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

Summer Juggling

Shush......The silence is deafening

Summer is here.

The sun is actually shining - and parents throughout the UK welcome the summer holidays with a sigh of relief.

Okay - that last sentence is a complete lie. 

Six weeks - six whole weeks - that 30 working days to fill with children's entertainment. Or in my case eight weeks as the 12 year old kindly broke up a week before the 8 year and the 8 year is going back a week after the 12 year old.

My diary looks like someone has thrown up childcare arrangements all over - and I have that niggling feeling that I have forgotten something - or someone important. Probably one of my children.

Every week has a plan - and what can only be described as a rough schedule attached to that plan - with post it notes on top of the plan - and red circles highlighting the really important things on the post it notes.

The years in PR organising client events have nothing on the organisational precision and attention to detail that goes into summer holiday small thing planning.

This week they have been thrown at the in-laws - as I write they are on a boat somewhere on the River Wyre with Grandma and Grandpa. Well I think they are on a boat - I received a picture but all I could see was Grandma and Grandpa - and wine - and frankly a rather ropey looking boat - no sign of the small things. 

Have they already fallen in? Is the eight year old trapped under the boat (yep that was last night's nightmare). 

The small things are at the in-laws all week, which should make me jump for joy at the sense of freedom I have - the evenings spread before me, dinner with friends planned and actual proper working days await me - however the house just seems a wee bit empty and just on the edge of quiet. Even the daft dog is wandering from room to room searching for something.

I think as parents we are never quite happy - we crave the silence. When the 12 year is pecking my head with her constant questions, opinions and smart arse answers, I beg her to be quiet - and now the house is silent, I'm craving the chaos.

Of course, those who know me will know that winesday awaits me - and the bliss of not having to do the school run is so far outweighing my craving for said chaos.

I also know that this weekend I am taking the small things to their first festival - and the neurotic worry that will accompany that 'care-free' adventure will be enough to occupy most of the quiet this week.

So all in all, I am going to try and enjoy the peace and quiet...really...I am.

Separation and sanity

Small things, separation and a revelation

It was the week I thought would never happen.

After two years of being separated somehow the ex was taking my small things away on holiday for a week. 

To France. 

A completely different country. 

A whole plane ride away.

Now those that know me, know that I have never been THAT parent that is glued to one's small things. Only 8 weeks ago I happily abandoned them whilst I jetted off for four fun-filled days in Marbella with the girls. (Obviously I didn't leave them in the cellar with a tin of beans; they had juice aswell).

Every year I jet off on a girls ski weekend and I don't think twice about sleepovers.  (Well sleepovers that aren't at my house.)

In the past two years I have got used to them going off to their dad's for two nights a week and sometimes I have even enjoyed - no relished - that time to myself.

But this was different. It was a whole week. Seven whole days without my babies. Seven days, 168 hours, 10,080 minutes without them. And they were on a plane in  a different country. I counselled myself. It was ridiculous I have got on planes, trains and automobiles that have taken me away from them....but they have never been taken away from me - and never on a stupid giant metal thing that flies in the sky. 

It was such a small subtle difference but it grew arms, legs, a beard and several heads as the day approached. 

I smiled with the small things and joined in their holiday excitement, I became a gibbering wreck with my friends as I spent nights awake on 'what ifs'. That moment when you are dropping off to sleep or you think you are dropping off to sleep and you allow your mind to wander. Only for a second it wanders into very dangerous territory when your mind takes you on the journey of the worst nightmares you can imagine. Then you stare at the ceiling counting sheep, or in my case counting hot men doing the long jump.

The day arrived and it's fair to say I was a wreck. The girls had set up a tag team of lunatic watch with regular text counselling which to be fair to all my friends not one was entitled: *Man up you blithering idiot.*

The 10 yo was wobbly - a week was a long time. The 6yo was nervous and I could have got a gold medal (see what I did there) for my credible excitement at what fun they would have. Their dad picked them up and I waved happily from the window.

Inside I crumbled, I felt like someone had tore me limb from limb. I knew it was ridiculous. I knew it was frankly mental and I knew (possibly) that they would be fine. I cried more than Gwyneth Paltrow getting an Oscar and then I cried some more.

Then I manned up. Mainly because the electricity meter man knocked on the door and I'm not sure he could have coped with my hysterics. In fact if he hadn't arrived the flash floods of the past few days could have been started from my kitchen.

Fast forward one week and my babies are back. In my arms. I met them at the airport. If T-mobile had been there, the scenes would have had more views on YouTube than Justin Bieber's inaugural performance. 

They are now in bed. We snuggled on the couch. We had a pillow fight. The 6yo made a den and the 10 yo told me all the things she had been saving up for the past 7 days which culminated in a discussion as to whether sex and section were the same thing. Normality had resumed. I sighed a giant sigh of relief.

The fact remains I love my independence. 

I love it when I choose to spend a few days abroad without my small things. 

But when they go away without me, when they are abroad without me, when I can't easily get to them and swoop in wearing my Supermum cloak I hurt.

It's subtle. It's really rather small.

It's what makes me their mum.

Girlpower

Make friends, make friends

...never never break friends

It began six months ago. Five of my oldest friends. Several glasses of wine and a determination to celebrate our last year in our thirties in style - in the sun. A plan was formed. A weekend was set and the flights were booked.


At 4.30am on Thursday, the girls arrived to pick me up for a stupid o'clock flight. As I left the house, I heard from inside the car; 'Bloody hell who brought Paloma Faith' (a comment about my lovely hat) and so the weekend had begun.


We arrived at the airport, checked in and boarded the plane to take us to the sun.  The plane was full of groups of girls, women, hens, stags, boys, very few men, each and everyone looking forward to seeing that rare sighting - rarer than hen's teeth in the UK - the sun.


On the plane, we plugged in iPhones, opened kindles, read pages and barely uttered a word - all around us people were catching up. We ignored each other. It was just perfect. Each of us content in each other's silence as we made the transition from mum to me.


We arrived at our villa, marvelled at the bedrooms, argued over the master suite and gazed longingly at the pool. Within minutes cases were abandoned, phones were laid down and bikinis, tankinis and burkinis (me) were found, bemoaned and adorned.


Then it started. The laughter. We chattered, gossiped and reminisced  over our past, caught up on latest goings-on, shared our angst, our worries and our nonsense - which even included whether the blades of grass were thicker in Spain than the UK. 


And then we laughed some more and ridiculed each other - I even snorted beer down my nose. It was one of my more classy moments in Marbs.


These girls have been part of my life for over two decades - we've been through break-ups, make-ups (and that's just us girls) boyfriends, husbands, marriages, divorces, children, illness, grief, loss and laughter. At the heart of it are six girls that met through school, clubbing and parties - and in Marbs we were those girls again, friends to the end.


The thing about friendship - true friendship - is that it just exists. 


In silence on a plane. In shared cocktails at a beach bar. During a three hour Mad Dogs styli walk in the burning heat of the midday sun to find a supermarket. Even when one of your oldest friends storms in a takes a picture of you in the shower (of course I hadn't locked the door, why would I?) A picture I might add that will never see the light of day - mainly due to the fact that I got my revenge shot the following day. Nothing is sacred.


The weekend ended with a delay at the airport. Seven hours and several bottles of champagne later we finally made a flight out of Marbs. 


And once again I was reminded about the power of friendship. I realised how lucky I am as my friends at home rallied round and sorted my small things. In an instant. In a blink of a eye - and then told me to go and drink more champagne - which of course I did.


I know two things.


This time next year we will be back in Marbella drinking in the sunshine.


My friends are blinkin important to me and I salute you.


Well actually three things:


Cocktails on the beach in the sun are just the best thing ever. 
(except for good friends of course).


*This blog is dedicated to my beautiful friends.

My mum is mad as cheese

My mum is mad as cheese 

My mum is mad as cheese. Fact.

My small things adore her. She often drives me mad, mainly when she sneaks all manner of crap sweets and chocolate into the hands of my small things and then pretends she knows nothing about it.

But without my mum I would be lost. She picks up the small things from school on a Monday and Wednesday for me so I can do my day job and on a Wednesday she bathes them and washes their hair so I simply have to deliver the bedtime story.

When the nearly 10 year old was less two weeks old and hadn't stopped crying, I rang her at 2am and told her if she didn't do something the then two week old was going to be launched through the window. Mum turned up within 20 minutes (usually a 30 minute journey) took said baby off my hands and rocked her for four hours while I slept and some degree of sanity returned.

We go to Cornwall every year, all of us. Mum, Dad, sister, children and husbands when they were husbands. On a recent family adventure on the beach, I was taking the small things on a rock climbing expedition between two bays as the tide was coming in. I got 'the look' and lecture of mum for not being careful until I reminded her of my childhood holidays in Cornwall and on one particular trip where mum took us (me and my sis) on a similar rock climbing adventure.

As we climbed into yet another bay, shin-deep in the advancing tide, we settled into a cove - where we got trapped by the rapidly advancing tide. An hour later we were still having an 'adventure' in the cove when the lifeguard paddled round in his canoe to ask us if we needed rescuing as it was a particularly high tide. Oh no said my mother, we're having a great time. We continued to have a great time until the tide went back out - about four hours later.

Today as mum rocks the Grandma title, she plays football with the 6 year in the back garden, she has more patience than me when helping the struggling nearly 10 year old with her homework and she still gives the small things way too many sweets.

This year my sister and I have decided that it's unsafe for mum and dad to drive to Cornwall on their own so we are splitting them up between cars. This is not really due to a lack of driving ability but the fact we are not sure that mum and dad should be left alone in a confined space for 5 hours.

This year I can't wait for Cornwall as at the fabulous age of 63 years she has promised the small things she intends to don a wetsuit and go body boarding.

See I told you. Mad as cheese.