Dear Daughter

The Wonder Years

Dear daughter,

At this moment in time I am shouting upstairs to you yelling at you to go to sleep. You are shouting back telling me how many hours and minutes you have left as a 10 year old.

Some (everyone) may (will) describe me as a shouty mum:

"GET DRESSED, HURRY UP, CLEAN YOUR TEETH, LISTEN, I'M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN, IF YOU DON'T GET A MOVE ON, I WILL MAKE YOU GO OUT LIKE THAT......"

The list is endless. Even now the night before your much anticipated 11th birthday I am shouting at you to go to sleep or you won't get your birthday breakfast. 

How time's change? 

11 years ago I was to be found wandering around this living room with a somewhat mahoosive bump thinking that the twinges I was feeling perhaps meant you were going to make an appearance three weeks early. 

As I was wandering round wondering whether labour was going to hurt (how naive),  the rest of my family were sitting in the kitchen eating mum's macaroni cheese to celebrate the occasion and having a sweepstake as to how long I was going to be in labour. (three-ish hours)

At midnight, we hightailed it to hospital and at 3.37am you were born. I remember spending what was left of the night simply staring at you, just watching you breathe, unable to believe that I was now a mum. That feeling has never left me. 

From that moment on my life changed.

Even now when I probably spend 90% of my time shouting, yelling and occasionally swearing, I thank my lucky stars that you are mine. Every night without fail, the last thing I do before I clamber under the duvet is to kiss you good night and watch you sleeping, watch you breathe, just like I did 11 years ago. 

Back then my main worry was that you kept breathing, and now my worries range from making sure that you keep breathing (yes still) to your schooling, your friendships, whether you can walk to school on your own, whether you eat enough veg, whether you will ever wear a dress, if you will be happy at high school ...worrying is a constant, a niggling, gnawing, tapping in any mum's mind.


I do miss you as a baby, your gurgling smile, your inability to put your feet on sand and even those hideously humiliating moments including carrying you out of a supermarket under my arm with your legs kicking and screaming (you didn't visit a supermarket for a long time after that). I don't miss the fact that you didn't actually sleep a full night until you were 17 months old.

But I mainly love watching you, watching you grow into a beautiful small thing sometimes at war with your own developing personality but always kind, always loving and giving.

I am mainly hugely proud to be your mum and tomorrow I shan't be shouting at you on your birthday, I shall be spending the day feeling blessed and trying not to shout at you on your birthday. And then when I take you and your friends out for tea, I shall mainly be drinking wine to dull the noise of six excited 11 year olds. 

This time 11 years ago I started on a journey where I learn something new every day, where I spin more plates than I ever thought was possible, and where I have a reason to smile every day. 

Tonight when I kiss your sleeping face goodnight and I am the first person to whisper Happy Birthday in your ear, I shall be sending a silent prayer of thanks that I am so blessed,

Love you my beautiful girl,

Your mum.

Where have all the red ants** gone?

How times change...

Do you remember those halcyon days when we had proper seasons? 

Do you remember that when spring sprung, we changed our wardrobes, we put away our winter clothes and we went to play in the fields in our t-shirts only coming home when we were hungry?

Some may accuse me of partaking in that commonly known syndrome that affects those people in their middle youth - the Rose Tinted Glasses (RTG) Syndrome. 

I have found through extensive research over a period of time (focus group with myself over a cup of coffee) that RTG Syndrome creeps up on you gradually. I admit that I may now believe that in the good old days when Zippy was the most radical thing on TV, we had it good. 

One day, there you are all care-free, running through the fields of long grass, playing Sycamore helicopters in your t-shirt as the searing heat of a British summer means coats were a long forgotten memory, and the next...you're sitting on the couch in your jumper in front of the fire in the spring remembering the good old days.

And then you realise you are officially a sufferer of RTG Syndrome.

Does this mean I am getting old? 

Does this mean that I am no longer in my middle youth, but I am actually middle-aged?

Does this mean I need to start drinking Horlicks?

These are questions that should really concern me. I do occasionally wonder if I am a sufferer of RTG Syndrome but the thing that is really bothering me, the thing that is keeping me awake at night and the best possible example that times have changed is the sad demise of the red ant**. 

WHERE HAVE ALL THE RED ANTS* GONE?

The tiny weeny red ant** typified my childhood summers.

Let's face it, we knew it was summer when we could sit on the kerb and play 'squash the red ant**' with the winner being announced due to how many red pinprick squishes you had on your fingers. It was an intellectual game allowing one to improve one's mental maths and the spirit of debate as you determined who had won.

This game usually happened after we had spent Saturday morning at the stables and I had groomed Smartie and me and my sister had skipped back from the stables holding hands, our skips in harmony and our soulful singing voices bringing our neighbours out for an impromptu summer concert.  

Okay okay that last bit was a lie, usually I was mainly annoyed that my sister was tagging along and tried to run away from her but we did play on our drive with Sindy dolls (Barbie was just not cool) and when we got bored of showjumping Sindy and we had taken our rabbit Blackie for a walk (yes he had a lead and yes he was called that) we then indulged in a game of squash the red ant**.

Today children have lost this fine art of finger dexterity, a fine outdoors pursuit which defined summer and kept us amused for at least three minutes before we got on our grifters and went for a bike ride across the fields only coming home when we were hungry.

I miss the good old days. 

*I am writing this post whilst proudly wearing Rose Tinted Glasses*

Oh no - I have just had a moment of clarity. Maybe we killed all the red ants**.

*Removes Rose Tinted Glasses and sobs*

**Since the writing of this blog it has been brought to my attention that they weren't red ants, but red money spiders - this explains a lot.

New Year Celebrations

The pressure of Christmas

Don't tell my small things but I'm glad Christmas is over. The minute I took down the Christmas decorations on the 2nd January, yes the 2nd, I felt a sense of relief and started to look forward to 2013.

I know it's just one day, I know it's all about the giving and not the receiving but still the pressure of Christmas crept up on me and before I knew it I was stressed about one day of present giving mayhem and a giant roast.

It's the time of the year when the whole focus seems to centre on the family unit. When there is almost a silent competition on who can do it better and who can be the most cheery.

I do emotionally invest in Christmas, I make sure the house is twinkly and me and the small things did some mean Christmas dancing to Last Christmas. The Christmas party was a chaotic success and I have respectfully treated every day like Winesday. 

But I am glad it's over. 

And I'm really looking forward to January.

I have thought about it and I'm thinking it might be because I got a salad spinner for Christmas which didn't invoke the same excitement as my Grifter bike did back in 1983. Or possibly it's Rylan's fault for being on the Xfactor and ruining my countdown to Christmas; which frankly I did not think was sch-mazing.

Or maybe it's because we simply put too much pressure on ourselves to create this perfect picture when frankly the one we paint every day with the small moments, creating the every day memories with normal roasts, giggling with the small things and laughing with friends are the ones that really count.

So next year I plan to do it differently. I''m not cooking. I'm going out. And I am gifting myself many presents. (I know it's not all about the presents *lies*)

In the meantime we have the joy of January to look forward to; which many of you will be dreading because you will all be detoxing, drying out and dieting. 

WRONG. DIDDLY WRONG WRONG.

January is one of the best months of the year; you should all be celebrating for the following reasons:

1. It's my birthday in January
2. It's the start of a new year
3. I'm going skiing
4. I'm going skiing again
5. The pressure of Christmas is over
6. Did I mention it's my birthday?
7. Oh and it's my Uncle John's 65th birthday

The new year is a time to reflect, make new year resolutions, fail dramatically at achieving the new year resolutions, embrace Winesday and celebrate.

I demand you all embrace January with the same vigour you embraced Christmas but without the pressure.

Go on. Hop to it.

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.

Shush! I'm in silence

“Don't you hate that? Uncomfortable silence. Why do we feel it's necessary to talk about bull in order to feel comfortable? That's when you know you've found somebody really special. When you can just shut the hell up for a minute and comfortably share a silence -Pulp Fiction”

I've just realised that while I've been working over the past couple of days, I've been working in silence. Pure noiseless, deafening silence.

Apart from the odd conversation with the puppy (and frankly she is rather disappointing in the old two way banter) there has been no radio, no music and no noise.

I love noise (well apart from the small things shouting me at any time from 9pm - 10 am) and I've always lived in environments where people shout, curse, sing (badly) and where there is a constant humdrum of noise traffic.

For me a happy place is a noisy place.*

I never thought I would be a silence sort of a girl, but here's the thing - I have quite enjoyed it. 

The silence that follows the chaos of the school run, the calm after the storm of the shouting that starts at 7.15am and only stops when we leave the house at 8.36 am (OR WE WILL BE LATE).  

The hours of peace before the cacophony of conversation begins again after a day of school has been well ...really rather nice.

I'm still in silence now. And the only noise I'm really looking forward to is the sounds of my wine glugging cheerfully into my giant wine glass - some might say reminiscent of the sounds of a babbling brook. 

These are acceptable noises.

Now no-one dare disturb the sound of silence...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zLfCnGVeL4

*To clarify, I mean grown up noise. Not play parks, not screaming children, not doctors surgeries and not random conversations with strangers on trains. I mean the sounds of adult life.