About Me

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Mum to two small things. Kitchen dancer. List maker. Known to be partial to Gincidents. Advocate of winesday. Often found spinning or on a Pilates mat (not spinning). Believer that the moments make the memories.

Thursday, 17 December 2015

The days shoes defined my life

And it's all my mother's fault...

The beginning of the story:
I ran away from home.

The end of the story:
I have a collection of shoes. 

Lined up and on show on my top floor, my story of shoes translate through decades of stories and adventures. Through periods of partying shown in scuffed heels and even the odd old skool trainer playing homage to the warehouse parties of old, there's rack upon rail of shoes taking up valuable space in the house - but I can't bring myself to part with even one pair.

There's basically a shoe for every occasion - the shoes I wore in my first job in PR, the expensive shoes I justified the purchase of because they were sort of in the sale, the summer sandals that have walked beaches from Morecambe to Mexico - and of course the boots that have downed shots in the snow. 

From disco dancing to dog walking my shoe collection is pretty large.

And yesterday I realised it all dates back to the day I ran away from home. 

The day I realised - aged 9 - that if you had on the right pair of shoes they (possibly) gave you permission to do (almost) anything.

I was nine. It was an intense period of my life. Primary school Bulldog 123 was high on the agenda (was I ever going to catch the fastest boy in the school), I was learning to do the rising trot and wondering why mum was just not letting me do what I wanted to do in my independent life as a mature know it all nine year old.

So I told her straight. I had demands. I didn't want to make blackcurrant cheescake on a Saturday afternoon. And I did want to walk Blackie (the rabbit) on his lead whenever I wanted.

If we couldn't reach an amicable agreement, I would run away from home. 

I would leave, go out the door, not to return here anymore. 

That would learn her.

Except. She offered to help me pack. And she did. She actually packed my suitcase for me until there was only my going away outfit to decide until I flounced out of her life forever.

And it came down to my shoes. All I remember about that defining outfit were my shoes. My beautiful slightly pointy black patent kitten heels (what was she thinking letting me have kitten heels at that age).

Anyway those black shoes were the equivalent of Dorothy's shiny red ones and they were going to transport me to the yellow brick road of my dreams.

Bags packed. Shoes on. I was ready to go. 

Mum handed me the case and saw me out of the front door shutting it soundly behind me signalling the start of my journey.......to the third step down.

Where I sat and waited. And realised I had no plan. And quite crucially nowhere to go. 

And was now a little bit worried that mum really was quite happy for me to leave home and forage for my own future. After all she would be saving on some significant school fees.

Anyway - thankfully there is a happy ending to this dark tale of childhood trauma.  

She gave me a good ten hours* sitting on that third step to completely freak me out, all I could do was stare at the one beautiful thing left in my life - my slightly pointy black patent kitten heels - before she opened the front door and welcomed me back home like the long lost, fiercely independent traveller I was. Narnia had nothing on me.

Back in the security of the mother land, my shoes remained on - a marker in the sand for something I almost did.

And so my love affair with shoes was begun - maybe hoping each new pair will take me on a new adventure - or perhaps that mum will always rescue me (profound).

Today up there on the top floor of the house, I have rather a number of markers in the sand, all marking different adventures but none quite as special as those black patent kitten heels.

And mum kept trying to make me leave home - only really succeeding when I was 28 years old. 


Tuesday, 17 November 2015

A Silent Sunday

So that was the weekend that was.

There you are planning a silent Sunday. 

A day of mooching. 

A halcyon homage to bimbling.

A day of doing nothing. Nada. Not a sausage. The plan is a blank sheet of paper.

A day devoted to chilling. An easy Sunday.

It all starts so well. 

A long lie (well until 9am). I remember those good old days when I had on my rose tinted specs when a long lie meant lying in luxury until noon, but hey you gotta take what you can when you can. 

So there I was - a long lie, slowly waking up, wandering downstairs to get a proper coffee that has bubbled to pouring perfection on the stove before wandering back upstairs to sink back into that delicious duvet to enjoy a slurp of the most important drink of the day.

Then chaos claps on its hat and reigns down harder and faster that the storm of Barney can unleash its hell. 

Enter stupid dog. The dog bounds in. The stupid dog bounds on the bed, coffee spills onto lovely clean duvet.

Then small things wake. 

Then a lovely autumnal dog walk which mainly involves a lost dog and four small things skiing down a slope of autumn leaves (which to be fair looked like fun), a dog in the rain overflow channel (equals a minging dog that still stinks), a wet dog, sodden kids and frankly not enough coffee to drown out the noise.

A respite was offered. A coffee with a friend. Thirty minutes to chew the cud, actually drink a full cup of coffee whilst repeatedly asking the 13yo and 9yo to leave me alone for just ten minutes so I could have one grown up conversation.

Then a quick shopping trip for promised new trainers for the 9yo (old trainers were presenting holes found during sodden dog walk) followed by the Tesco dash for the week's packed lunches (would have gone to Aldi but parking was an issue) and oh sh*t forgot to wash the school uniforms.

Two hasty washes later and a tea with friend beckons. 

The 9yo then tries to wear his favourite shirt (still wet on the radiator after earlier hasty washing), I remove said wet shirt to a sulky face and persuade 9yo to wear a dry item of clothing from his drawer as the 13 yo informs me she's got a sore throat (join the club) and we dash to the local Italian for an long and lazy tea.

A restaurant, a steak and a 13yo that decides she's not feeling well and frankly a bit faint - complete with comical head wobbling at the table.

Dramatics ensue, restaurant abandoned (steak inhaled, wine abandoned). 13 yo voms.

Vom cleaned up. 13 yo put to bed (complete with additional dramatics - turns out her nose is more blocked than anybody's nose has ever been blocked before).

9yo put to bed.

13yo traumatized because she can't breathe through her nose. Vicks applied.

Inhales wine. Me not the 13yo - she's still whimpering at the loss of nose breathing.

Bed beckons. The duvet greets me.

Air punches to a successful Silent Sunday.*

Next time I plan an easy Sunday, I'm just gonna run a half marathon. It would be easier.

*That was a lie, falls in bed in a knackered stupor waiting for the ticking timebomb that is the 13yo's midnight vomming.

Friday, 13 November 2015

A letter to my friend

Dear beautiful friend,

You've gone. It's finally sinking in.

I'm sitting here surrounded by work, we have bid you farewell and then it strikes me - there's no more texting.

I've realised this is when I'm going to miss you most - on the stupid, small, insignificant moments when I would text you to see if you're in for a brew, for a skive, to have a whinge, to talk about the new beau in my life.

It's those small moments that made our friendship - there weren't any big holidays, we didn't even go on that many mental nights out, but you were part of the fabric of my life, the day to day intertwined happenings of the small stuff.

The moments where we simply sat and chewed the cud, talked about nonsense - and as it turns out I can't even remember half the conversations.

What it has made me realise is what makes a friend (well to be honest I sort of knew that already) - and your illness and passing - has also made me realise how lucky and blessed I am.

In this quagmire of grief, there's also so much to smile about. Turns out grief ricochets likes ripples in the pond, in the epicentre is your hub and two small things and then as the ripples span out like skimming stones there's a support network of people for every ripple in that pond. As I tried to help you and yours, people were helping me and mine, making me thankful for all the beautiful friends (and family) I have in my own life.

So while I sit here - missing you in this moment, in a week where I have also been grateful for the extra time I suddenly have in my life - instead of texting you, I've text other beautiful friends and got replies that have made me smile and made me grateful for all my blessings.

There's a saying - don't sweat the small stuff - but it's the small stuff that counts. It's the small stuff that grows into the big things - and frankly I like the small stuff.

The small moments that make you belly laugh in life, the stupid notes the small things write, walking the dog in the rain and looking up to be slapped in the face by a great big fat leaf, going to the gym and getting a random hug from a spin girl because no words are needed.

It's these things that frame our life, that become our constants and our stories. And it's the small things I will mainly try and remember - if my memory wasn't so pants.



Friday, 21 August 2015

Sunshine, small things and (not too much) sangria....

Single parenting in the sunshine....

Being a single parent for the past five years has thrown a number of curve balls - some that have landed loudly, repetitively bouncing in the hallway in the shape of another football and some in the shape of my head banging against a wall....

Luckily, I'm well past that first year of single parent insanity where every new challenge seems like a hurdle that grew bigger than Mount Everest every time I tried to climb it. Now it's rare I have a mountain to climb, and the world of single parenting is really a walk in the park.* 

I rarely blog about the whole single parenting schizzle because it's mainly not about me being a single parent. 

It's just about me being a parent. And I'm single...(some of the time).

But there are times when carrying that single parent label becomes bigger than it should be - it moves from being a small identichip I happen to have to a mahoosive billboard advertising my status.

There's the misconceptions - yes I'm single, I'm not going to steal your husband or the yes I'm single, I'm not going to suddenly make your mrs misbehave. 

Thankfully for me this rarely happens mainly because I have a pretty fantastic group of friends but I know they still exist. And in general I've been misbehaving with all these friends for many years well before I was single. 

In the main, I reckon I have nailed the whole single parent thing. The cellar bootcamp for the small things was one of the more successful parenting techniques I employed and copious amounts of wine have also helped the flow of the single parent journey.

And then this year...the dawn of the summer holidays. A joyous time in every (single) parent's calendar - right up there with bank holidays and Christmas. 

What to do. When. How to plan. Who with. 

And then the momentous decision - to go it alone.

A holiday with the small things. Just me. And them. The three of us. One adult (debatable) and two children.

Before I could wimp out I booked it. Ready. Willing. And rather nervous.

And then we arrived. The airport negotiated perfectly. The flight a breeze. The sun shining. The apartment perfect (with the door blocked at night by two suitcases and a dressing table in case anyone tried to get in).

It was the most chilled - I would even say chill-axed if it wasn't one of the worst words in the new dictionary of today - I have been in a long time.

Just me. And them. And 3,245 games of Uno, 2,765 games of Go Fish, 10,000 attempts to get three of us to swim across the pool whilst riding the giant inflatable crocodile (that was a good look in a bikini), four shows, three diving competitions, two doggy paddle races and one bike ride.

I even turned my emails off. Obviously I didn't turn off the 24/7 support text service from friends and me mum on every given detail of the holiday. That would have been a ridiculous concept - and a step too far.

In summary - one of the most relaxing holidays ever - I even swam underwater to beat them in ALL swimming races. No prizes for second place in this family.

There were times I was conscious of the big fat single parent arrow that hovered above my head announcing my presence to all the smug married couples around me but I mainly didn't care cos we had fun and we did what we do every time we are together and I am relaxed - we mainly laughed.  The constant (all inclusive) supply of wine obviously helped. Although disappointingly it appears that the 13 year old isn't allowed to order me wine from the bar.

Perhaps most importantly it gave me proper time with the small things - and as it turns out they're quite good fun to be around. Well most of the time. Except when they decided it would be a really great idea to get me with the water guns when I was particularly relaxed with a good book - then shouty mum returned.

I did it. A summer holiday with my small things and I didn't feel that the big fat single parent arrow glowed too large above me head.

And the best bit....the small things told me it was the best holiday they had EVER been on. *Air Punch*

And the second best bit. I came home. They went away with their dad (that's not the second best bit) and I buggered off for three days of drinking in the sun with my friends with no parent guilt following me around tapping me on my shoulder (now that's the second best bit).

But for the record I never want to see another game of Uno again ever. Or Go Fish. Well maybe until next year when I'm thinking we go Greek Island hopping ...

*walk in the park aided by wine

Thursday, 18 June 2015

The humble hankerchief - and the checklist

The story of the hankerchief.

Bear with me on this one.  It's a story of the humble hankerchief. And the checklist.

The hankerchief - a square piece of cotton a gentleman keeps in one's pocket - and then snots all over and put back in one's pocket.

The checklist - the non negotiables you have on an unwritten checklist that allows you to pick a mate, a partner, a boyf, a lover, a friend. The unwritten checklist covers a number of different pointers - and differs from one person to another.

Not only does the said checklist differ from one person to another - it also changes as you get older.

Reaching my middle youth and finding myself single made me think about my checklist. It heralded the beginnings of a new checklist.

My checklist in my naive 20s was relatively simple.

Someone hot. Subconsciously I think I wanted to find a mate. Someone I could build a family with. Have beautiful children with.
I rocked that box. Tick. Big. Tick.

And then life changes and your outlook changes. Circumstances change and what was so important in your twenties - or even thirties - has a slightly different accent in your (ahem) forties (early forties I hasten to add).

Suddenly single and embracing a single life, with the aid of a bottle (or two) of fine wine (or whatever was on offer at Tesco) and good friends - the conversation turned to what one is searching for and what one should be searching for in a potential partner now - in the here and now - in the present moment.

Turns out the new checklist is quite different to that that there one in my twenties.
I'm not so interested in the breeding potential. I am interested in friendship.
I am interested in respect. And I am wanting someone who gets my back.

And still someone hot - preferably with the looks of say Bradley Cooper or even Damien Lewis.

I'm told I'm too fussy (from those good friends mentioned above). 

I'm told I need to look beyond my need for someone who is 6ft or over (a girl needs to wear heels).

And then you meet someone. Someone who doesn't necessarily fit into the exact checklist - but all the same ticks a lot of boxes.  And then you realise they have a hankie.

A hankie. They blow their nose into a hankie. They put said hankie back into their pocket. And then put it into a washing machine.

They even occasionally offer me a hankie. I managed to hide my silent gip at the thought.

In the halcyon days of a new romance the hankie means nothing. It's something that doesn't need to be on the checklist. It's a hankie - a piece of cotton that in the old days defined a gentleman.

It's fine. I can cope with a piece of cotton. Everything else is okay. (Except the height but again that's remarkably okay).

And then it ends.

And I realise the hankie is so not okay.

The hankie is wrong. And it wasn't just the hankie. Turns out the hankie wasn't big enough. There was a migration to a TEA TOWEL.

The day he blew his nose into a tea towel (thankfully his) marked the end of time.

And time to review the checklist. A little bit more attention to detail is required on the non negotiables. Some caveats needs to be added.

We've got to have fun. Be friends. We've got to laugh. A propensity to drink fine wine - especially on a winesday is essential.

Someone who respects me. Someone who has my back.

A gentleman.

And right there at the top of the list.......someone who doesn't have a hankie.

I have a new checklist.

Or maybe. I simply throw the checklist away.

I just count my blessings for the fantabulous life I have. For the fact I have never and will never wash a hankie.

For the beautiful small things I have. (who also are not allowed hankies...or sleeves)
For the fab times we have.
For the real friends where we laugh until the tears drip down my cheeks.
For the family who are just always there.

The checklist is out of the window.

Today is about the here and now.

And no hankies. Definitely no hankies. They are wrong.*

*apologies to anyone that uses a hankie
** the above is a lie. Stop using them. They're wrong.

Friday, 5 June 2015

Respect your elders...or something

Old bints vs the rise of the pram army.

Who would win?

It's a tough one...

I was always brought up to respect your elders and try and instil the same sage advice into my small things.

I ensure they hold doors open for the older generation and when the nine year careers into one of them there old people from a different time, I ensure he apologises for his high jinks and understands that his running around is only upsetting the old one because he can't run that fast anymore.

And so to this morning - the gym. Post spin class. An empty changing room. An early morning. A quick shower before running (well after a coffee obviously) to a meeting. 

On my return from the shower resplendent in a leopard skin beach towel, the area where I had placed my lone bag was surrounded by the older generation (and cupcakes) who had just appeared from their aqua aerobics bounce session.

Busy discussing their class (as we all do) and the cupcake recipe for Doreen's birthday (as we all do) not one of them moved to the side so I could even get to my bag to retrieve my office uniform. I'm not sure the leopard skin beach towel is appropriate meeting wear - even in today's modern casual climes.

Respecting my elders (as I always do) I smiled (through gritted teeth) and politely asked if I could retrieve my gym bag from the midst of the cauldron. I was ignored. Completely and utterly dripping wet and invisible.

Once again I politely and a wee bit louder (taking into account the possibility that hearing aids may have become water logged during said aqua class) asked if they could move. 

Finally one of the 'ladies' moved to the side so I could squeeze into a small gap WHERE MY BAG WAS FIRST and retrieved said bag.  I even said Thank you. I then managed to get changed having moved all my gym schiz to a different area. 

So I was minding my manners, I was respecting my elders, but where was their respect for me. They could while away the day eating cupcakes with Doreen but not one of them had the good grace to move aside so I could also get changed. Or even for that matter move aside so I could get my blinkin' bag.

And then there was the mirror fiasco. Doreen's precious cupcakes had been placed on the ONE free dressing area where one dries one's hair (something else I deem relatively important when attending a client meeting). I painstakingly picked my way once again through the Gaggle of Grannies to find the hairdryer and the cupcakes to place my make-up bag between my knees so that the cupcakes could retain pride of place. I even apologised for having to use said hairdryer in the vicinity of the cupcakes.

As I managed to dry my hair (a bit) and splodge on some mascara, I seethed. Surely respect is a two way street. Surely regardless of generation, rudeness is not acceptable. 

Next time, I shall adhere to the stereotype - and simply swipe the seniors to one side while I get on with my day.

Which brings me neatly to the other end of the generation scale - the playground Pram Army. Of course I was never part of such a movement. Mainly because I have always been rushing in and out of the playground as I have never been on time.

Walking down Dog Poo Alley - the entrance to the school drop off point - is an impossible task. I challenge the Ninja Warriors to try that as a test of strength, endurance and free running in training for the TV show. Avoiding small two year olds on scooters whilst mums chat on maternity leave and abandoned prams and wailing babies clog up access to Dog Poo Alley is enough to ensure the day is started with nerves on edge. 

This morning the Pram Army was growing its masses - I negotiated three small children on scooters, four abandoned prams and several hoardes of maternity leave mums before it was safe to walk at a normal pace all the way home...

It's a blinkin' good job I was in my gym gear ready for my spin class and the Gaggle of Grannies.

I can't help but wonder which is the most fearful force of nature. The Gaggle of Grannies or the Pram Army. Who would win? 

Maybe that's the next winning TV show - stuff the Ninja Warriors - instead let's watch the Gaggle of Grannies negotiate the Pram Army on a school run and then watch the Pram Army muscle their way through the Gaggle of Grannies.

Who would win?

Friday, 1 May 2015

An easy bank holiday weekend beckons

Let the bank holiday chaos commence

It's just dawned on me, it's the actual bank holiday weekend. A weekend greeted by the most of the population as three days off, three days of pure pleasure.

Not two days, not a normal weekend BUT THREE...THREE days, three whole days of no work...

And then it dawned on me...this weekend has got chaos written all over it.

Chaos that commenced yesterday.

Yesterday the stupid D.O.G went under the knife in a dramatic operation...when I say dramatic she was having her bits removed..some may see that as routine. In my house with two small things who worry about the dog's every movement, it was dramatic.

Dropping her off at the vets on Thursday morning was nothing short of a traumatic separation. 

Separation anxiety that mainly oozed from every dog paw (see what I did there?)

As myself and the 9 year old left her standing forlorn in the vet's surgery, as she watched me with sad eyes pass the lead over to a stranger and leave her alone to face the knife, as she cried and whined as we left the vets, as the 9 year old blinked back the tears, I knew the return of the D.O.G was going to be a family trauma.

So as every good dog owner does, I rang (from my meeting, professional as ever) to check if said dog had died on the table. Luckily said dog had survived and was ready for pick up at 4.30pm - the same time I was due to pick the 9 year old up from cross country and 20 minutes before the hired hot tub was due to arrive for the 13 year old's birthday party...yep hot tub.

So like every self respecting working mum, I threw 12 balls up into the air and hoped to catch at least one nine (year old). 

Amazingly it all worked with precision timing. 

Not only did I remember to text the 13 year old (again from said meeting) to tell her I wouldn't be in when she got home from school (I may have forgotten that small detail in the morning chaos of the dramatic dog drop off), I left my meeting on time with some semblance of professional integrity, I got to school with 22 seconds to spare before cross country ended, dropped friend of 9 year old at home (again may have forgotten that I had promised to drop said friend off, but luckily the small things remembered), arrived home to greet 13 year old (who was of course slumped on couch with instagram a go go) met hot tub delivery man, left hot tub delivery man  in my garden to set up said hot tub to pick up very sad, sorry for herself conehead and returned home.

Donning my veterinary nurses attire, I settled conehead with the small things and went to check on the hot tub delivery.

And all this before 5.12pm.

In the amount of time that it had taken to pick up conehead and listen to very specific instructions on how to care for dog patient (including not letting the jumpiest dog in the world, not jump for TEN DAYS), the back garden had been transformed into a chavtastic homage to 13 year old birthday party heaven.

A hot tub, a giant connect 4, a marquee, a floating bar for the hot tub - and some more very specific instructions on how to ensure the hot tub keeps working for the entire weekend.

In the space of 20 minutes (whilst still wearing meeting attire) I had received two sets of very important instructions to ensure this weekend goes safely and without dog death whilst dealing with two hysterical small things who cannot cope with conehead's sadness.

The instructions have since merged and in my head go something like this:

  • there is a button I must not press on the hot tub as it could blow the entire street up (no idea which button)
  • there is a button I must not turn off otherwise said hot tub will mainly be a cold tub
  • there will be bubbles if I can find the bubbles button
  • in the event of high winds and the marquee blows away, it's my fault
  • the dog must not go in hot tub - or just must not jump. If conehead jumps and burst stitches, the cost to restitch is £400
  • Conehead must wear cone at all times especially when not swimming and not jumping in hot tub
  • Children must not be drunk in hot tub
  • No jumping in hot tub from bedroom window
  • Conehead must not jump from bedroom window
  • Something about filters and chemicals
  • Dog must eat - something about medicine and eating - or was that chemicals and eating

Anyway, there's some instructions in order to maintain safety this weekend. 

So finally last night, I remembered to feed the small things, the small things remembered to feed conehead with some medicine and I forgot to go for a run - but luckily running partner came round with much needed wine.

And so the start of the much awaited long weekend beckons - and I have still to buy appropriate 13 year old schiz to accessorise said party (this shopping list really mainly involves wine for me so I can cope with eight 13 year olds in my back garden shrieking OMG and LOLZ).

I'm sure it will all go to plan.  I'm sure the dog will be fine - and I'm sure the hot tub will be hot at the appointed hour - possibly.

Anyway - thank crunchie it's a long weekend and I can recover .... with conehead, a birthday party for eight 13 year olds, a hot tub in my garden and a family barbecue.

Pass me the wine.

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

Time flies...when you're a grown up

Time flies...when you're a grown up.

Seriously, how is it April? 

Not just the beginning of April - but the middle of April. 

We seem to have moved through this year faster than Matthew Mcconaughey can zip through time in that ridiculous syfy adventure InterStellar (now that was two hours of my life I will never get back although watching Matthew Mccwhatshisface is always a pleasure, maybe though next time on mute).

Pop on your rose-tinted glasses for a moment and cast your mind back...to the good old days. 

Do you remember those halcyon days when you were growing up when the school holidays lasted forever, day after day of time to kill, to watch paint dry, to ponder whether you should get on your grifter or play another game of squash the red spider.

Now, it's just one giant blur, one day careering into the next at warp speed. One minute it's Christmas and then I blink and all of a sudden the May blossom is greeting me with a high five to hayfever. 

And then this morning the epiphany.

I realised. It's cos I is old. I'm a grown-up...it's happened. Peter Pan has flown the nest and the future is here, or was here, it's now hurtling into yesterday and we're hightailing it towards tomorrow - or something..but whatever it is, it's going blinkin fast.

Make. It. Stop.

There's not enough instgram pics to post to remember the moments as time swirls by - as my babies turn from small toddling towers of destruction into well ... bigger towers of destruction if my garden is anything to go by...

I want to get off.

I want to slow time. Apart from the fact I am not yet prepared to admit I am (ahem) forty-something (in my head I will always be 33 years old), I want to slow time to appreciate every single second of this chaos.

I want to be able to while away the days with my small things (wine in hand obviously) and I want to idly mooch from day to day.

But here's the conundrum - when I have a moochy day, I feel like I have wasted it. I feel like I have wasted time.

When on Sunday I lay on the couch and drooled, I mean watched, Matthew Mcwhatshisface space jump through time, I feel like I have wasted a day.

The day before we had climbed Catbells in the Lakes, the day before that we had walked round Ingleton Falls, the day before I'd worked, the day before something else had happened. I was craving a day of nothingness - and then when it happened, it didn't feel right. It didn't feel right just whiling away time.

It seems when we 'do' time moves ever so fast, but when we 'don't' we wish we were doing...

Does time get faster as we get older, does time spin out of control as we realise how precious it is - does it become something that feels just that little bit out of reach because we are constantly trying to catch up.

Do we avoid slowing down, because if we do then we have to accept our acceleration into our middle youth*?

Of course, I have none of the answers to this conundrum, I have searched for the crack in time so I can sneak back and forth to remind my younger self to cherish that moment in time..but I can't find it.

I do have wine though - and in the absence of time travel, I shall pour myself a small glass** of wine and stop - stop just for a moment - stop and look around and watch the clouds cruise lazily cross the sky.

Now where's my grifter?

*old age

** vase

Sunday, 29 March 2015

Making the most of them there moments

Moments make the memories

This weekend, the 9yo has informed me he has had the best weekend ever. 

How? We've done nothing extraordinary, we've not spent bucket loads of money and we've not travelled the globe.

We've spent the weekend doing not much with lovely people.

Here lies the list of things that make the 9yo buzz with joy...

1. Playing football (crossing in apparently) after school with his mate for two hours. TWO HOURS!
2. Being childminded by friend's son to whom he showcased his colouring app from his iPad - and friend's son (who is an awe-inspiring 15yo) liked it. This gave the 9yo kudos. 
(of course I had nipped to the pub with parents of said 15yo childminder for a cheeky Fizz Friday)
3. Eating an Indian past his bedtime (of course when we returned from early doors drinking on Fizz Friday, we brought an Indian back)*
4. Being allowed to sleep in bed with his mummy (of course I have added this one as he would never admit it, but it's true)
5. Going to the Lakes to see his mate who he used to go to school with
6. Watching two Harry Potters back to back
7. Eating bacon butties
8. Listening to loud music in the car. I did try to educate him on the merits of Neil Diamond, but it turns out Ed Sheeran makes him much happier
9. Drinking Lucozade Sports - which in turn gives him brain freeze
10. Me (again I may have added this to get the list to 10.)

This list was put together as we travelled back from the Lakes and he was telling me in detail what happens in back to back Harry Potter movies....with impressions of all the characters.

It got me thunking. His list of things that made the weekend was a list of moments. Small moments in time that together made a blinkin marvellous weekend.

These small fry could (occasionally) could teach us a thing of two. 

I promised myself this year I would count the moments, not constantly worry about the bigger picture, not worry about the future and not try and plan the most perfect path with a cottage at the end with rose-tinted windows looking out on the world.

In the main I'm not bad at doing this - but the wisdom of my 9yo today has reminded me it's the moments that make the memories.

If I ask him to remember a holiday or an occasion, he picks out something little that happened. Like last year in Cornwall when I played Volleyball with him over the washing line, or when Bessie (the stupid dog) made a nest in my bed and the small things thought it was hysterical (I didn't).

So here's my list of things of moments that have made the memories this weekend...

1. A glass of wine (of course this would top the list) with a good friend in front of a burning woodfire as the rain lashed down outside (this was made all the better by the fact good friend's husband was looking after the small things)
2. A daft text from a friend which made me laugh out loud
3. Singing loudly to Neil Diamond in the car (whilst having the added advantage of causing the 9yo a great deal of embarrassment)
4. Getting the text from my soon to be 13yo to tell me she is on her way home from her netball weekend (and is safe and sound) AND everything on the text was spelt perfectly
5. Walking into the house to be greeted by the stupid dog 
6. My independent 9yo padding into my bed at midnight (I know he should sleep in his own bed all night, but I'm rather confident he won't be doing this at 15 years old)
7. Bacon butties - with brown sauce
8. An arrangement for an easy tea in the pub 
9. Did I mention a glass of wine?
10. See above

So all in all on the rather wet and not so springy Sunday as me and the small fry snug down and watch Paddington, I am cherishing the moments, counting my blessings and thinking of pouring myself a glass of red.

*For the purposes of those worried about my parenting skills, the impromptu Indian that followed Fizz Friday was at 9.30pm  - not 1am....(does that make it any better?)