Let it Go: 2013 365 Challenge #145

Preschool Chicks

Matt Haig, author of The Humans, recently ran a hashtag on Twitter asking people to give their best piece of advice to the human race. It’s worth a look at #thehumans, as there were some great nuggets of wisdom.

I liked, “Walk the wavy line between self control and abandon. Try not to fall over. Much.”

My advice was:

Learn to live life as dogs and children do: live in the moment, love openly, forgive willingly, laugh often

I really should learn to follow my own advice. Today I am struggling with one of my biggest faults, a severe inability to let it go. I hang on to mistakes, especially my own mistakes, forever. Particularly if it is something I feel I should have done and didn’t (like not buying my dad a heater, when he then died of pneumonia.)

Today’s gut-twisting mistake is not putting my children into a certain preschool when I had a chance two years ago (I know, get a grip, right?). We visited it, my daughter didn’t like the woman running it, and we never went back. Even though I heard good things about it. I did consider it, I even contacted them a few months ago, when we couldn’t afford our current childcare after hubbie was made redundant and we had to reduce our days. A lot of family stress came from that reduction in childcare, and some of it might have been avoided if I had moved the kids to the new (cheaper) preschool.

Blowing Bubbles at Nursery

I lie awake at night all the time worrying about childcare, because I have so much choice. It doesn’t matter when I write. I don’t work shifts or have a boss to fit around. I need two or three days a week to keep on top of housework and work on my blog/novels/marketing. And to stay sane, away from the endless chatter and squabbling of a house of preschoolers. And there are lots of options, although none are cheap. When you’re not earning, that’s definitely a factor! I churn the options round and round until my head aches and I’m no nearer to a solution.

Anyway, it’s an old discussion. Today we visited preschools to choose one for my son, when my daughter goes to primary school in September. Nursery is not only very expensive, it is quite a small environment. I want space for Aaron to run and run, preferably outdoors.

We visited two preschools, the first near the primary school, so uber convenient, the other the one mentioned above. It’s in a village hall, surrounded by a large lawn and playground. It’s perfect. But, being me, I didn’t think, “Hurrah, we’ve chosen a great preschool for September and the kids want to start straight away, and they have a forest school and so much quiet space, it’s wonderful.” Instead of all that positivity, I’m mostly thinking, “why didn’t I try harder to get Amber in two years ago. It’s cheaper, nicer, there’s more space, etc etc.” (Not helped by Amber telling me she wants to go to forest school, which isn’t possible!)

I hope my Learning Happiness as a Second Language book will also help me learn the art of Letting Go. Live in the moment, love openly, forgive willingly (especially myself), laugh often.

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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 ran her eye down the list of links on the website and sighed. This is wearing thin. Go Ape – done that; country parks – done that; Spa Day – not allowed even if it is tempting; narrow-gage railway – done that though worth mentioning on the blog; country house – done that. Looks like I’m going to have to wait for Julia’s email after all. The only thing on the list that could be considered a high-adrenalin activity was karting, and Claire decided she’d sooner resign.

There must be something new to do in Sherwood Forest. Her mind filled with images of men in tights hiding in the trees and the words of the song “Robin Hood” began to play in her head.

Right, so what is Robin Hood famous for? Archery? That’s a possibility. Or what about horse riding? A nice gentle hack through the trees might be nice. A quick search on the internet threw up several possibilities and Claire was soon booked up.

There we go, Julia, no need for you to lower yourself to the task at all. It’s all in hand. Though I don’t think plodding through the trees on a pony is going to humiliate me quite enough for you. Tough.

Claire stared between the horse’s ears at the rump of the pony in front, and tried not to cry. Her legs hurt, her bum hurt and, thanks to a moment’s inattention, her head hurt where she’d ridden into a low-slung branch. So much for a relaxing hack through the woods. The worst part was being the eldest in the group by more than a decade. Claire hadn’t enquired what group she’d be joining and it turned out to be a bunch of teenagers on some Outward Bound expedition.

Head low, Claire let the horse find its own path through the forest and tried to enjoy the sound of bird song and the occasional sight of snow drops deep beneath the trees. After an hour even the teenage chatter began to diminish. Through the foliage around her, Claire could sense the sky darkening and the humidity rising.

It’s going to rain. Bugger. I really must get in the habit of checking the forecast. She pulled up the collar of her coat and wished she’d thought to put the hood up underneath her hard hat.

Well, Julia, is this miserable enough for you? Hunching her shoulders, Claire was reminded of a character in one of Sky’s story books about a sulking vulture called Boris. The thought made her smile briefly, but the feeling didn’t last long.

The temperature plummeted as the sun disappeared behind a charcoal grey cloud, hovering it seemed only metres above the trees. There was a pause, then heavy rain drops began to splatter through the leaves.

Claire felt as if she’d fallen into the percussion section of the orchestra pit. The rain splashing on her hard hat syncopated with the clopping of the hooves on the path and the whistle of the wind through the trees.

The horse in front of her stopped and Claire craned her neck to see the problem. Horses had gathered in a group at the front and she wondered if someone had fallen off or been injured. I can’t imagine any of these plod-a-longs bucking. More likely someone fell asleep from boredom and slid off.

A whisper came back along the line to Claire. The teenager on the pony in front didn’t turn and share it with her, but she got the general gist. We’re lost.

Claire gave a quick kick to the ribs of her beast and on the third attempt it shuffled forwards, past the gaggle of teenagers. Eventually she drew alongside the guide, a woman no older than Claire, who was staring at a tatty piece of now-soggy paper, turning it this way and that.

“Are we lost?”

Claire didn’t mean to sound so accusatory, but cold and fatigue sharpened her voice. The girl looked up, her face woebegone. She nodded slightly without making eye contact.

“How can we be lost? Surely you know the route like the back of your hand? We’re not in the Amazon rainforest.”

“I’m new. This is the first time I’ve taken a group out on my own. I’m used to riding on the downs, these trees make me claustrophobic.”

Claire swore under her breath. I feel a hundred years old. There clearly wasn’t any point bothering with the sodden map. She pulled out her phone and prayed for signal. Luck was on her side. Frowning over the screen, trying to shield it from the rain, she fathomed the general direction of the stables.

“We need to head that way.” She pointed through the trees, but the rain had reduced visibility to almost zero. Shouting over the gathering wind, Claire added, “Though I don’t know how we find a path through this.”

The guide shouted back, her facing losing some of its gloom.

“Sorry?” Claire yelled.

“I said the ponies will find their way home, if we point them the right way.”

Claire nodded, then signalled for the guide to lead on. She let the teenagers past, and took up position at the rear again – this time to watch for stragglers rather than to mope.

Only I could come on a pony trek with the clueless newbie. Thank you evil genie Carl and your handmaiden Julia. I don’t know how you arranged it, but you managed to inject adrenalin even into this.

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Not the next Rio Ferdinand: 2013 365 Challenge #138

My little footballer

Talking to a friend yesterday about children and hobbies, I admitted that I don’t do any classes with my children – partly through laziness and partly because I don’t want them focussing on one thing and never learning about other joys and talents they might possess.

When I grew up I did gymnastics, because that’s what my sister did. I did ballet and tap too, but they were soon dropped because my sister did gymnastics and I wanted to do what she did (besides, I suspect I was rubbish at dance).

My sister was brilliant – she competed at county at gymnastics. But, despite going to class several hours a week and practising even more, I was awful. I couldn’t touch my toes even then, and I was never going to do a back flip. It wasn’t for me. I have other talents – I love music and writing and later I became a Guide Leader and found that was a real passion. But there wasn’t brownies or choir or drama when I was little, just gymnastics.

I look at my children now and they have such a breadth of talent. My son is good at football and music and loves reading and art. My daughter makes creations out of pipe-cleaners and tissue paper, invents songs, does pirouettes in the kitchen, plays the piano and writes books. They’re two and four.

Playing the Piano

Every time I see them doing something I say, “would you like to have lessons in that?” The answer is generally “no”. Amber is happy making beautiful music on the piano without the torture of correct fingering or learning to read music. Aaron likes to hog the ball so would probably hate playing football with others. The only thing they’re really keen on is having horse-riding lessons and even that has diminished since we started pony rides at the farm.

I want to nurture their interest and their passion without killing it and luckily that seems to fit with my general laissez-faire parenting style.

On the flip-side, however, I want them to belong and have good friendships and nothing includes you quicker than being part of a group: whether it’s football, music or dance, you make like-minded friends. I also want them to feel their talents are valued, and to bring out in them the best they can be.

So how to do one without the other? I learned the violin as a child. It was the only option and I was pretty awful at it. I didn’t start until I was nine and that was too old. I wish I’d been made to learn piano aged five, when it would have been easy, instead of taking it up as an adult and finding it so very hard. Such contradictions: where is the happy balance?

As with anything, I think it is a combination of going with the child’s wishes and following your gut. During the conversation with my friend, she mentioned a friend of hers whose sixteen year old son plays professional football. Her attitude was that I should get my son playing football now! That, if he is any good, we could all be making money, and he would have a career and fame and all that.

It made me shudder.

I’d rather my son was a builder

My father often said (and to this day I don’t know if he was joking) “Why couldn’t you and your sister have been professional Tennis Players – and keep me in my old age?” My general response (in my head) was, Dad, you never once played tennis with us as kids, how was that ever going to happen?

But, seriously, who would wish that on their child? A career, yes. Enough money to live without doubt and struggle, yes. But the life of a professional sports person? Endless training, long hours, restricted diet. Growing up too soon, stuck in the limelight, every childish mistake judged by the world? Retired at 35 and still the rest of your life to figure out? I wouldn’t wish that on my kids for anything.

If they want to do it, that’s different. I’ll be there at the side-lines with my pompoms cheering them on. I’ll make sacrifices if need be. But, for now, I’m happy with mediocre. I’m happy with Baa Baa Black Sheep sung by a two-year-old to his own random piano accompaniment. I’m happy to be goal keeper and ball boy and take orders from my mini tyrants. Hurrah for the laissez-faire (lazy?) parent.

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Claire was glad of the satnav, reassuring her she was on the correct road. I don’t remember Burghley being this far out of town.

She’d decided to visit the stately home and get some information together for the blog. Her visitor numbers had suffered, during her fortnight minding Sky, although she had maintained the regular posts by discussing trips out with children. It surprised Claire that they had been her most popular posts for a while.

Mental note to include children’s activities in all my blog posts from now on. There’s a whole world of parenting out there I was oblivious too. I imagine it’s even harder to cater for the tiny ones, although how much entertaining do they need when they can’t walk and talk?

At last the satnav announced the words, “turn right.” Claire looked across and saw the gate houses nestled deep in the hedgerow, with a wooden sign directing visitors to use that entrance. The last time I was at Burghley it was for the Horse Trials. I don’t think we came in this way. In fact, during the horse trials they had barely seen the house. Only a sea of white marquees and a milling throng of people.

She had come with some university friends and, as far as she could remember, they hadn’t left the champagne tent, except to go shopping. Did I even see a horse? I can’t remember. Those were the days. With a sigh of regret for her lost youth, Claire negotiated the cattle grid, hoping it didn’t shake any rusty parts off the Skoda’s bodywork, and drove up the lane. The car park nestled underneath large spreading trees, beginning to leave behind the nakedness of winter and don their spring clothes.

The car park was nearly empty, and Claire wondered if maybe the house wasn’t open. I suppose there aren’t many people visiting a stately home on a Monday morning in April. She shivered as a gust of wind swirled round the car, prompting her to reach into the back for her jacket. When she stood up, she had the impression that someone was watching her. Turning slowly, memories of the mugging in her mind, Claire gave out a startled cry at the sight of a large stag standing only two car-lengths away.

“Blimey, where did you come from?”

The stag didn’t move at the sound of her voice. He merely stood in silent scrutiny, reminding Claire of Bambi’s father surveying the herd from his hilltop lookout. The stag’s antlers spread wide and high above his head.

Barely breathing, Claire walked steadily forward, reaching into her pocket for her phone. The stag showed signs of restlessness when she was a few feet away, so she stopped and slowly took a photo. Then she stood, barely breathing, eyes connected to the impassive stare of the animal. They paused motionless for a minute, and Claire wondered if she could chance getting closer. With her arm outstretched she crept forward. The stag threw up his head, then turned and galloped off to join the grazing herd on the other side of the car park.

Bloody hell. Claire let out the breath she had been holding, and gave a shaky laugh. That’s today’s blog sorted. I can’t imagine some boring old sixteenth-century house can have anything to top that.

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Disney’s Brave Merida Makeover: 2013 365 Challenge #137

The image that went with the petition

I received a petition in my inbox last week, asking me to save Merida. For those who don’t know, Merida is the princess in Pixar’s Brave and the latest princess to be included in Disney’s official Princess Set (like some awful exclusive club!).

I haven’t seen the whole movie, but I’ve seen enough to know that Merida is awesome. She’s natural, with uncontrollable hair and normal features (no giant scary eyes for her). She’s a proper teenager who fights with her mum and thinks the world Is. Not. Fair. She wants to ride and shoot arrows and carve out her own future. She does not want to marry a prince. From the minute I learned of her existence I thought she was amazing and Pixar were brilliant for going even further than the great Rapunzel who, despite being a kick-ass Princess, still has unnatural features and the biggest eyes in the world.

So why did Merida need saving, and why did it warrant a petition? Normally the petitions I sign online are to do with Saving the NHS, or Saving Our Forests. Big causes. You wouldn’t think saving a cartoon princess – a bunch of colour pixels – would fall in the same category. But it does. Because this is what they wanted to do to Merida: They wanted to make her sexy and feminine in order to include her in the set of ‘official’ Disney Princesses. Her already fairly curvy figure was enhanced and her waist narrowed. They tamed her hair, made her dress off-the-shoulder and dropped the bow and arrow.

Twenty-First Century Princess

Okay, maybe I get the bit about losing the bow and arrow. My father used to make bows for us as kids, with real arrows carved from ash trees. The neighbours were not impressed and many an argument was had over the inappropriate nature of a toy that could take a child’s eye out. I thought they were overly protective until I had my own kids, and now I know I wouldn’t welcome a bow and arrow as a toy. Although it’s no worse than a plastic sword! And at least it was the girl wielding it – so one to right the sexist imbalance in children’s toys.

My daughter loves dressing up as a Disney Princess, although I haven’t let her watch Cinderella, Snow White or Beauty and the Beast, partly because she isn’t interested, and partly because the women are a bit pathetic. I love the way the newer princesses have gone. And I don’t mind about the merchandising. My daughter looks fab in a Snow White dress, with her modern accessories of a mobile phone and laptop. Just as my son looks rather fetching as Spiderman in heels. But really, Disney, why go to the effort of creating the best Disney Princess ever only to ruin her for the sake of making her fit?

My Modern Princess

As I researched this post, it seems the old Merida is back and it was never intended to be a permanent change, only for some merchandising. In some images the changes aren’t as extreme, and maybe it was a storm in a tea cup: it’s hard to get a straight answer with Disney staying quiet.

Maybe Disney bowed to pressure, maybe it was a cynical marketing ploy to generate publicity, maybe it was an innocent mistake. Who knows? In the end it doesn’t much matter. What is important is the level of outrage it created (although, reading some of the comments as I researched this post, it seems many people think us mothers are going nutty over nothing. Deep breath. Count to ten.)

Hopefully, eventually, big companies like Disney will learn that it is not cool to take their duty so lightly. Millions of little girls look to Disney princesses as role models and, finally with Merida, they have someone who lives up to that responsibility. Use it wisely, Disney, use it well.

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“You have reached your destination.”

The satnav’s prim voice startled Claire out of her reverie. She looked out the window, not sure what to expect. She hadn’t studied the website for this hostel and so was arriving blind. Her heart pattered anxiously, remembering her arrival at Sheringham.

“Alright, Thurlby, let’s see what you have to offer. Please be nice.”

It seemed strange pulling up outside the hostel, alone in the Skoda. There had been too much time for thought, driving north with all the Sunday commuter traffic. There wasn’t even the novelty of new, as the area was close to where she had grown up. Signs for Burghley House and Rutland Water only reminded her of rare family trips out, sibling bickering and a desire to hide.

Claire climbed out of her car and gazed up at the building. Her soul soared like a Red Kite riding a thermal. Tall Georgian sash windows beamed from deep red brick as tree branches in early bud danced over her head. Two weeks of tension drained from her shoulders as she took in the idyllic surroundings.

I don’t know what surprises me more; that these places exist as hostels, where you can stay for a tenner a night, or that I never knew they existed before I started this assignment. It felt a betrayal to be glad of anything Carl had done to her, but at that moment she was conscious of a deep sense of gratitude that she could come and stay in a Georgian Manor. By myself, for free. I’ll take it. Even if it does mean I’ll have to cycle round Rutland Water and oo-ah at Burghley. Again.

Curled up on the sofa, once more immersed in the adventures of Katniss, Claire felt like something was missing. She glanced up at the empty room, and wondered where the strange sensation was coming from. Maybe I’m hungry. Dry cereal isn’t really dinner. That will teach me not to check whether it was a catering hostel or not. Her tummy gurgled in agreement, but still that didn’t seem to be it. She glanced round the room again, and then she knew. She missed Sky. How is that possible? This is the first time I’ve felt free in a fortnight. And it was good to be alone, without the endless worry and chatter. But still, the room seemed too silent, the night stretching out before her too long.

“Ah well,” she said, her voice echoing in the quiet. “It’ll wear off.”

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Disney’s Brave Merida Sexy Makeover Sparks Angry Petition (Huffingtonpost.co.uk)
Disney Pulls Redesigned Princess Merida After Backlash (news.moviefone.com)
Film: Newswire: Disney quietly kills its gussied up version of Merida, the Brave princess (avclub.com)
Be Brave Little Merida! (littlemisswordy.wordpress.com)
Brave’s Princess Merida’s New Sexy Look Pulled by Disney (jedimouseketeer.com)
Disney Pulls Sexy Merida Makeover After Public Backlash (jezebel.com)

Am I Sheep or Goat: 2013 365 Challenge #129

Feeding the Goats

We went back to Old Farm (Sacrewell Farm) today and it was lovely. I selected it because of suspected rain (there’s more to do indoors) and because I needed to be home mid afternoon for the shopping delivery.

The children have been hankering for New Farm (West Lodge) but I think that’s the novelty factor. I’m enjoying the familiarity of Sacrewell and the timely reminder that new isn’t necessarily better.

It’s too easy to let familiarity breed contempt or to need there to be a better and less better in everything. I think that’s preschooler behaviour rubbing off (or maybe they’re like that because of me). It’s like parenting, when one person’s way needs to be better than another’s: we can’t all just be different.

I filled out all the school forms this morning for daughter’s start in September and it was hard not to be swept up into the parental discussions and to be swayed by the opinions of others. I guess that’s only going to get harder the older the children get. Mostly I’m okay with my choices but when there are parents, teachers and other professionals telling me otherwise, how will I fare? Will I stick to my guns, as I did today bringing the children to Old Farm against protest, or will I be swayed by majority opinion, strong personalities or the will of others? Will I be a sheep or a goat? Hmmm might be time to learn some of my children’s stubbornness!

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“How are Francesca and the boys?”

Robert looked up from his coffee as if the question surprised him. “Fine. They’re fine.”

He looks uncomfortable? What’s that all about? “Did they come with you?”

“No.” The word shot out like a bullet. “No,” he said again, more softly. “Can’t take the boys out of school, you know.”

Claire tried to work out how old Jack and Alex were, and realised she had no idea. How can I not know the ages of my own nephews? I really am a rotten Auntie.

They sat in silence, sipping coffee and watching hospital staff stride in for their takeaway caffeine. A pocket of strained calm surrounded them and Claire was glad for her heavy eyes and foggy brain. There was no urge to fill the emptiness with conversation. Not that I’ve ever figured out what to say to Robert. You’d think by our age, a six-year gap between us would be irrelevant. Sometimes it feels like a hundred-year gap.

She looked at Robert, his uncrumpled shirt buttoned to the collar, despite the early hour and long journey. He looked like a nineteenth-century doctor, not a twenty-first century businessman. Whatever it is that he actually does over there in Geneva. I have no idea about that either.

“How is Ruth?”

Robert’s question startled her, and she spilt coffee across the table. Keeping her eyes focussed on mopping up the spreading liquid, Claire shrugged. “How much do you know?”

“Only what Mum told me on the phone, yesterday. That the cancer has spread and they need to change her treatment.” His matter-of-fact tone set Claire’s nerves on edge. She raised her head, about to expostulate, and saw the red tinge surrounding his eyes.

Dropping her head back to the table, away from the horrific image of her brother close to tears, Claire shrugged again. “You know as much as I do, then. I guess we’ll know more later, when the doctor has done his rounds.” In her mind she added, When you have spoken to the doctor. What were big brothers for, if not to deal with the authorities. Claire felt queasy at the idea of discussing her sister with the intimidating people bustling around the building. She waited, hoping Robert would pick up on her unspoken vibe.

“Right. I will speak to her doctors and discover what the situation is. Leave it to me.”

A week ago his assumption of control would have irritated her: Now she felt a rush of relief. For the first time in a very long time she was content to be treated as the baby of the family.

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The Importance of Being Mean: 2013 365 Challenge #125

Mean Mummy put me in a basket

I read a comment today on a blog post by the talented Matt Haig that made me realise something significant about my writing. The post itself was about Matt having thin skin and how that can be good for a writer but not for a published author. Understanding feelings and hurt and pain are what raise the okay storyteller to the breath-taking master of craft, but it comes at a cost.

I related to much of the post in terms of the thin skin, the depression, feeling awe at how amazing the world really is. But it was one of the comments below the post that really resonated.

Suzanne Korb

I think you just switched on a lightbulb in my head. I have a thin skin – but I pretend to be thick-skinned. That prevents me from putting more feeling into my writing. I think I protect the words I write, I defend my characters and keep them from feeling anguish and fear and pain. No wonder my writing isn’t always working

I’m terrible at writing conflict. If I love a character the last thing I want to do his hurt him or her. I don’t even like reading books where awful things happen to good people. But conflict, disaster, overcoming adversity, these are all essential elements in good story and believable character growth.

You did What to your characters??

When I edited Dragon Wraiths the first time I realised Leah escaped disaster time and again through a series of lucky coincidences or through her own skill. The car in the flood, the unexpected dragon sentry, they were easily evaded or survived with no harm done. I love Leah, and Luke, and I want them to be happy. As I want my kids to be happy. But just as you have to be Mean Mom occasionally you have to be a mean author too.

I have to confess I didn’t make Leah’s life too much harder. She’d had a tough childhood already and deserved a break. And life is also full of near misses and lucky escapes. But I do know my inability to make characters suffer is going to have to change for my writing to go to the next level (oh that’s a horrible phrase but you know what I mean). Maybe what I have to do is make my characters more annoying to me, like my kids can be, and then mean will just happen without effort.

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“Have you booked a date for the wedding? I’m guessing it will have to be soon, not that you’re showing.” Claire leaned back in the sand and looked over at her friend.

Kim laughed, patting her flat stomach. “I am: I just breathe in! I have to hope the baby doesn’t get too big before the show’s finished. Our Director will have a fit. We’ll be a laughing stock if the audience notices Puck is pregnant.”

“That doesn’t seem right: Aren’t there rules about discrimination these days? Surely he or she will be applauded for their political correctness.”

“There isn’t much political correctness in the acting world, my dear. I’ll be considered too old for many roles in a year or two. I’m lucky I’m petite and slim, it hides my age. Not that I’ll be slim for long.” She frowned and stared down the beach, where Jeff and Sky were engaged in a sandcastle competition. Sky was cheating, flattening Jeff’s castles every time he went to collect water or shells.

“You make it sound like we’re ancient.” Claire shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun. “Actually I feel pretty ancient, although at least Sky hasn’t had nightmares for a day or two. I think I actually got six hours sleep last night.”

“Is it really so bad?” Kim’s voice suggested she didn’t really want to know the answer. “Being a parent, I mean.”

“I’m the wrong person to ask. What do I know about parenting?” Claire gave a dry laugh, picturing some of Sky’s more spectacular tantrums.

“Well, you know more than me.”

“I thought you attended antenatal classes or something?” Sky tried to remember what pregnant women in the office had wittered on about in the past. She mostly tuned out their chatter, but some of it had obviously gone in.

“Oh yes, there are classes, but they seem to be about getting through labour and keeping the kid alive for the first few months. What about after that? There don’t seem to be any lessons on how to deal with it when they flirt with your friend’s boyfriend…”

Claire drew breath but Kim jumped in, “I’m joking! Seriously, though. Who teaches you about discipline and what games to play, how to deal with bullying or if your child is the bully.”

Claire could see Kim getting emotional but wasn’t sure what to say. “I guess you just figure it out. Or you ask your friends, or your Mum.” She thought about trying to have that conversation with her mother, and whether she would choose to raise children the way she was raised. “Maybe not the last one. I think we all want a different childhood to the one we had.”

“Not me, I had a great childhood. It was when I had to grow up it got hard.” The girls laughed.

“Well, let me ask you, how did you learn to be an actress?”

“I went to drama school.”

“So maybe kids learn all they need to know at school. And there are books and the internet. There are all sorts of parenting blogs following mine since I started writing about travelling with Sky. You’ll be fine. Concentrate on the wedding instead. Are you going to have a big white frock?”

“I might need it to hide the bump!”

They settled into the sand and swapped ideas about food and music. Claire felt herself relaxing, as the sun warmed her skin and Sky’s laughter floated on the sea breeze. The phone rang and she considered ignoring it. It’s probably Michael. Now’s not the time to talk to him, with my head full of babies and weddings. The ringing stopped then immediately began again. Damn it, just go away, I’m trying to relax.

People began looking around to see who wasn’t answering their phone. She reached in her bag and put the phone to her ear, unable to see the caller name in the bright sunshine.

“Hello.”

“Claire, it’s Dad.”

She sat up, her skin suddenly cold and her stomach churning. Her father never called.

“Your mother told me to ring. She’s at the hospital. You need to come home love, you and Sky. Ruth’s had a turn for the worse.” His voice shook and that, more than his words, cut through and left her shaking. Claire dropped the phone, her mouth dry and her mind blank.

***

Ponies and Racing Pigs: 2013 365 Challenge #122

Racing Piglets

Today has been a great day.

Too often lately this post has focused on about how hard my day has been or how awful the kids have behaved, or how tired I am, so it’s only right to praise the good days. (Although I am so tired right now it hurts to blink, but it’s a good tired from six hours of happy sunshine and walking.)

Having failed to get the kids into nursery for an extra day (thus saving £82) I decided there was a bit of spare cash to go on a proper day trip. When it’s new for all of us there are far fewer arguments and differences of opinion. Plus I find the kids are much better behaved (and therefore nicer to be around) when they’re out in public.

Son on Max

It took a bit of research to find something local but eventually, while the kids played dollies and watched Mike the Knight, my trusty new iPad and I discovered a Farm, forty minutes away, that looked like fun. A picnic was packed, the satnav programmed and off we went on our adventure.

We must have pleased somebody because the sun shone down from a blue sky all day, to the point where I had to borrow some sun cream while the kids played in the giant sandpit (prompting the only tantrum of the day when little man REALLY didn’t want cream on his neck!)

The place was brilliant.

The jockeys for the Piglet Racing

Unsurprisingly it was very similar to Our Farm, as the kids are now calling it, but very different too. There’s a daycare on site so maybe they understand and cater for young kids a bit more. Whatever the reason, it was pitched just right: bright, colourful, compact and over all spot-on.

The highlight of the day was being able to fulfill a long-standing request from both kids to ride a pony, as the Farm offered short walks for over-twos (up until now, Aaron has been too young so I haven’t taken either of them.) There were also endless free rides on the little Barrel Train to see the sleeping dragon; guinea pigs to cuddle; sheep, goats and ducks aplenty to feed; and even a piglet race: Is there anything funnier than watching four piglets, with soft-toy jockeys strapped to their backs, racing round a bespoke track with a crowd of kids cheering them on. Brilliant!

Daughter’s first pony ride

My only dilemma was whether to upgrade to an annual pass, as the kids have decided it’s Their Farm now. (If I’d bought the pass while there I’d have had the day’s entry fee refunded).

The decision was taken away when I realised it was closing time and we had to leave. But we might be taking Daddy on Sunday as they’re having a Pirates and Princesses event, so it’s a possibility. Even with the forty minute drive I can see us going back. The zoo pass has expired so maybe we do this one for a year instead.

Glorious.

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Kim looked over at the curled up shape of Sky, asleep on the sofa, Claire’s jumper draped over her like a blanket. A crease formed between her eyebrows.

“How has it been, looking after her? It must be really frustrating having to go to bed at 9pm rather than going out to dinner or for a drink.”

Claire thought about the previous week and compared it to the first few weeks of her hostel adventure.

“It hasn’t made much difference to be honest. I wasn’t exactly partying hard anyway, and not at all after Josh left. I probably eat and go to bed a little earlier but then I’m that shattered I’m ready to sleep.” She sighed. “And of course Sky’s awake half the night with terrors or because she misses her Mum. Some mornings getting up is like trying to clamber out of a bath of treacle.”

The line on Kim’s face deepened and Claire’s earlier suspicions returned. They grew in strength as Kim shook her head and smiled a little ruefully. “You’re not really selling the whole parenting thing to me.”

Claire felt her heart jump into her throat. She wondered if she was brave enough to probe. Kim didn’t push me for answers about Michael; I should probably keep my mouth shut and let her tell me in her own time. There was a pause, both women watching the sleeping child. Kim sucked in air as if steeling herself for a difficult challenge.

“Claire, I –”

“Hello, ladies, are you hungry?”

Kim and Claire turned to face the door together, like rabbits starting at the sound of danger.

“Shhh, Jeff, you’ll wake Sky,” Kim hissed, her face flushed red. Jeff narrowed his eyes and looked directly at his girlfriend. A sense of what he had interrupted seemed to occur to him, and he raised a hand, smiling apologetically.

“Sorry.” Holding up a thin white carrier bag laden with boxes, he shrugged sheepishly. “Chinese?”

When they had eaten more than their fill, they stretched back on the sofas, cradling their swollen bellies. Claire instinctively looked towards her friend, trying to gauge whether her belly was more rounded than could be explained by too much Take-Away.

Kim was snuggled next to Jeff, curled into his shoulder in such a pose of belonging it made Claire’s heart contract like withered fruit. She remembered why she didn’t spend much time with Kim when her boyfriend was around. Not only was he too good looking for comfort, he was also completely absorbed in Kim to the exclusion of anything else.

When she had been with Michael it made the arguments all the more painful. Now, knowing that the only person sharing her life and bed was a six-year-old girl who would return to her mother in a week, Claire felt the pain like a cavernous empty space in her soul.

Out in the hills, with a destination to distract her and the feel of the sun and wind to keep her company, the loneliness didn’t bite. Sitting in the quiet lounge, with guest huddled together reading, playing scrabble, or just existing in each other’s orbit, Claire felt smothered by how much it hurt.

Unable to bear it, she rolled off the sofa, weariness dragging at her limbs. She stretched, then walked over and gathered the sleeping child into her arms, glad of the warmth. With a nod at Jeff and a smile to Kim, she cradled Sky close and carried her away to bed.

***

Pigs. (3of9designs.wordpress.com)
Giddy Up Horsey!! (auntymoggsblog.wordpress.com)

All Hail Garden Centres: 2013 365 Challenge #118

Wheels on the Bus ride at the Garden Centre

Today was saved by the humble garden centre, one of my favourite places to visit at the weekend. Strange, you might think, considering I hate gardening. But they really are fab places to take bored kids, particularly when you’re exhausted. And this morning we all were.

My decision to start limiting my son’s dummy usage (especially talking with the darn thing in his mouth) was not timed well. Sleep came in two-hour chunks last night and this morning Cranky Mummy was an understatement.

I took dummy away, as threatened, after the little darling spoke to me with it in his mouth only moments after the warning. I suffered more than he did as I had to endure an hour-long tantrum that threatened to end in vomit (as Aaron’s tantrums often do).

Amazing what you find in a Garden Centre

Vomit averted, I managed to get him dressed and into the car – one of the two places he is now allowed his dummy (as long as my willpower lasts, which may not be long.) By then any energy I had when I woke had long since vanished. So we decided to visit a new Garden Centre I had a money-off voucher for.

This was a great one, although it was further away than I realised. The entire place was under high ceilings that let in the sunshine and protected us from today’s hail showers.

There were the usual distractions – a shop selling fish (who needs to visit an aquarium?), a pet shop complete with guinea pigs, pretty flowers, ride on toys and cake – plus the rather less usual – a giant gorilla that the children sat on to have their picture taken.

There was even a TV and reading room for kids, a library for grown-ups and a park. The food was a bit pricey but it’s definitely somewhere I would take the children again. Who needs indoor play centres or trips to the cinema when you can find Nemo and Dory in a fish shop, King Kong in the flower hall, and Ice Age I on the television?

Marvellous.

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Claire smothered a yawn and rubbed her hand across her eyes. She stared around blankly, trying to occupy her mind while Sky knelt to feed the goats. Twenty paces away, a man stood watching her. She felt a quiver of recognition, although she couldn’t imagine how anyone she knew would turn up at a rare breeds centre in Norfolk. Probably an old colleague; they do seem to appear in the most random places.

Her eyes felt heavy and her caffeine content was well below safe levels. Crouching down next to her niece, she tried to frame words in her head that might entice her back to the car without a tantrum.

“Would you like to buy an ice cream before we go to the hostel?” She waited, lungs full of in-held breath, while her words seeped into Sky’s consciousness. Never mind marketing, I think a career in diplomacy will be a possibility when this fortnight is over.

After what felt like an hour, Sky smiled and stood up. “Can I have one with a flake, Auntie Claire?”

Exhaling loudly, Claire pulled herself to her feet and reached for Sky’s hand. “Of course, darling, if they have any.”

She turned to lead them to the exit, but Sky remained as if stuck in quicksand. Looking down Claire saw that her niece’s gaze was fixed on a point in the distance. She followed the direction and saw the same man still staring. A shiver trickled down her skin like icy water. With the awful inevitability of a car crash, Claire could see disaster playing out before her. She tugged on the tiny hand enclosed in hers. “Come on Sky, I’ll race you to the coffee shop.”

The girl didn’t move, although the blood drained from her face until it was as pale as her hair.

Bollocks. Claire didn’t want her suspicions confirmed, but her eyes dragged back to the staring man without her volition. Of all the shitty luck. What now?

She felt Sky drop her hand and take a step forward. A breath of a voice whispered, “Daddy?” Then something seemed to break inside her, and she began to run. “Daddy!”

Watching the little girl racing across the grass, hair and dress flying out behind her, Claire felt tears building in the back of her throat. It was her turn to be frozen. She knew she should go after Sky – shield her from what might happen next – but she felt unable to move.

Sky reached the man and held up her arms, demanding an embrace. Even across the distance Claire felt the hesitation and her chest ached in pain. It seemed to free her from immobility and she ran for Sky as if the girl was teetering at a cliff edge. She reached them just as the man dropped down and gave his daughter a quick hug. He looked up at Claire’s flustered arrival and some of the tension left his face.

“It’s you. Couldn’t tell from a distance. Thought it couldn’t be Ruth. She wouldn’t be this far from home.”

Claire looked round, expecting to see the ballet teacher lurking nearby. It seemed unlikely that a man would come by himself to such a place. Wherever she is, let her stay there. Another thought lurched unwelcome in Claire’s mind. Oh god, I offered Sky ballet lessons and talked all about ballet when we were in Cambridge. Stupid, inconsiderate, idiot. No wonder Ruth doesn’t want her to have ballet lessons, when her father ran off with her ballet teacher.

Shaking away the thought as something she couldn’t fix now, Claire reached for Sky. Her father dropped his arms and stood up, his face showing relief.

“How come you’ve got the girl then?”

Claire tried to read the man’s expression. “Sky is staying with me for the Easter holidays.” She stopped, holding back the words Because her mother has a brain tumour and is having chemotherapy.

An awkward silence spread between them like mist. Sky stood gazing in adoration at her father, and Claire wondered when she had last heard from or seen him. As if in answer, Sky spoke in a trembling voice. “I miss you, Daddy. Why don’t you ever call?”

The man – Claire couldn’t even think his name without fury – looked down at his shoes and didn’t answer. Claire could see two red spots burning in his cheeks. He glanced around and behind him, as if searching for someone. His face softened, becoming younger, more gentle. Reaching down, he patted Sky gently on the head.

“I have to go, poppet. Sorry.” He said nothing more, and strode away without looking back.

Claire felt an icy pain spreading through her chest as she watched him leave. Chris. That’s his name. Stupid, fucking wanker, more like. It felt hard to breathe. Watching the departing figure reminded Claire of being dropped at school after the holidays, standing silent while her parents returned to their car. They had never looked back either.

A loud sob brought Claire back to the present. Realising she had forgotten her niece in her own reaction; Claire dropped to her knees in the mud and gathered Sky into her lap. Like a dam breaking, the little girl crumbled and dissolved into a wave of tears. These weren’t the childish screams and dry sobs of a tantrum. With shaking shoulders and loud gasping gulps, Sky cried as if the world had ended.

For her, I guess it has. Claire turned to stare in the direction Sky’s father had gone and saw him lean in to kiss a woman pushing a pram. He linked his arm through hers and bent to say something to the child deep in the buggy. Despite the busy farm bustling around them, the connection was close and private. Claire felt like an intruder.

Oh Sky, I’m glad you didn’t see that. What could make a man leave his child? I guess too many men run off and leave the woman literally holding the baby. But to start a new family, and not stay in touch with your own daughter: What kind of monster does that? Claire’s brain searched for the worst word she could think of, so bad she couldn’t even say it in her mind. That’s what he is and Sky’s better off without him.

***

Gnattish Attention Span: 2013 365 Challenge #114

Afternoon craft

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

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

What to do though?

Summer’s Here!

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

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

One of Many Tantrums Today

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

My Three Darlings

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

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

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

I love my Big Sister

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

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

Drove hubbie nuts.

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

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

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

My Little Bean

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well done, Sky. Two out of three?”

***

Relentless Parenting: 2013 365 Challenge #110

Learning how to Muck Out

I don’t have many words today.

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

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

Feeding the Lambs

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

Amber’s Creation

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

Mummy’s more precise version

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well done, Sky, this is very good.”

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

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

***