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

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

“There is nothing better than a friend, unless it is a friend with chocolate.”

A friend in need is a friend indeed...

It's not often words fail me. As most people that know me will testify.

My career has been mostly dedicated to the art of the written word, the spin of our beautiful language and yet so often in the last month I have found myself unable to find the words to describe life going on around me.

My beautiful friend (BF) has cancer. Well she doesn't just have cancer. She's frankly battling cancer and if that's not bad enough the crappy chemo is also trying to take her down. (I would replace crappy with another much more severe c-word but various other beautiful friends would really tell me off).

But this blog today isn't about that battle. It's not about the tears of sadness, frustration and anger we've all cried recently, it's about the beauty of human spirit.

I live in what can only be described as a community. Some of us live close as a gnat's chuff to each other (see the eloquence of my written word) and some of us have migrated a few more (thousand) miles away but what the bastard cancer has revealed is what a tight little community of fantastic people we are.

Human spirit has shone through in large dollops of friendship. When friends have felt helpless in this stupid situation that none of us can control we have resorted to practicalities. 

And when the practicalities have been done, we have resorted to full blown over emotional love-ins.

In a world where we can control most things - and a world where if we want something bad enough and we work hard enough, we can mainly achieve it. 

Cancer knows no such rules. Cancer just takes - and it doesn't matter how successful, wealthy, determined or ballsy we are, we can't control it or the journey it takes its victims on.

So we control what we can. The small details that makes the cogs go around the battle against cancer. The little details that can make things as easy as possible for everyone involved - and it's these small things that make me realise how priceless true friends really are. Of course I already knew that - but I've been reminded a lot lately.

There's not a day goes by when my BF has not had a food delivery, a friend pop round, a gift dropped off or a child distracted. And it's these mini details that count. 

And then amidst all this cancer chaos, there's the story of the actual small things - the children. Not just my beautiful friend's small things but mine too.

Watching mine deal with such raw emotion first hand has been a journey in itself.

My 8 year old who walked up to my BF and asked her almost shyly (even though he's known her since birth) if he could give her a hug. Which was gratefully received. The worry etched in my over anxious 12yo's face as she tries to come to terms with the cruelty of life. And the power of friendships. Watching how they support my BF's small things on a day to day basis mainly by trashing my house and doing my head in but never the less it distracts us all.

And then there is the small fry belonging to my BF. The stoic 12 yo who is still able to rebel against authority and yet watches her mum's every movement. And the nearly 11yo who wears his heart on his sleeve and still finds a reason to smile every day.

This is life. It's the day to day acts of our small things that we look to, to reveal how we should live. For the moment, for the here and now - and for the smiles you can get from finding a perfectly shaped conker or baking a rainbow cake.

Today I am watching the small things with increased respect. Obviously I'm still shouting a lot otherwise everyone would get very nervous.

This is life.  The community I live in that I'm grateful for, the friendships that are strong and true.

Those true friendships are not only supporting my BF but me too; I've had deliveries of flowers, vodka infused strawberries left on my doorstep (oh yes, you read that right) and stacks of croissants delivered for when the BF's small things are also present at breakfast. 

Oh yes, it appears I have chosen my friends wisely. And then there's my lovely friends who have simply sent a text to check up on ME (and it's not even me going through the bastard cancer) that make me realise what makes the world go round.

And all through this there is the centre piece to this story - my beautiful friend. 

Strong, determined, fierce, vulnerable and of course beautiful. She managed to laugh as we shaved her head giving her a lovely mullet (we did of course do the proper thing after we'd all had a good laugh). She's been cross, she's shouted and she's cried. 

And mainly she's still in control - we've all had barked instructions from the hospital bed, the chemo ward and the bedroom. 

And mainly she's trying as hard as she can to stick two fingers up at this bastard disease. I'm not sure I would be able to greet each day with the grit and determination she has. Mind you we did have to have words about some of the post cancer diagnosis outfits of choice. 

So here's my revised survival guide for when things are crap. 

I appreciate that as a result many of you could need to review your friendships - and now is the time to do it, because should you be ill or your friend be ill, you need to make sure the right stash lands on your doorstep.

The key to surviving crap includes:

• Vodka infused strawberries
• Laughing 
• Good crying*
• Gladioli 
• Spiced salmon and stir fry (cooked by friend's husband, as this friend doesn't cook)
• Curries and chat on a Saturday night
• Silly daft ridiculous texting
• My beautiful mum
• My family
• My fabulous friends
• And of course my small things

Now before you all get your hankies out at this overly 'soppy as shite' blog (again spot the eloquence of delivery), what I'm mainly trying to do is help you all live your life better. Of course NEVER under-estimate the power of wine.

And finally, if you don't have friends that know how to make vodka infused strawberries (that were also coated in chocolate) you're really missing out and I suggest you start interviewing for one now. Sadly mine is taken.

*Good crying. I have been told that if you cry a river and feel better afterwards, you can cry. If you cry a river and still feel pants after, that's bad crying and you have to distract yourself and avoid at all costs.

Yoga and me

A  yoga move or two...

People do yoga for many reasons. 

Some do it for serenity of the mind. 
Some to destress. 
Some to make sure they are supple. 

My yoga teacher tells me it's all about the breath.

People exercise for many reasons. I run because it gives me sanity. I go to the gym mainly because it provides me with the beautiful sight of the Lancashire County Cricket Club working out before my very eyes.

BUT...

I have started to do yoga for one reason and one reason only.

I intend to win at the Weetabix game.

It started in the summer. Eighteen friends converged at a house in Wales to celebrate a 40th birthday. It was a great weekend in so many ways except one - I failed at the Weetabix game. A game I had rocked in the past.

At some point during the evening, after the small things had gone to bed and before the fancy dress box had been discovered, it was decided we should all play the Weetabix game. (I don't need to point out there was wine involved in this decision making process.)

To the non-initiated amongst you, the premise of the Weetabix game is simple. One box of Weetabix (with the contents removed). Weetabix box placed in the centre of the floor. Players take it in turn to pick up the box with their teeth. Only the feet are allowed to touch the floor. Easy. Until everyone has tried to pick the box up - and then an inch strip is torn from the top making the box shorter and thus harder to pick up. Meaning the more bendy you are, the better you are at the game.

So there we were. A room full of friends. Some limbering up and a gradually reducing box of Weetabix. (To be fair we played with a box of Coco Pops, I think this had something to do with my ruin.)

I was quite successful with the lunge approach and then my legs just wouldn't bend anymore. Leaving in those smug, willowy bendy yoga types...

They flowed to the floor. They reached for the scrap of paper that was the Weetabix/Coco Pop box and then they picked it up. Effortlessly. With not one click of an old bone.

That will be me. Next time. That box is mine.

When I am breathing in on a Thursday night, when I am giving myself calm and serenity through the power of my breath, I am really only thinking one thing.

Next year I am going to rock that Weetabix game*.

*practices yoga moves whilst typing in the downward dog.

Camping chaos and calm

Camping

I’m not supposed to like camping.

No double bed with white cotton sheets.

No doors to protect you from people.

No wardrobe with a choice of shoes and accessories.

No en-suite; in fact not even a toilet that you can call your own.

But I do.

I even like putting my tent up. I take pride in knowing I can erect a tent in 30 minutes (sort of well really 45 minutes but that does include the wine break).

I like being outdoors. I even like being outdoors when it rains.

I like the fact that I shoehorn a lot of equipment into my car and off we go for a weekend.

I love the fact that I’m in a field with my mates and even my phone gets ignored.

I ignore small details that would normally really upset me – like the fact that this weekend I managed to pitch the tent on an ant’s nest.

The reason I love camping so much is the feeling of calm that envelops me as the weekend settles in. As the sun starts to set and the small things roam free, I look around the field littered with tents, barbecues and camp fires and I realise (strangely) I’m in my happy place. Only for a weekend mind.

I love the fact the small things are so free, they can flex their independence.

They explore, climb, and operate as a pack having adventures and playing games that frankly just aren’t possible in my urban life.

Normal rules don’t apply, the six year old spent most of the weekend in his bare feet and I remembered to brush their teeth at around 11.30 am every day even though we had been awake since dawn o’ clock.

It’s taken me a while to get used to sleeping on a piece of tissue pretending to be a bed listening to the noises of the night and I have to ensure coffee is on a constant drip.

But when I’ve been camping for the weekend; I feel like I have really been away  (it might be because the days are soooooooooo long), I feel like we have truly left the nonsense of life behind and just had fun.

In the words of my ten year to her eight year old mate as she threw a cup of water over me this weekend and I didn’t shout:

8 year old: “My mum would have shouted if I had done that.”

10 year old: “Mum won’t shout this weekend. We’re on holiday. We’re camping. She doesn’t shout when we’re camping.”

My job was done. I was complete. I sat down in my very uncomfortable camping chair, supped my slightly too warm wine in a mug and smiled.

Note: as this blog is published, all camping equipment remains in my hallway as I don’t like putting it all away and unpacking. That sucks.

Easter dieting secrets

Get your summer body the easy way.

As I sit here happily scoffing one of the small thing's Easter eggs for breakfast, I thought I would share my keep fit secrets with you.


Who needs Davina when you have these little secrets under your belt:


1. Sleep in your gym gear. Your body will believe by the very nature you are wearing your gym gear that you are exercising and will therefore burn additional calories as you dream a little dream. 


Note: you must also wear your trainers so your feet believe you are running through the night.


2. Watch exercise DVDs - the harder the better. I always find that Davinas are indeed the ultimate in exercise hell. By watching these videos alone you will burn fat. 


Note: if you tap your toe to the music = extra calories.


3. Go to the gym. For a coffee. The mere act of walking into a place of exercise counts as exercise. By walking into the gym and meeting a friend for a coffee (in your gym gear) you will burn calories. What's the point of meeting in a local coffee shop when you know a coffee in the gym will result in weight loss!


4. Read recipes to help you lose weight. As you are eating the third Easter egg, it always helps if you flick through weight loss magazines reading and planning those recipes you would make if you could be bothered planning your food diary for the next 10 years.


5. Wine tea. Now this is really the best secret of them all. Substitute your final meal of the day with a bottle of wine. Simple, easy weight loss.


Now I have given away my secrets for weight loss success I'm off to find another Easter egg - in my trainers.

Spinning Plates

Spinning plates

I spend my life spinning plates, jumping from one plate to another trying to keep them in the air. As I am sure most people do. In fact, at the risk of alienating people, as I am sure most mums do.


Many is the week that I end it with a to do list that not only includes the jobs I need to finish for work but also the jobs I need to start as a mum. Not to mention the whole household jobs (my front door has needed painting for two years).


I sometimes feel like weekends are about ticking boxes - mainly in the mum box. 


Be good mum, drink wine, play with small things, drink wine, see friends, drink wine, ferry small things to sporting activities, then drink wine and so it goes on.


And then there is the odd weekend when it all just comes together. The perfect weekend culminating in the perfect Sunday.


This weekend was my perfect weekend.


And the reason it's been a perfect weekend is simply because I feel like I have been good mum without having to think about ticking any boxes. In fact I haven't done much thunking all weekend.


The washing basket is still full, the ironing mountain is still high (not that I do that anyway) and the dentist appointments still need to be made but this weekend has just worked.


It started on Friday evening with an impromptu night out with a couple of girlfriends putting the world to rights over a bottle of Shiraz and some tapas. Saturday was all about some quality time with the nearly 10 year old and her inaugural concert involving JLS and thousands of screaming girls.


A lie-in on Sunday followed by a netball match where the nearly 10 year old got 'man of the match' has been followed by the arrival of my cousins and their little ones. The afternoon - an afternoon of house wrecking for the small things and gossip and catch up for the grown-ups.


The french doors were open, a tent was erected (sort of) in the garden and the Sunday dinner was inhaled. And this was all followed up by a glass of wine over the garden fence with the neighbours. 


The small things are now in the land of nod and I am at one with the couch. 


The best bit of this weekend - I don't feel like I have ticked any boxes.


I don't feel like I have done something I had to to keep the plates spinning. I just did.


The weekend just happened and I am content.


Here's to many more weekends like this.

WINESDAY

LISTEN.

Today is Winesday. Wednesday is no more.


WINESDAY

It used to be known as Wednesday. It used to be the hardest day of the week to learn how to spell and I always knew it as Wed-Nes-Day. It also heralds the middle of the week.

But no more. Winesday is the new Wed-Nes-Day, it is a day to behold.

Thursday was the new Friday and now Winesday is the new Thursday which is the new Friday which means it's the new start of the weekend. I think.

The plan is simple don't drink on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday.

Now I know Sundays will be difficult to maintain as an alcohol free day so follow this simple rule of thumb. If you are cooking a roast dinner for more than two people (small things count) then you can have a drink. That's the law on Sunday Drinking.

Winesday heralds the start of the drinking week.

Now I tend to drink red (usually a Rioja) during the Winesday winter months but as soon as the sun starts to shine I'm partial to a glass (or two) of white. Soave is on the menu for this evening. But there's really no need to follow my way - you can mix it up a little. Perhaps even throw in a Rosé or even a glass or two of fizz.

If this is your inaugural Winesday, the rules are as follows:

1. Wait until Wine O'clock

• To clarify: wine o'clock differs for everyone, but remember this: it's wine o'clock somewhere in the globe right now
• If you are on holiday, wine o'clock can legitimately begin at 11am
• If you are meeting friends for lunch, it would be rude not to welcome in wine o'clock
• If you are working, then wine o'clock begins from 6.00pm on the dot (after the car has been parked up)

2. On arrival of your Wine o'clock, I highly recommend you acquire a glass 

(I prefer ones the size of a vase; fewer trips to the kitchen) 

This could be a Winesday celebratory purchase http://www.amazon.co.uk/Giant-Wine-Glass-glass-bottle/dp/B000HT1YSG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1331736728&sr=8-1

3. Open preferred bottle, pour said wine into said glass

4. Sigh, gaze lovingly at wine and drink

5. On Winesday, it is acceptable to drink a bottle. 

Should you consume a full bottle on a school night, I recommend Milk Thistle tablets to minimise post Winesday come down (otherwise known as a hangover)

6. Start crossing off the days until the next Winesday

Enjoy Winesday  - same time, same place, next week.