Dear Dad, Happy Father's Day, Love Sarah xx

Dear Dad,

Our house is a cacophony of women. Loud, shouty women and on the edge of that is my dad.

My dad is a gentleman.  A gentle. man. There's not many of them there gentle men left in the world - and often as I was growing up I didn't see the impact or the benefit having a true gentleman in my life would bring.

My dad is like a calm lake...and my mum the bubbling waterfall that feeds it...

Growing up I may* have not quite seen the strength in my dad, in his quietness, in his ability to keep his mouth stum when the rest of the house was up in arms - but then when he did roar, it was definitely noticed...

There was the time when I tried to smother my sister, and he actually smacked me. I wasn't actually trying to smother her, of course, I just happened to have a pillow on her face...

And then there was the time when me and mum had words and I got in proper trouble off Dad. It's rare that I ever fight with mum but I was a teenager and there had been words - and mum was mad. And I was mad. And we were both stubborn. And then dad stepped in and I got in proper trouble for not behaving properly. 

His quiet, fierce loyalty, the times when he has not quite approved (and said nothing) and his beaming pride on certain moments on my life as he grabs me in a bear hug are the things I cherish today. And the personality traits that only a true gentle man can display. 

My mum is my go to person...she's the one that gets the call with me mildly hysterical because the stupid dog has eaten an easter egg - she's the one that calms me down with dad googling the symptoms in the background and applying his science maths geek to work out the ratio of chocolate to body weight to see if the dog is gonna cork it...(the dog didn't cork it).

My dad sends me text in proper English and always signs off 'love dad.'  He always starts the text properly with 'Dear Sarah'. He's told me he can't stand youth speak...he likes it all to be done properly...and at times this has caused much hilarity for me, mum and my sis...and he may** have been the butt of a few family jokes and jibes.

But above it all my dad has always conducted himself as a gentle man...even when he's trying to get to grips with Call of Duty with my 11 year old. It's something I have only realised as I have got older - and looked around and realised that gentleness and calm are fierce strengths that not many people have.

He's picked me up year on year. Whenever we have needed a lift, wherever we were, my dad (and mum) have been there. I'm not sure I'm gonna be so good at that part of parenting for my two small things. I might just download them the Uber app.

He picked me up from the cinema when I was 14 years old and had sneaked in to watch the 18 Hellbound Hellraiser film and had mainly felt quite sick when the horror film unfolded and had to leave. Back in the day I had to find a phone box and ring home telling the rentals I didn't feel so good and they hightailed it to pick me up. They didn't comment on the fact I may** have been drinking some cider in Queen's Park before seeing said horror film and this may*** have the root of my queasiness.

Fast forward ten years later and I'm drunk in Manchester with my bestie and we can't get a taxi home, cue Dad Taxi..from Manchester to Bury.  And all those taxi trips in between; often with me being tipsy....and Dad calmly driving with no judgement.

There was the time I drove his brand new company car. He had let me drive his brand spanking new red Ford Sierra to work while he took my battered fiesta - and then I crashed it. 

I knew when I rang him, he would mainly be concerned for me - and never (rarely) showed how annoyed he really was with me as he had to head into work and admit his brand new car had been smacked into the car in front by his rather irresponsible daughter.

And now he is a Granddad to three, not so small, small things. And he never says NO to them. He tries to help. In Cornwall, he goes rockpooling, he carries as much stuff off the beach as is humanely possible including the kids' surfboards. And when he hightails it over here after work on a the odd Wednesday he's as happy playing Call of Duty as he is watching them play cricket. 

Did I mention he's still working - at 70 something. Flying all over the world and still bringing home the bacon. 

So on this day, Father's Day, I raise a glass to my wonderful dad and thank him for consistently showing me what a gentleman is - and always should be...

To all the dads and gentle men out there....Happy Father's Day.

And finally...

Dear Dad,

Thank you for being so feckin**** fabulous.

Love

Sarah

xxx

*definitely didn't
** definitely has
*** definitely was
**** he also really hates me swearing

Out of the mouth of babes

Parentdom...the phrases chapter.

In the beginning there was a baby. Your baby. A beautiful gurgling bundle of joy.* And then that baby grew. You watched that baby's every move, encouraging them to roll over, to crawl, to walk and ...to talk. 

To talk...we encouraged them to talk. We did this. It was us...and then the talking didn't stop - and then the phrases came....phrases that can pinpoint milestones in the progressing years.

But in all the years (so far) there has to be one feckin phrase that tops the charts as THE PHRASE guaranteed to make every parent want to fall to the floor and have their own big fat gigantic tantrum. 

Topping the charts of this never ending list of the phrases of doom has to be......

In. A. Minute. 

It's a standard phrase in my house. The fifteen year old and the eleven year old use it more often than 'What's for tea? and I'm hungry.'

It doesn't matter what is being asked of my beautiful babies, there is a standard response.

Me:

"Can you go and get the seventy billion glasses you have left in your rooms as we're now drinking water out of egg cups?" 

Reply: in a minute. 

Me:

"Can you put your shoes on? Because we're going out in the car to take you to your cricket match." 

Reply: in a minute. 

Me:

"Can you go to bed?"

Silence. 

Me:

Repeat three times. 

Reply: in a minute. 

Cue loud screaming from me; followed by....

"Mum why are you being so grumpy? There's no need to shout. We'll do it/go/get it IN A MINUTE."

Me. Rocks in a corner. Opens wine and pours bottle down neck. 

It's a phrase that can incite a rage in even the most perfect of parents. 

Out of the mouth of babes comes the phrases of doom. 

Nearly topping the charts has to be the clamour from my poor starving mites who haven't been fed for years. 

The scenarios sometimes differ but usually I am in a meeting and my phone rings. Seeing the name and number of  my most cherished of humans, I immediately grab the phone wondering what could have happened, immediately starting to pack up my bags and shrug my shoulders at my colleagues who recognise the face of a worried parent. 

And then the voice on the other end of the phone echoes down that there telephone wire. Trembling I wait for that nanosecond, mainly shitting myself that something terrible has happened....

"Mum, what time are you home? What's for tea?

Stuff my meetings. Sod my professionalism. Who needs to work. My poor starving children need me. They need feeding. They will have opened the fridge and stared in dismay at the spinach and broccoli staring at them (of course I'm on a diet). They needed proper food. They needed someone to come home and do it for them. Immediately.

Sometimes. Just sometimes the phone doesn't ring. Sometimes I get all the way home, open the front door and yell 'Helloooooooo' to the household. The stupid dog hurtles at me, happy to see me, but silence from humans mainly greets me. The son is of course killing people on his xbox and the daughter is revising.*

I holler again. HEEEELLLLLLLOOOOOOO

And then I get a response:

"Oh hi mum, what's for tea?"

"Oh hi kids. How are you? I'm fine thanks. I've hightailed it down the motorway at speeds faster than light to get home from the office just so I can cook your tea. I've still got my coat on. I've not had a wee since 6.38am but I am going to hurry the fuck along and make your tea because your lives are so terrible."

25 minutes later. Waffles, eggs and beans are on the table (it's Tuesday okay. There's football and cricket so there's no chance of any home made sauces, proper food or even a sense of trying). 

26 minutes later I shout....Tea's ready. Come on. 

"In a minute" comes the bloody chorus. 

Opens another bottle of wine. 

* joy = mainly cacophony of screaming until dummy was applied

** watching NCIS with her computer open

Cotton wool and Bubble wrap

Can I wrap my small things in cotton wool?

All I want to do is wrap my babies in cotton wool. 

In fact not just cotton wool but cotton wool with bubble wrap on top and then mainly not let them out of the house. Ever. Again.

In fact first I'll move to the mountains and then wrap them in cotton wool and apply the bubble wrap. 

But then in the mountains, there's ice and cars and slipping and falling off mountains so actually I think I'll move to Cornwall. That will be okay because there's not that many people ...... but oh then there's the sea and rip tides and currents and dangerous sports. 

I guess what I'm saying, what I'm admitting is that I'm pretty neurotic. 

From the minute they've been born, from the nano second my small things breathed their own air and pregnancy turned into the reality of parenthood I've mainly been worried. 

Not just worried. Frankly shitting myself. Will they breathe? She's slept a night, is she alive? He's walked into a door with his head (again), will he have brain damage? It's mainly been a constant stream of possible options where my babies could maim and damage themselves. 

I actually thought it would get easier. I thought once they had got past the point where they tripped through their toddler years and started to understand the spoken word it would be okay and I would worry less but as it turns out I just worry about different stuff. 

I watch my fiercely independent 15 year old cycle off with her friends and my heart is in my mouth and now to add to the terror they take the 11 year old with them on their biking adventures. The 15yo is off to the Trafford Centre on a bus, and tonight a car kindly clipped her handle bars as she cycled herself home from being out with her friends. I try and keep them safe. It's mainly my mission in life. My mantra...Keep my small things alive, then keep me alive and then no other fecker I love is allowed to die along the way. 

And then you're scrolling twitter at 10.30pm at night and there's the news that something has happened at a concert. A concert where I would assume my small things would be safe. There's security. It's inside. There's no mountains to fall off. A concert where the average age is young. So surely that means extra security and extra safety. 

A concert taking place in a venue where I took my small things less than two weeks ago to watch Bruno Mars and then I realise that no matter what I do I just can't protect them 24/7 just like those parents treading through the treacle of their darkest days couldn't protect their babies. 

It's horrifying. It's heartbreaking - and I can't imagine how those parents are coping with this.  I've mainly felt sick all day but I also know that moving to the lakes, the mountains, the sea and wrapping them in a bubble wrap cotton wool sandwich is not the answer. 

The answer is for me to help them live. Live every moment and not be afraid. 

And I'm going to do that. 

Whilst I mainly quake in my boots I'm going to help them live their lives. I'm going to watch them cycle off with their friends (wearing a helmet), I'm going to drop them off at gigs and I'm going to sit on the beach and watch them surf. Because it's my job. It's my job to guide them on the right path but also to let them go.

Anyone got any bubble wrap? Maybe just a bit. Maybe just one layer.  (Asking for a friend)

#StayStrongOurKid

What if I fall?

Dear daughter,

It appears you are taking baby steps...away from me.

It appears I am rapidly becoming redundant.

(Well apart from my access to that money tree and taxi services.)

It appears that with every given day you change right before my eyes, my little girl is growing up. 

My little girl is growing up at a rate of knots. Blink and there's a new sign of the young woman developing before me.

Every day you seem to be taking a step away from me. Steps to a new future, a future of new friends, new experiences and ones where I won't be at your side to watch over you - ones where I will be on the sidelines.

You shall be forever shrouded in the protection of this parental blanket - but the blanket these days is thinner and less visible. You don't hang onto my shirt tails anymore, they are more likely to provide a launch pad taking you in a new direction.

Once the slightly anxious child not entirely comfortable with herself, you are now this beautiful creature inside and out, opinionated, caring, passionate about your beliefs and happy to disagree with mine.

Every day I have encouraged you to grow. Just as I encouraged you to take your first steps. But every day now it makes me heart beat faster and more furiously knowing that I am encouraging you to step away from me and step into your independence and your future. A future forged without me as the centrifugal force.

A future dictated by your own hopes, needs, desires and ambitions.

And all of a sudden, I now realise that now my job as a parent becomes even more difficult. As I can no longer control,* I can only guide. And be here whenever you need me. And you may not need me.

Tonight you needed me to be home when you got back from your first baby sitting job - but tomorrow you won't. Tomorrow you will be happy in the knowledge it's another thing you can do alone.**

As a parent I know the best thing I can do is not cover you in bubble wrap but give you the courage to experience this thing called life.

And it scares me more than it scared me watching you breathe throughout your first night on this earth.

I genuinely thought parenting got easier. I thought I would never mirror the helplessness I felt waking in the night and watching you sleep terrified that cot death would come and claim you. (not that that happened a lot as you never blinkin slept).

But now as I begin the journey to set you free in this big bad wide world the fear is even bigger. 

Because I can no longer watch your every breath, I have to wait in the sidelines ready to help if you need me but knowing in reality you will need me less and less.

But if and when you do, I will always be here*** (possibly a bit drunk).

Love your mum

*For the purposes of clarity (and in case said daughter is actually reading this) I am still in control, no you can't do whatever you want and I am still in absolute charge - and will be forever.

** which is probably quite a good job as I will be out drinking gin

*** when I say here, I mainly mean somewhere in the world on a beach with wifi

Airport Musings

The Traveller

I spend quite a lot of time at airports of late. The fact that my work colleagues have started referring to me as Judith Chalmers has not escaped me.

I think I've almost mastered the art of the travelling alone; in fact I think I've almost mastered the art of looking like I know what I'm doing; sauntering casually wandering through the airport with the air of someone who is frankly a traveling hipster (complete with sushi and coffee).

I had a kindle (note the past tense - I also left said kindle in security - apologies if that caused any unnecessary alarms) so now I arm myself with the traditional paperback at the flight gate and do one of my favourite things. 

People watch.

Airports have to be the ultimate place to bring together all manner of people - all crammed together on one tiny space for a period of time with No Escape.

There's The Suit. The ultimate business traveler. Still wearing his suit, he wanders up and down the airport lounge talking with an air of importance on his mobile wishing he had enough business expenses to travel first class.

Then there's always The fraught. The ubiquitous traveling family. Fraught with bickering children, errant husbands and the possibility that the technology may run out before the actual plane journey starts combining to make the start of most holidays for the average family stressful. Throw in a screaming 2 year old and a lost blankie and there's grounds for a full on melt down - and that's just mum. 

Enter The weekenders. The group of boys - when I say boys - I mainly mean older men. Seasoned travellers on the return home from a weekend away from responsibility. Seasoned travellers who of course don't try and kill each other on a Ryan Air flight but who may have spend four days reliving their youth. Seasoned travellers who now look like former shadows of themselves after a few days on a boys weekend.

The Smug smiles serenely at the chaos around them and thanks their lucky stars they are The Smug. The Smug is a modern day traveller cruising from destination to destination. They embrace the epitome of airplane etiquette. Headphones at the ready, iPhone fully charged, music ready to play and a travelling Mac a constant companion. Ready and all tech'd up to cope with the curiosities of cruising through an airport. Until of course the Internet connection fails and then The Smug resembles a poor broken lost puppy.

And then my pet airport hate. The PDA couple. The snuggling couple - they can be any age; young or old; but grouped together by their need to constantly show each other how much they love being together in an airport watched by thousands of people. Breezing through the airport with a 'love is' cloud wavering above their heads as they consistently stop to share a kiss, a snuggle and maybe take a selfie to show the world (beyond the airport) how much in love they are, these people need a room of their own at airports.

And finally there's me. The pretender. Head burrowed in a book, constantly checking travel documents, trying to appear nonchalant, wondering if my passport has managed to become out of date since the last time I checked, wondering if my lost kindle is going to mean we all have to evacuate the airport. I'm always the one in the line for the full body search (when will I learn to take my bracelet off) and I always sit a bit too close to the flight departure boards so I can mainly stare at it and pray the flight leaves on time otherwise I'm gonna be late getting the kids (again).

I thought I had it all nailed. I thought I knew all the groups in the airport lounge. I knew what to expect. I knew all the different idiosyncrasies of the people that populate the airport lounge.

And then I got on the plane. And sat next to The Snircher.

The Snircher sniffed, snirched and snotted throughout the entire journey. 

Rubbing his sleeve across his nose that only a 15 year old on a school trip seems to think it's acceptable to do, he then ordered olives (obviously from south manchester) and played on his phone in airplane mode. 

And snirched with such wild abandon that he nearly ended up being forced through the airplane window (by me). And then he got up - I thought he might have been going to get a tissue - but no, he just wanted to snirch at his mate in the next row - and I noticed he had tracksuit bottoms falling off his non existent butt showing his feckin underpants which I did not want to see.

I then learnt a new lesson.* Do not ever give up your seat so a mother and daughter can sit together. The Snircher could be waiting for you.

Thankfully I have yet to see a group of girls traveling in their curlers and pjs. But I mainly think that's cos I'm not on a flight to Majorca.

*I actually learnt two lessons that day. Do not try and take a picture to showcase the riduculousenss of such attire as you may be caught by the snircher and you may look like a wrong 'un and it may be interpreted badly.

Adventures across the pond...

School trips have changed....

One week and one day ago, I waved goodbye to the 13 year old at Manchester Airport as we watched a group of school kids go off on a school trip.

Not to Wigan Pier, not to Conwy Castle, not to the Lake District but to travel thousands of miles across the pond for a week's skiing in New Hampshire and two days in NYC.

The anxious one was most anxious about her travelling so far away.....and so was the 13 year old. It was made all the more tearful by the 4am drop off at the airport with not even a cup of coffee to calm the nerves. The next ten hours were mainly spent obsessing watching flight tracker as her plane managed to avoid the terrible potential disasters I had imagined and landed safely in Boston.

The joy of social media alleviated the school trip parent stress syndrome (STPSS) as the lovely teachers updated regularly on a (private) twitter account.

Five days of skiing then ensued with various pictures of the girls looking more and more tired. The pictures of the parents would have showed far more wrinkles, more stress and more tiredness than displayed during the first years of parenting. 

Who knew that an exciting adventure for the 13 year old would manifest in such parental panic for me. I naively thought that as my small things grew up, I would worry less. As I became more confident that they would breathe through the night, I would start to chill out on their development, growth and survival. But it turns out that when you put a 13 year old on a plane from Manchester to Boston that invisible umbilical cord that continues to bind us together is stretched a little bit farther than I would like.

Who knew that parents would panic like this? When I buggered off on my school ski trip I never gave my parents a passing thought (sorry mum, oops dad). When we were stranded in Dover for 18 hours waiting for the ferry (no flights in them there days) I didn't think whether my mum and dad would be wondering where I was, I was simply staring at the White Cliffs of Dover.*

When we were skiing in France, I didn't consider that mum and dad may be spending every day wondering whether I was safe, happy and well - and all without wifi and mobile phones to allow me to check in.

 'This is what I'm having for breakfast' text

I've heard from the 13 year old (almost) daily. To be fair I have mainly heard what she has had for breakfast, a question as to whether she should change her thermals on the third day (erm yes) and other random text that mainly didn't include her skiing adventures. But she was in contact - and so I knew she was alive (minimising the need for the healing powers of wine to cope with STPSS)*.

And then tomorrow the traveller returns home. I will squeeze her so tight when I finally see her face in the airport tomorrow (following a traumatic 12 hours ahead tracking flights across a rather large expanse of water) and hug her close and thank the heavens she is back where she belongs...and then I reckon I will probably start shouting within about 30 minutes.

And normality will resume. I. cannot. wait.



*that's a lie, we may have been chatting to boys from Dover
* again that's a lie, there's always a need for wine

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. 

*minutes

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.

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.

Yours,

Me.

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

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.

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?

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.