they spent last night cutting them out. I’ve printed some raffle tickets for the tombola (as long as no one minds winning tins of beans or whatever I have in my cupboard!) and located the face paints. I just need tape and safety pins and I’m ready.

It brought back great childhood memories, when my sister and I used to stay at our Grandma’s house. We would walk round to the local shop and buy tat to raffle off. We would put on shows and make hoopla and coconut shy stalls. Then we would round up the neighbours and exhort money from them. Such entrepreneurial activity for ones so young! (We even made fruit machines out of cardboard boxes, because my father was rather partial to the one-armed bandits at the seaside arcades)

I spent an hour trying to find a picture this morning, to no avail, so I’ve added a picture of my Grandma and all her grand-daughters, in the sunny garden that brings back so many memories. I don’t suppose my mini Christmas fair for the children will be quite as much fun, but at least we’ve given it a go.

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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 boat rocked as Jack jumped up. “I’ve got something!”

“Jack, sit down before we all end up in the water.” Claire clung to the side of the tiny craft, her now-cold coffee clutched in the other hand like a security blanket. Despite the sun overhead, the water looked cold and uninviting.

Both boys had proved adept at steering the small boat around the estuary and, to begin with, it had been rather pleasant letting them take charge. Once they’d got clear of the main traffic, and the bow waves of the bigger yachts, the water had flattened out like a mill pond. With the sun sparkling on the surface, and native trees huddling over the edges of the estuary walls, Claire had begun to relax and enjoy the morning.

There was something soothing about being out on the water. Even with the low chug of the boat engine breaking the stillness, there was a serene beauty about the far reaches of the inlet they had ventured in to. Overhead, sea birds shrieked their disapproval at being disturbed by the thrum of the outboard motor. Shouts of laughter from the boys, as they squabbled good-naturedly over who was the better steersman, competed with the cry of the gulls.

They had settled down to fish at the far end of Frenchman’s Creek. Heeding the warnings they had been given as they departed, Claire kept an eye on the time, not wanting to get beached at the far end of the creek as the tide slipped back out to sea.

The name Frenchman’s Creek rang a bell. As the boys wrestled with the fish tugging at the end of the line, she tried to recall where she’d heard the name before. Then it came to her: wasn’t there a book of the same name by Daphne du Maurier? She seemed to remember it being on her reading list at university. Some swashbuckling pirate story, full of intrigue and romance. Except the silly woman had gone back to her doltish husband in the end, instead of running away with her lover to France.

Strange choice. If it had been the other way around, the man wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving his children behind. She thought about Chris, her sister’s ex, and how much he had missed Sky when he left Ruth. Perhaps that’s a little unfair. Not all parents are as unfeeling as my darling brother.

With a yell of triumph, Jack and Alex landed their fish, dropping it into the hull of the boat, where it thrashed about like a thing possessed. Claire pulled up her feet and appraised the russet and silver body, suppressing a shudder.

“It’s a sea bass. Wow, look at the size of it!” Jack grinned. “Quick, Claire, take a picture, please.” He drew out the last word into a plea.

Claire put her coffee cup down and retrieved her phone, trying not to grimace as Jack picked up the fish and removed the hook from its mouth. He held the wriggling body in both hands, and gave a cheesy smile. As soon as Claire had taken several pictures, he gave it one last longing look before throwing it over the side of the boat.

“Don’t you want to keep it?” Claire asked, surprised, as the boys watched the fish swim away.

“Why would I do that?” Jack looked puzzled. He baited his hook and prepared to try another cast. “I hate fish.”

***

Snivelling Sunday: 2013 365 Challenge #329

Hiding in the dog bed

I broke the number one rule of parenting yesterday in writing my post: I intimated success, in a public forum. The first thing you learn as a parent is Never Ever Brag. Not even when you’re not really bragging, just celebrating a tiny achievement, like two hours between feeds, or four hours’ sleep, or a day without potty accidents. The Universe repels against the sharing of these moments of triumph and ensures they will never be repeated.

I see it time and again. A poor, tired, defeated mother will proclaim on Facebook, “Hurrah, child number one slept through the night, at last! My sleepless zombie days are over.” And the Universe sounds harruga harruga and, low and behold, their next status update will including twenty-four hour vomiting or the simultaneous arrival of several teeth, until there isn’t enough calpol in the world to stop the screaming.

After experiencing the social media curse myself (telling a friend, or even discussing it with hubbie can have the same disastrous consequences) I refuse even to acknowledge to myself when the children have stayed in their beds all night or gone into nursery without tears.

Ah, there they are

So, writing a whole self-congratulatory post yesterday about the children playing nicely together was, inevitably, foolish. Today it feels like they’ve been whining since they woke up. It isn’t helped by me staying awake until midnight in an attempt to break my winter jet lag, only to have them wake at 1am (son lost his covers and dummy), 3am (daughter had nightmares and needed a story to calm her), 5.30am (son, wee) and 6.30am (daughter, poo).

Swimming was a challenge, as I feel like I’m hungover without the pleasure of a single G&T. The tantrums, over nothing. The endless demands. The ingratitude. Arrgghh.

We were home by 11am because hubbie has plans for the rest of the day. So I resorted to, “I’m reading, find something to do,” until they took themselves into the playroom and left me to have a nap. It’s still only 1.30pm, I have the week’s ironing to do, the dog to walk and dinner to prepare, and swimming didn’t vaguely wear them out. They’re currently sitting in the dog bed, squabbling, while the dog is slumped at my feet in despair.

Looking forwards to the holidays? Me? I never said that! I must have been halucinating. I hear sleep deprivation will do that.

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“Will you two come away from the edge! I am never going to hear the end of it if I send you back to your father with a broken leg. Or in a body bag.”

The wind whipped Claire’s voice away and the boys paid no attention, but continued to scramble around the cliff top like goats.

“Come back here or we will go to the seal sanctuary tomorrow. I’m warning you.” She stood with her hands on her hips, wondering what possessed her to bring the boys up onto the cliffs. It was meant to be the most southerly part of the UK and she’s wanted to take some pictures for the blog. So far she’d been too busy watching her nephews trying to kill themselves to think about photographs.

More fool me thinking they could behave for five minutes. I should have left the tykes at the hostel. Blimey, how do mothers cope with this every day?

Drawing in breath, she tried for one last effort. “Get here now or I’m sending your iPads back to Geneva in the next post.”

Both boys turned to see if she was joking. The expression on her face was obviously stern enough that they took her threat seriously. They loped towards her at full pelt, then chased each other around her as if she were a maypole.

“Cut it out. You are not four years old. Will you act your age please?”

She stalked off back towards the hostel, a thumping pain crushing the front of her skull. Her ears still rang with the noise of the foghorn from Jack’s enthusiastic turn at playing lighthouse keeper earlier. All she wanted was a coffee or maybe a gin and tonic, and some silence.

“Watch out!”

Claire turned at the sound of the shout; instinct telling her the boys were the cause of the woman’s shriek. Sure enough, they were standing near a young woman, their heads hanging low and their hands in their pockets.

The woman turned towards Claire, her face livid. “Are these your boys? You ought to have better control of them. They nearly knocked me flying. What are they doing running around up here? Someone could get hurt. Call yourself a mother?” She snarled out the last words, before stalking off without waiting for a reply.

Claire’s heart hammered in her chest and her knees quivered. Looking after the woman, the venomous words echoed in her head, throbbing in time with her headache. As she turned back to the boys, fury mounted like a cresting wave.

“What the hell happened? What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, Claire, we promise.” Jack’s face appeared pale in the afternoon sunlight. Claire raised her eyebrows at him in mute disbelief.

“Alex?”

The elder boy remained silently staring at the ground.

“Come on, guys, you must have done something.”

“We didn’t. Not really.”

Claire turned back to Jack, hearing the hesitation in his voice. She forced her face to soften. “What happened?” she asked in a lower tone.

“We were mucking about and we jostled her. That’s all, I swear. She acted as if we’d tried to shove her over the cliff but we didn’t. Look, the edge is all the way over there.” He pointed to where the ground fell away, about three metres from where they were standing.

With a deep breath, Claire tried to calm her racing pulse. She’d never been yelled at by a complete stranger before. Well, not when she wasn’t driving, at any rate. Piecing together her nephew’s words, she tried to make sense of the woman’s anger. The edge wasn’t that close, although near enough for her. Without having witnessed the incident, she couldn’t say if the boys were lying or the woman over-reacting.

Is that what being a parent means? That strangers feel at liberty to make judgement on you? How does that work?

With a shaking smile, she beckoned the boys nearer. Hooking an arm through Jack’s, she held out her elbow for Alex to hold on to, not really expecting him to take it. After a startled glance, he tentatively threaded his arm through hers.

“Well, I might not be very good at making you behave, but I do know a café where they sell very good chocolate cake. Sound good?”

She smiled at them both, feeling they’d had enough recrimination from the angry woman for her to add anything further. With her heart still beating a rapid tattoo, Claire led the boys off the cliff, and hoped they wouldn’t bump into the irate woman again.

***

Sanguine Saturday: 2013 365 Challenge #328

Can I come out now?

I’m starting to really enjoy Saturdays since my daughter started school. For the first time I can vaguely relate to the host of mothers who look forward to the school holidays.

I used to follow the debate with interest, as those mothers climbing the walls by day two of a school vacation fail to understand the mums that love every minute. I will be a bit of both, I have no doubt, but the fact that there is anything to look foward to is encouraging.

I was wide awake at 4.30am this morning, despite it being the weekend. Hubbie was out with work last night and I fell asleep on the sofa at 8pm, as I have been doing all week. I feel like I have jetlag. I’m not even watching the cricket (as a Brit, I’m happy to give it a miss just now). I think it’s the time of year, with the dark nights and a brain buzzing with Christmas plans; it throws my body clock out of kilter.

So I ventured downstairs in the wee freezing hours and ended up standing at the family computer (which is on top of the piano at the moment!) for four hours looking at photos for November’s cover. The children shuffled down at 7.30am and hubbie appeared nearer ten o’clock, despite not drinking on his night out. We’re getting old!

First handwritten letter

The thing I love about Saturdays is the way the children take themselves off to play while hubbie and I get a chance to chat. Today, my daughter was running school in the playroom, teaching my son his words. Aside from a gentle reminder to her that he’s only three and can’t read yet, they occupied themselves for hours without intervention. The trampoline has been a godsend, too, allowing our energetic boy to burn off steam without getting into trouble.

I finally dragged myself away from online Christmas shopping to cook lunch and encourage the kids to write their letters to Father Christmas. They’re not really hyped up about the big day (I worry that they’re spoiled because they can take or leave getting presents – they’re more interested in their chocolate advent calendars) but I need to be organised this year, if I’m going to find time to write a satisfying ending for Claire.

After lunch I risked a trip to the local shopping centre to get white tights for my daughter’s nativity (she’s an angel) and to let the children to cash in their reward charts. Goodness me the supermarket was heaving, but my darlings were superstars. Funny how much more relaxed they are when I’m not in a hurry. I guess it took a strict routine for me to appreciate the freedom we always had before.

I’m not saying the school holidays don’t still fill me with trepidation, but there is a ray of light. The contrast to the school run stress and chaos appears blissful, at least from this vantage point in the middle of it. For the first time since the children were born I’m looking forward to the end of term.

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Claire looked at the faces staring expectantly across the table at her and wanted to scream. The boys had only been with her for a week, and she had crammed as many activities as possible into their days, not just to wear them out, but to keep herself from flying apart.

When they were occupied they didn’t bicker and she had more space to think about her assignment. Although time to think wasn’t always a blessing. Conor hadn’t been in touch since the visit to St. Mawes Castle. She kept reminding herself that a week in the office wasn’t like a week with two boys to entertain, and that he’d just been too busy to contact her.

As the weekend came and went with no surprise visit, she couldn’t ignore the insidious sense of disappointment that sharpened her temper and dulled her senses.

“What are we doing today, Aunt–, I mean Claire?” Jack was the first to break the silence. After a week together they had finally learnt it was best to wait until she’d drunk at least one cup of coffee before they badgered her with requests.

Claire looked from Jack to Alex, trying to work out how much energy she had and what activities were left on the list. They’d been based in the same hostel all week – one without internet or phone signal, which was driving her almost as crazy as it was Alex. Part of their daily routine incorporated locating a café with free WiFi.

“Are we moving to a different hostel today?” Alex looked up from his phone, having long since given up waving it around in an attempt to find the elusive spot where a text message might go.

Claire smiled warmly at her eldest nephew. “Yes, Alex. I have to say, you’ve coped brilliantly with the lack of contact with the outside world. I’m sorry it didn’t occur to me to check before I booked us in here. The location is brilliant, though, isn’t it? And the pool table has been fun?”

Alex nodded without enthusiasm. Claire suspected their hilltop location, with views to die for and a crystal clear beach in walking distance, had been more her idyllic holiday destination than theirs. The next hostel on the list wasn’t much better, but they were only there for one night, possibly two.

“We’re staying next to the lighthouse tonight – that will be fun, won’t it? Although let’s hope it isn’t foggy. Apparently the foghorn sounds all night in bad weather.”

“Wicked,” Jack said with a grin. “Can we go in it?”

Jack was definitely more her kindred spirit. He’d done the cliff top walks, the pony ride and jungle trek with obvious delight, whilst Alex had only really come alive at the theme park. Claire shuddered at the memory of being dragged on the rides, and wondered why she hadn’t thought to take the boys there when Conor was with them, instead of to the castle.

Their windsurfing lesson the day before – which Claire had excused herself from, claiming work commitments – had been Jack’s crowning glory, as he’d been the only lad of his age to come near to controlling the unwieldy craft in the allotted time. Claire wondered if there was anything that might remotely interest Alex.

“Yes, I believe you can play lighthouse keeper,” she said, in response to Jack’s question. “I think you even get to sound the foghorn and have a go at tracking ships.”

“Brilliant.” Jack said, and received a disgusted look from his brother. “What? Just because you’re in lurve,” he drew out the word, “doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be boring.”

Alex punched him on the arm and Claire concealed a smile, for once not irritated by their fighting. It had taken a while to get used to the physicality of brothers. With two sisters in the house, Robert hadn’t been a rough-and-tumble child, although she remembered a few times when they’d fought. Mostly he and Ruth had been the ones at war, verbally more than physically. Claire found the fighting easier to deal with than the telling tales and snide remarks she remembered from her own childhood.

“Leave him alone, Jack, and Alex, don’t hit your brother.” She drained the last of her coffee, making a mental note to pick up takeaway when they stopped at the café, and stood up.

“Right, here’s the plan. We’ll go check in, visit the lighthouse, and get our bearings. Alex gets to choose tomorrow’s activity.”

A surprised smile from the older child rewarded her suggestion and she returned it gladly. As they left the breakfast room in relative harmony, Claire felt that she might be starting to get the hang of this parenting lark.

***

Rainy Day of the Soul: 2013 365 Challenge #326

More rain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Problems?”

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

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

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

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

“Well, I am at least a bloke.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Conor said I should talk to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friends?”

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

***

Flexible Minds: 2013 365 Challenge #322

Morris Dancers

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

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

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

Reindeer and elves

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

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

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

A yellow elephant?

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

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

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

Spooky man with glass ball

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

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

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

DIY Face Painting

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

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

Everything happens for a reason. 😉

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robert I am going to kill you.

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

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

“You’re here finally, then.”

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

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

***

Art is the Answer: 2013 365 Challenge #320

Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale

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

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

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

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

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

From Slow Down Mummy’s FB Page

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

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

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

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

From Slow Down Mummy

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

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

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

Maybe art is the answer after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Scary Mommy Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kristen Lamb’s beautifully honest post

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

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

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

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

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

Doing Sounds in the playroom

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

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

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

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

Stupid map.

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

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

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

Well, that told me, didn’t it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is why I love my job.

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

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

***

Miles and points roundup, SAHM, Anna Maria island (milesforfamily.com)
Stay-at-home mom, bullied at the bus stop (salon.com)
The SAHM that ticked me off… (thebadmommydiaries.com)
The SAHM’s Art of Doing Nothing (fromcheekytofrumpyin4yearsflat.wordpress.com)
“SAHMs are nothing special” (margeryandtheman.wordpress.com)
SAHM Survival! (freethinkingmoms.wordpress.com)
Love to Hate SAHM (scatteredsunshine518.wordpress.com)
No more apologies (inadifferentvoice.co.uk)

My Handsome Date: 2013 365 Challenge #312

My handsome date

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Clean house, clean head?

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

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

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

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

Kitchen always the last to do

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

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

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

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

Tidy bedrooms for five minutes

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

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

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

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

Easier said than done.

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“Hello, Mrs Jenkins, it’s Claire.”

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

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

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

“And how’s Kim?”

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

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

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

“Can I talk to her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your boss? Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Pumpkin Carving: 2013 365 Challenge #301

Getting stuck into the pumpkin

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

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

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

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

Which face is more scary?

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

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

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

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

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

I really ought to invest in a watch.

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

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

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

“Are you Miss Carleton?”

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

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

Damn, damn, damn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***