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.

***

Smiley, Sunny Days: 2013 365 Challenge #324

Scooting through the park to school

I’ve spent today trying to work out why the sun makes us feel so much happier. The skies have been blue today, without a cloud in view. It makes the autumn leaves sparkle and dance in waves of red and gold.

But it’s freezing, around 3C, and the ground is frozen. Of course my boy still wore shorts to scoot on the school run, although I did manage to persuade him into jeans for the farm. Despite shivering from cold and the pain of red raw hands, (gloves have not yet been located as I’m in denial that it’s actually winter) I feel a hundred times better than I did yesterday in the mizzle and fog.

I want to get outside, I want to run and jump, and not just to keep warm. I’m smiling just because it’s sunny. I wonder why that is? I’m sat in a freezing barn with a ray of sunlight warming my arm, and life is good. We’ve been outside nearly all day today, at the farm and the park, feeding the ducks and scootering (with son back in shorts after his gymnastics class!) It’s been a great day.

Blue skies at the farm

I guess this is why people buy SAD lamps to see them through the winter, to replace the lost sunshine. I’ve thought about it. I miss the daylight, as it gets dark at 4pm and the sky is only starting to lighten when we leave for school.

Maybe on the sunny days we feel the long distant promise of spring; of warmer days and growing plants, of living and thriving, of life. Even now, in our twenty-first century world, with electric lights and central heating, TV and books and snuggly lightweight fleece jumpers, we’re still animals at heart. We want to hibernate in the winter and celebrate in spring.

Bring on the sunny days, bring on the frost and the snow, the nipped fingers and running nose. Enough of autumn’s mists, I want blue skies to make me smile. And then I want it to be spring, please.

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Claire sat on her bunk and watched the boys as they lay, absorbed in their games. She could see Candy Crush on Alex’s screen, and wondered if she should’ve asked Robert what restrictions he placed on the boys’ screen time. She couldn’t help but feel that more educational apps would be a better way to spend their time, but didn’t feel as comfortable telling them so as she had with Sky.

Plus it’s the school holidays: they must have homework that needs doing. Do I trust that Francesca will supervise that, or should I do something?

Her anger at the now departed Robert flared up again, and only the indifference both boys showed at their father’s departure made her feel that she was doing the right thing. However little she knew about looking after boys, it didn’t seem as if they’d get much more care and attention from their dad.

I shouldn’t judge, of course. I know nothing about their family life. And, after all, it must be strange going home after boarding during term time.

She looked up again from her book, unable to concentrate on the words.

The question is, now they are here, what am I going to do with them?

A low grumbling noise echoed round the room and Claire giggled. “Alex, was that your stomach?” The boy grunted and didn’t look up. Claire sighed, quietly. “What about you, Jack, are you hungry? Did you boys have lunch?”

She looked at her phone and was surprised to see how late it was. “Never mind lunch, it’s nearly dinner time. What do you boys fancy? I can cook pasta or we can go out and find a restaurant.” At least Robert had made sure she didn’t need to scrimp too much.

Jack sat up and bumped his head on the bunk. “Ow. Alex, why did I get the bottom bunk?”

“Because you’re the baby,” his brother snarled. Jack’s face crumpled and Claire feared he might cry. He knuckled at his eyes, and when he met Claire’s gaze his eyes were red but dry.

“I’m hungry, Auntie Claire. Can we have a McDonalds? Do they have them out here? Father said we’re a long way from civilisation.”

“Are you allowed McDonalds? Your dad didn’t say, but I can’t imagine he and your mum would approve. It’s not very healthy.”

“They don’t give a shit about us,” Alex said.

The words struck at Claire’s heart, but she responded sternly, “I don’t think that language is appropriate, Alex. You’re an educated boy; you can express yourself without resorting to swearing.”

“Why should I? Father swears all the time. And Mother. Especially at each other.” He turned back to his game, and Claire felt an urge to give this troubled almost-man a hug.

Knowing that was the last thing he would want, she tried to keep her voice neutral and said, “Well, when you’re with me I would like you to refrain from swearing. In fact I think we’ll have a few rules.” Alex took no notice of her; his attention on his game.

“For a start, I won’t have you ignoring me. Right, come down here please, Alex. You, too, Jack. Come sit here with me.” She patted the bed. Jack came across the room but Alex didn’t move.

“Alex Carleton, get down here now, or you’ll be on the next flight home.” The strength in her voice surprised Claire. The reaction was even more shocking. Alex glared at her, then rolled sideways off the bed and jumped to the floor without using the ladder. He didn’t sit, but she chose not to force the issue.

“Okay. Rule one, you will listen to me and do as I ask. I am in charge, got it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Rule two, no swearing. Rule three, iPad will be limited to a few hours a day.” Alex began to protest and she cut him off. “I’m not unreasonable – I had an iPad until recently. But I also know how addictive some of the games are. We’re in the most beautiful part of the world, with castles and caves and beaches and places to visit. Games are for quiet time and, occasionally, car journeys. Got it?”

Jack said, “yes, Ma’am,” but Alex remained silent.

“Got it?” Claire said again, looking into Alex’s downcast eyes.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Oh, I forgot. Rule four–” Jack groaned and Claire laughed. “Don’t worry, this is a good one. Rule four, let’s have some fun!”

She jumped up from the bed. “Okay, shall we see if this sleepy backwater has a McDonalds?”

With a crazy grin she led them from the room without waiting to see if they were following her.

***

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)

Spencer Bear Comes To Stay: 2013 365 Challenge #315

Spencer Bear’s photo shoot

Our daughter was given the class bear to bring home this weekend. In the pouring rain on Friday night I viewed his arrival with less than elation. Carrying an umbrella over his head to keep him dry on the trek to the car, I wracked my brains for something he could do during his stay.

We were introduced to Spencer Bear at one of the parent meetings, and were shown his diary full of photos and stories. Easy, I thought, plenty of examples to follow. Wrong. In his bag was an empty diary, two story books and the bear. No instructions or guidelines.

Oh my, such responsibility! Our diary entry will basically set the tone for the year. Make too much effort and we raise the bar for everyone. Put in a shabby effort and it will be the first thing people see everytime they open the diary.

Spencer at the park

We didn’t dare take him to Ikea: imagine if he got lost. We watch Peppa Pig; we’ve seen the Teddy Playgroup episode where the bear gets misplaced! I couldn’t take him to my mother’s in case he came back smokey – I’m not going to be the parent that sends a smokey bear back to school.

In the end we took him to the park and I snapped enough photos to fill the entire journal. I’ll have to winnow it down to two or three. Then I’ll have to decide whether to print them on paper or take a disc to the shops and get proper photos printed. Do I write the journal or get my daughter to do it? Make it funny, entertaining, poignant? I’m the classic over-thinker – not giving me instructions is just plain cruel.

As we’ve reorganised our house today, and unplugged the printer and computer as part of the chaos, I haven’t actually done anything to take into school tomorrow. I’m going to use it as the perfect excuse to keep the bear’s diary another day and get some tips from the teacher. Add it to the list of things I never knew would create stress when I became a parent!

P.S. Came downstairs this morning and darling hubbie had plugged in the computer. I love that man. Pasted ten pictures into a document and added a short note about going to the park. Printed it out, took it into school and asked the teacher if it was okay. When she realised the explanation page was missing from the diary she was furious! LOL. Wouldn’t want to be the poor soul who was meant to put it there! She seemed happy enough with our effort, though, so I borrowed a glue stick and job done. One less thing to worry about.

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“It’s for sale you know.”

Claire turned to face the woman who had spoken, unsure if she was addressing her or someone else. A lined, smiling face greeted her and grinned as she made eye contact. Then the woman gestured at the dining room around them, which was bustling with people getting breakfast.

“The hostel; it’s for sale. Such a shame, don’t you think?”

Claire nodded, tempted to turn back to her food. Then she remembered it was her job to gather information, and she wracked her brain for a response.

“The one at Salcombe is closing down, too. I guess it’s quite hard to run a business that’s meant to offer low cost accommodation in these old buildings. They must take some upkeep.”

“Oh yes,” the woman said, nodding emphatically. “Just fixing up my sixties semi costs a fortune, I can’t imagine what the upkeep on an old Georgian pile like this would be. Pity though. We’ve been coming here for years. It’s a bit spooky, but my grandsons like that.”

She gestured towards a gaggle of teenage boys gathered around the end of the table, stealing food from each other’s plates and shoving each other off their seats.

“There are bats, too, did you know? In the attic. Haven’t we all got bats in the attic though, dear?” The woman flashed another toothy grin. Claire smiled. It was hard not to like the garrulous old lady, and admire her for being there with her grandchildren.

“Isn’t it hard? Hostelling with children?” Claire thought about her conversation with her brother the night before. “I have my nephews joining me in a few days and I admit I’m a bit nervous.”

“You don’t have children of your own.” It was a statement, rather than a question. Claire shook her head.

“How old are your nephews?”

“Ten and twelve,” Claire said, flushing as she remembered getting it wrong on the phone.

“They’ll be no bother; it’s a good age. They’re not quite teenagers, so they’ll still bide you a bit. Make sure you wear them out and keep them fed: that’s the trick with boys.”

She emphasised her point by stabbing some sausage with a fork and popping it in her mouth. She looked thoughtful as she chewed, and Claire felt unable to turn away. When she was free to speak, the woman continued. “What will you do with them? Are you staying here?”

“No, I’m actually working – researching tourism in Cornwall – so they’ll have to tag along with me. I wasn’t expecting them you see; my brother called last night.” Claire stopped abruptly, unsure why she was telling this woman all her troubles.

The woman nodded knowingly. “Family: guaranteed to drop you in it.” She laughed at Claire’s expression. “Isn’t that what you youngsters say?” She continued to laugh, although whether at Claire’s surprise or her own joke wasn’t clear.

“What do they like doing, these nephews of yours?” she asked, when she’d stopped laughing.

Claire shook her head. No point hiding the truth. “I have no idea. I barely know them. They live in Geneva.”

The woman gave her a shrewd look. “And children aren’t really your thing? No, don’t feel bad or deny it. Motherhood isn’t for everyone. I have three boys, love them to bits. But if you’d given me a girl I’d have been stuck. No idea what to do with girls. Boys are easy; just make sure they know you’re boss.” She chewed another mouthful and Claire watched, mesmerised.

“They’ll probably be into those silly computer games. Make sure their Dad packs them and you keep them charged. Always useful for a bit of peace and quiet. I’m not one of these fuddy duddies who thinks they’re bad. Here in Cornwall, though? You’ll want to take them to the beach. Let them get mucky, take them swimming, enrol them in a surf school. That’ll give you plenty of time to get your work done. My daughters-in-law, they all work. Wasn’t the done thing in my day, but if that’s what they want, who am I to naysay them? Means I get to spend time with my boys.”

She looked fondly over at the teenagers, who had finished eating and were now wrestling on the floor with much yelling and punching. Claire shuddered. Suddenly her time with Sky – even the tantrums – seemed simple by comparison.

The woman looked back and seemed to sense Claire’s fear. “Don’t worry, my dear. You’ll be fine. Just think; after a week or two you get to give them back.” She gave her an arch look. “And it’s different when it’s your own. Don’t let your nephews put you off having babies. I’ve seen the hardest nut cracked by a helpless infant placed in their arms.” She lined her knife and fork up neatly on the plate and stood up.

“I must be going. Now these have been fed they’ll be up to all kinds of mischief until they use up some energy. Good luck, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” Claire said, with genuine gratitude.

Once she was standing, Claire could see the woman was tiny; five feet tall if that. She seemed frail, like a strong wind would knock her away. She tottered up to the writhing pile of boys, a smile on her face.

“Right, you lot,” she said, her voice firm and carrying. “Up you get.” The writhing didn’t stop, and she put one hand on her hip. “Now!” Her voice rang out through the room, and the boys jumped to their feet, towering over the tiny woman. They hung their heads and chorused, “Sorry. Grannie.”

The woman turned to Claire and winked, then led the boys from the room.

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.

______________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________

“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.

***

School Comms? 2013 365 Challenge #302

Maths Homework

I sat down with my daughter today to do her homework, as it’s half term. She was mostly happy to do it and we had fun. However, I have to say, I’ve been generally surprised at the poor communication between school and parent since my daughter started in September. I did my best but I didn’t really know what we were meant to do or how often: it was all rather vague. It also came as a shock as I wasn’t expecting anything to be set this early on in her school career (she’s not even five years old yet).

As far as school-parent communication goes, I’m the optimum parent: I drop my child off every morning and pick her up every afternoon. I browse the messages posted on classroom walls. I read the newsletters and emails and I trawl through daughter’s book bag every evening to fish out the paperwork. I read and write in the reading diary and I attended parents’ evenings and lunchtime reading meetings. And STILL I have no idea what’s going on half the time.

I don’t understand their merit system, even though I went to the celebration assembly. We have requests for things that need to be made for the Christmas fundraising fayre and I don’t understand what they’re asking for. I resort to asking the mums who have older children at the school and even they don’t have much of a clue.

I know it’s a tough job being a teacher, and I’m not criticising them at all: you couldn’t pay me enough to do their job. But the school has a duty to communicate with parents if they want to engage them and get their help. Our school has the infrastructure but the content is vague and confusing. it makes me want to volunteer to review their comms, except it would be a full time job and I have zero capacity. Having been fighting off a cold all day, just the thought leaves me shivering in horror! But it might be time to add my tuppence worth to the parent feedback forum! After all, communication goes both ways!

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“Alright, Claire, I’ll bite. What happened to your face?” Conor’s tone was a mixture of amused friend and disapproving parent.

Claire looked up from her starter and grimaced. “Damn. I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

Conor laughed, his eyes lighting up like a sunlit sea. “You look like you rode downhill on your bike with no hands on the handle bars and hit a pothole. I did that once, and my face looked something like that.”

“That’s not so far from the truth.” Claire ducked her head and let her hair cover her face completely. “I slipped, on the coastal path. I thought I was going to fall off the cliff. Thankfully I managed to stop at the edge.” She shivered at the memory. “Unfortunately I left some of my skin behind.”

“It’s not just your face?”

Claire mutely shook her head, and waited for Conor to laugh some more. When he didn’t speak, she looked up again and was surprised at his expression. His face contracted in a tight frown, reminding her of Michael for a moment. She bristled in defence, but his eyes widened and he smiled.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t fall off the cliff. I went to too much trouble hiring you to have to find a replacement.” The lightness of his tone belied the sympathy in his gaze.

Unsure what to make of it, Claire turned her attention back to her food. She was glad he hadn’t laughed, as Josh might have done, or told her off, which would have been Michael’s reaction. This mixture of business-like detachment and compassion wrong-footed her. Her hands shook slightly as she raised a forkful of salad to her mouth, and she lowered her arm quickly, hoping Conor hadn’t noticed.

“So, aside from trying to kill yourself at Salcombe, how has your trip been so far? How is the report coming along?”

Claire inhaled and took a shaky sip of her drink. “Good, thanks. I’m beginning to get a feel for it. I had a long chat with the hostel manager, and spent some time in Torquay. It would be useful if you had a template or set of guidelines for me to work to, just so I can make sure I’m delivering what you’re expecting.”

Conor nodded. “Of course. There are some standard templates and previous reports on the laptop. I realise we haven’t given you much to work with. I’m surprised you haven’t been more demanding, to be honest.”

With a deep flush, Claire realised she wasn’t living up to her role as a consultant. Conor obviously expected her to be more proactive, to request information and guidelines. She had been so wrapped up in her drama with Kim and getting a car, she hadn’t taken the job very seriously.

As if reading her mind, Conor cleared his throat. “How is Kim?”

“I haven’t spoken to her since leaving her at her mum’s. I’m been caught up in my research.”

“Good.” Conor seemed to realise that sounded harsh, as he laughed uncomfortably. “I meant good that you’ve cleared your head to get stuck into the project. I confess I was concerned that your mind wasn’t really on the subject. It is important, you know? Your contract extension depends on the quality of the report.”

His words made Claire’s stomach constrict. As she analysed his tone, though, she realised he wasn’t telling her off. It was almost as if he was urging her to do well, so he wouldn’t have to sack her.

All the spent adrenalin from her earlier fall and the race to get to the hotel, combined with the ideas roiling in her brain, left Claire feeling dizzy and disorientated.

Why do I always feel like there are two or three different conversations going on at the same time when I talk to Conor? His face says one thing, his voice another and his words something completely different.

With a gulp of wine, Claire suppressed a sigh and hoped she would learn to read her boss soon, before she went mad.

***

Mini Pentathletes: 2013 365 Challenge #300

Spot the speeding bullet

A while ago I wrote a post about children playing with guns and how I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not. By the end of my post I had talked myself into the view that gun play was fine and I worried too much.

Still, it was with an element of trepidation that I let my son buy a magazine that came with a free ‘Nerf’ like gun, yesterday. The children had been promised a special treat, however, after enduring the scrubbing and combing that comes with head-crawlers hitching a ride home from school (sigh), and that was his choice.

For a cheap toy, it packs a punch, and as my son is at an age where fighting with his sister is his main form of entertainment, I had to closely supervise his play to make sure he didn’t aim it directly at her. It was encouraging for me to see that he was just happy to be ‘gunning’ as he calls it, and the target wasn’t that important.

Our son aiming his ‘pistol’

We started with trying to knock down skittles, like they did in the fencing lesson our son had this week, but that was too hard. Then I had the genius idea of using our football goal, which has target holes in the back, with a point for each bullet that made it through a hole.

Hubbie rose to the challenge and set up a tournament between the siblings that went on for a good hour, while I did the ironing. It’s rare that a game is devised that hubbie doesn’t find boring after a short time (although I have to say, he’s brilliant at inventing games – especially games that mean he gets to sit still while the kids run around).

Then it occurred to me: Fencing, Pistol Shooting? I’m training modern pentathletes. They’re already good at swimming and like being on a horse. And running? Well, what child doesn’t love running?

So it isn’t a gun, it’s a pistol, just as a fencing sword is an epee. Just changing the name, and turning the play into an Olympic sport (in my head) rather than Grand Theft Auto, makes me feel a whole lot better. I’m a writer: the nuance is all in the words!

________________________________________________________________________________

“Oh my goodness, what happened to you?” The manager’s face creased in horror as Claire limped in through the hostel reception.

She tried to smile, but the movement pulled at the scabs forming on her face, so she settled for a tiny crook of the mouth.

“I had a falling out with the cliff-side path. Nothing serious. I don’t think it was even hurt.” She took a few more steps, before slumping against the wall. “I don’t suppose you have any plasters?”

Hurrying forwards, the manager took her arm and guided her to a chair. “Do you need to go to hospital? It’s only ten minutes away.”

Claire thought about sitting in another A&E for hours, waiting for a nurse to tut-tut at her and roughly dress her wounds. Been there, done that. “No it’s fine, thanks. I’ll just have a cool bath and stick some plasters on. It’ll be fine.”

The manager frowned. “If you’re sure. We don’t have a bath, though. Only showers.”

With a sigh, Claire nodded. “Of course. God I miss baths. A shower, then. If you could find some plasters, that would be great.”

The manager nodded and went to retrieve some from his first aid kit. As she waited, Claire looked around for a clock. She had no idea how long it had taken to walk back along the coast path, and her phone battery was dead.

When the manager came back, she took the plasters gratefully, hoping they’d be enough. “What time is it, please?”

“It’s around 4pm.”

“Seriously? Crap. I have to be in Plymouth for six and I haven’t packed up or anything. Is there any chance I can stay another night or two?”

The manager checked his computer and nodded. “No problem. We can sort the money out later, if you like?”

Claire gave him a grateful nod; then pulled herself upright and shuffled back to her room. She wasn’t sure if it was shock, or the tumble down the hill, but every bit of her body ached. All she wanted was a long bath, a glass of wine and a sleep.

No time for that. Like it or not, I have to go and face Conor. Maybe if he’s sympathetic about my trashed face, he won’t press me too much about the report.

The shower was slow and painful. Claire hadn’t realised how much of her body she had grazed in the fall, and even tepid water felt like knives cutting into her skin. Cautiously rinsing bits of rock and dirt from the deepest wounds, Claire cursed as several of the abrasions began to bleed again.

I’m just going to have to wear long trousers and hope the restaurant has air conditioning. She looked in the mirror, wondering whether to put plasters on her face or leave the wounds bare. Not much I can do to hide that.

Unsure whether to laugh or cry, Claire pulled out the contents of her rucksack and tried to find something suitable that wasn’t crumpled or dirty. For the first time in weeks she missed her pristine rows of dry-cleaned suits and dresses; now folded and packed away at the storage unit.

I might as well sell the lot. Conor’s going to sack me and I’m never going to need a suit again. For some reason the words didn’t make her feel as miserable as she thought they would.

By five o’clock Claire had managed to ease herself into the car, ready to drive to her meeting. It was going to be tight, and she hoped that Conor met traffic and was late. It was only as she put the car into gear that she remembered the dead battery on her phone.

Damn. I hope I don’t break down.

Manoeuvring the car down the twisting driveway pulled at the wounds on Claire’s arms and she gritted her teeth against the pain.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea booking in for another night. She thought about trying to do the drive in the dark, after a night out, and with her muscles stiffening from her fall.

Ah well, if it comes to it, I’ll have to sleep in the car.