Mum in the Middle

Harry Potter et Al

2014-05-20T04:20:00.001-07:00

As my have got older children, it has become increasingly difficult to find a day out that will appeal to all the family. So, faced with a rare day recently when we were all at home and looking for somewhere to visit, the solution came from an unlikely source; a bespectacled boy, a geeky girl and their nerdy friend (sorry Ron!).

My children have grown up with the Harry Potter books and the sounds of Stephen Fry’s erudite narration have accompanied us on many memorable holidays in the past. On some occasions, we have been so engrossed with the story that we have remained in the car long after we have reached our destination.

I, for one, am rather attached to Harry and his companions and their antics at Hogwarts School. My family agrees and when J.K. Rowling’s much loved characters were brought to life on film, we were among the first in the cinema. Years later, the box sets still come out on wintry evenings when we are all at home and remain among our favourites.

Warner Brothers Studio Tour was therefore a popular choice for our day out and it didn’t disappoint. I didn’t know what to expect from the moment we arrive we were transported back into that the magical world of Harry and his friends.

The film sets are amazing and the attention to detail is second to none. From the famous costumes right down to those all-important, handmade wands.

I loved being able to walk in Harry, Ron and Hermione’s footsteps through the Great Hall and along Diagon Alley to Gringotts Bank.

Even the items in the gift shop are of a higher quality than you would normally find, although not cheap.

For Harry Potter fans this is a must. If you are looking for a day that the whole family can enjoy, I would thoroughly recommend it.

Gogglebox Forever!

2014-04-23T07:01:00.001-07:00

After a long day, it is lovely to relax in front of the TV with my family.

Hmmm! Did I say ‘relax’?

There are five of us living under our roof, with occasional ‘extras’, each with their own idea of what constitutes good family entertainment.

When there was only my husband and I to consider, we used to watch challenging films and tune into interesting documentaries. These days we are more likely to sit through American soaps and endless reality TV shows. Left to our own devices, we would enjoy more cerebral viewing, or so I believed until my husband developed a liking for Lizard Lick Towing (and I thought TOWIE was bad!).

We all have own peculiar TV watching habits. Lilly and her boyfriend chatter… incessantly… through absolutely everything, whilst munching loudly on popcorn. My son prefers to lay in front of the TV on his duvet, which leads to angry choruses of ‘get down, we can’t see’ every time he adjusts his position. Personally, I find a large glass of wine makes most things more palatable.

When she visits, my mother-in-law is an expert at the ‘isn’t that whatshisname who played thingumybob’ in that cop drama… you know the one with that actor who was married to that actress’ type of comment.

Then, when the family is finally settled comfortably, hubbie inevitably decides to play two handed remote. This involves frequent adjustment of the settings; too quiet, too LOUD, and usually ends in him redesigning the lounge so that the speakers are in the best position to appreciate the soundtrack. I imagine that we are also the only family in England who has to watch the end credits to find out who sung what song.

Of course, we have our family favourites; programmes that we will all happily sit down to watch without complaint such as The Big Bang Theory and we are currently working our way through box sets of Supernatural series 1-8 (we each have our reasons!).

Most recently, we have become hooked on Gogglebox, a fly-on-the wall documentary following the reactions of the viewing public to the programmes that we ourselves watch on TV. Phew! Watching them squabble, adjust their sets, shout at the TV and eat their way through mountains of takeaway food, makes me realise we’re not so unusual after all.

What Kind of Friend are You?

2014-04-15T10:24:00.000-07:00

I have heard it said that over a lifetime we can count our true friends on the fingers of one hand.

Those are the friends who stick by us no matter what, who will call (or text these days) to find out how we are, never forget our birthday and will cancel their own arrangements to be by our side when the need arises.

Everyone should have a friend like that.

Often the people who stick by us are not the ones you would expect and there is no better test of friendship than when you really need someone to be there – and they are. You find out who your real friends are when you are in most need.

I have always found that when things are really bad in my life, for whatever reason, it is extremely difficult to reach out to people. Instead, as the veil of depression or hopelessness slips over my head I tend to hide away. The worse things get, the more I retreat into my own little world of misery. A surprise phone call, a voice at the end of the line that asks, “How are you doing?” is sometimes all it takes to shift my perception, just a little, maybe enough to realise that things are not so bad after all. To offer hope.

A friend has empathy. We have all known people who ask you how you are doing and when you reply: “Not so good actually, my granny just died of cancer,” they say:

“I know exactly how you feel, my dog has a sore paw.”

A good friend knows when to listen. They sit quietly holding a box of tissues while you sob out the story about how you found a blond hair on his jacket and don’t insult you by suggesting that it might have come from the cat.

Nor do they launch into a long tirade about the time that they suspected their husband of having an affair because he was always working at late at the office with that tarty blond woman from accounts, the one with six kids by different husbands, but it turned out that he was really working overtime to pay for a romantic trip to Paris for their anniversary because that was where he first proposed several years ago when…. Well, you know the type.

All too often we take our friends for granted, I know that I do.

Recently, when I was struggling to keep everything going and dangerously close to giving up, the phone rang and a familiar voice said: “You sound as if you could use some help. I’ll be right over.”

I would like to say thank you to a true friend.

You know who you are.

Moving a Mountain

2014-04-07T03:15:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, I posted on this blog that my big sis and I were trying to persuade my elderly mother to move out of her house, which is now far too big for her to manage.

She doesn’t want to. It is the place that she moved as a young wartime bride to live her new husband and in-laws. It is where she had her family and we grew up us children. It is where she has laughed, loved and cried. It is the keeper of her memories. It is more than just a house.

In spite of two lengthy spells in hospital and the fact that it is becoming increasingly difficult for her to cope on her own, she refuses to leave her home.

I understand, really I do.

Mum is 90, or thereabouts (she keeps changing her date of birth so we are not sure of her exact age). The next fall could well see her having to go into a home. Unfortunately, there is no room for her at either of our houses (as you know, mine is full of teenagers). As a compromise, we have suggested sheltered accommodation. Mum won’t hear of it.

“They’re trying to put me away you know,” I heard her say to a family friend recently.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

When I was little my mum protected me. She kept me safe and warm and fed. She looked after me and now, I would like to do the same for her.

“Why don’t we just look at some places?” I suggested.

“No! This is my home.”

“If you lived a bit nearer to me, we could all pop in more often and you’ll have company.”

The look she gave me was warning enough to back off.

The strength that I have always admired in her has, in old age, turned into inflexibility and an unwillingness to consider change. You cannot move a mountain. Are we right even to try?

My mother-in-law lives in a self-contained flat in a very well organised, warden controlled senior living complex. There is a canteen where she (and any visitors) can get a low cost hot meal and there is always someone around for a chat when she feels like it. She has her own front door and can close it when she doesn’t. There are trips and quiz nights aplenty.

Mum-in-law is safe and warm and happy. I want the same for my mum.

So, are we wrong in asking her to move?

Maybe, I really don’t know anymore.The truth is that the matter may soon be taken out of our hands and that will be a sad day for us all.

Peer (or should that be ‘beer’?) Pressure

2014-03-31T01:55:00.000-07:00

I have always told my children that they should never give in to peer pressure.

“Don’t be a sheep, think for yourselves, do what you know is right for you,” I say, the platitudes tumbling from my lips.

“Never be drawn into doing something you don’t want to just to appear cool or because other people ask you to.”

You know how it goes…

So, it was with great delight that my daughter, Beth, recently had occasion to recite it all back to me.

If you read my previous post, you will be aware that my family are now following a FODMAP diet (Fermentable, Oligo-, Di-, Mono-saccharides And Polyols – it never gets any easier to explain!), so alcohol is broadly off limits although I do still enjoy the occasional(!) glass of red wine.

This makes social evenings a bit of a challenge, particularly, as some of my friends really like a drink (you know who you are!). Faced with the possibility of a girls’ night out recently, I pondered my options; don’t go, go and deal with the consequences or maybe limit myself to one or two (glasses, not bottles).

“Go out, have a good night… but stay off the booze,” says Beth.

“But… the girls… they won’t… I can’t…”

“You can! It’s simple, no wine.”

“They’re my friends…”

“The they will understand. It’s one night.”

It was hard.

“Come on, one drink won’t hurt… are you sick?… lemonade and what? Ice, no vodka!”

I survived. In fact, it was rather funny being the only one sober (but that’s a whole other story).

I woke up the next day without a headache, no hangover, no bloating, no sick feeling, no upset stomach…

“I’m proud of you mum,” said Beth, as if she were suddenly the parent.

But, here’s the thing; I am well aware that I can say ‘no’. However, when it comes to having a few drinks with my friends, I’m not sure that I always want to. I am capable of making my own choices.

Hopefully, as they get older, so are my children.

Maybe, the time has come to stop lecturing them about what they should and shouldn’t do and trust them more to make their own informed decisions. After all, my husband and I have brought them up to make their choices wisely.

Now where did I put that corkscrew?

Fodmap - Lilly's Story

2014-03-26T09:24:00.000-07:00

Over the years, my family has been blighted with stomach problems.

In the interest of helping others, over the next few weeks, I will share with you our journey back to health.

This is Lilly’s story:

My eldest daughter, Lilly, started having severe stomach pains and blood in her stools at the age of 10. After a lengthy period of diagnosis and several prescriptions for laxatives to cure her ‘constipation’, she had an endoscopy at Great Ormond Street Hospital (GOSH). I received an emergency telephone call one evening after dinner to say that Lilly needed to start taking steroids immediately. She was diagnosed with auto-immune atrophic gastritis.

I remember sitting in front of my doctor the next day in tears as he told me there was no other option if I didn’t want my daughter to face the possibility of having a colostomy bag, live failure, cancer… you name it… in later life.

“What about diet?” I asked. “Could she be reacting to certain foods?”

“It’s possible, but she still needs the drugs.”

Lilly started the steroids and over a very short period of time gained two stone in weight. Her beautiful face was disfigured and she became withdrawn and unhappy.

There followed an extremely difficult time during which Lilly was put on a drug called azathioprine and once this kicked in she was allowed to come off the steroids. It took a year for her to lose weight and even longer to regain her confidence.

I took matters into my own hands, over the next few months, we tried gluten free, diary free, preservative free and every other diet I could find. Some things helped for a while but, by now, her symptoms were being masked by the azathioprine so it was difficult to know what worked and what didn’t.

Several trips to GOSH and many more tests later, Lilly remained on the azathioprine. Six years later, I found a sympathetic consultant who agreed to try and wean Lilly, who was by now a young woman, off the drug. It took another year for that to happen.

She was well for a while but two years later, some of her symptoms returned and we found ourselves back in casualty.

“Do you think she might be constipated?” a nurse asked, as Lilly rolled around in agony.

Here we go again, I thought,

The medical profession shrugged their shoulders and prescribed paracetamol, which was as much use for her condition as it is for childbirth.

Lilly was referred back to the hospital and the round of tests began all over again.

“No, steroids mum,” Lilly insisted, “I’d rather die.”

“No steroids, not this time,” I promised.

Then on a bleak January morning, as I sat opposite yet another consultant with my daughter ready, as always, to fight her corner, he said the word that would change the lives of not only Lilly, but the whole family; Fodmap.

“Fod what?” we asked in unison.

“Fodmap (Fermentable, Oligo-, Di-, Mono-saccharides and Polyols). It’s a very specific diet and it has helped a lot of people like Lilly with persistent stomach problems. Rather than prescribe any more drugs, I’d like her to try it.’

And that’s exactly what we did…

Mum in the Middle is Back

2014-03-11T13:05:00.000-07:00

Not that I have actually been anywhere these past weeks and months.

No, I have been right here busily getting on with all the things that we mums do, it’s just that somewhere along the way, I stopped writing about it all.

However, recent events have drawn me back to the keyboard to share my experiences, so here I am again. To give you a quick update on my life over the past year:

I turned 50

My eldest daughter failed her exams and dropped out of college

Lots and lots and lots of serious conversations about life choices

I found my first grey hair

My mother had a fall and broke her hip

Lots and lots and lots of hospital visits

Consumed lots and lots and lots of wine

I started a writing group at the WI

My eldest daughter dropped back in to college on a different course

Several more grey hairs appeared – finally reached for the dye

My mother went home but can’t cope on her own

Lots and lots and lots of tears

Both of my daughters had stomach problems

Lots and lots and lots more hospital visits

Consumed lots and lots and lots of cake

My writing group published a book in aid of charity

Lots and lots and lots of hard work

The family changed to a FODmap diet

Wine and cake had to stop!

So, as you can see, there is a lot to write about.

Join me as I try to keep all the balls in the air and strive for a saner life!

George Michael (and other guilty pleasures)

2012-04-23T05:06:00.001-07:00

I am a big fan of George Michael (huge!).

It started way back in the days of Wham! (oh yes) when I would sing along to ‘Club Tropicana’ and admire the awesome duo’s toned abs. And yes, ok, it should have been obvious that Mr Michael wasn’t into girls but no-one had realised that back then – not even George!

Setting aside the cheesiness of Wham! (it was the ‘80s after all), it was obvious that the boy could sing and it was no surprise that over the years he developed into a well-respected international star.

I have always admired the fact that George has met any criticism over his the much-publicised misdemeanours with wit and wisdom. He is the first to admit his mistakes with a ‘this is me, deal with it’ kind of approach. Go George!

In spite of a lifetime spent listening to his music, I have never managed to see George perform live. And then last year, as a surprise, my husband bought two tickets for the Symphonica Tour in London. I was finally going to see my idol…

Along with thousands of other fans, I was devastated to hear that George was so ill and wished him a speedy recovery. It was while I was waiting to find out if he would be well enough to reschedule the tour, that I began researching The George Michael Quiz Book.

It was fabulous to have an excuse to immerse myself in the world of George Michael and to relive all the magical moments of his long career. The book is my personal tribute to the ‘other’ man who has always been in my life and who has accompanied me on my journey through college, marriage, motherhood and beyond, making me happy and sad in equal measure.

As far as ‘guilty’ pleasures go, George Michael is up there with white chocolate ice cream and Baileys (preferably together).

I'm counting the days until October…..

All’s fair in love and chocolate

2012-04-09T06:48:00.003-07:00

This Easter, as always, our children kept up the tradition of seeking out the bounty hidden around the house by the Easter bunny. Although, they are past the age when they believe in the tooth fairy and Father Christmas they are more than happy to revisit their infant days in the annual hunt for chocolate.

In the past, hubbie and I have remained in bed and listened to the happy sounds as they find mini eggs and other treats hidden in vases, on picture frames and just about everywhere else. Not so this year!

My eldest daughter, who I should point out is nearly 18 and supposedly grown up, got up early and started the search without her younger siblings. Having told her that it was a bit unfair, her bowl of eggs was surrendered and the Easter hunt was restarted.

This time, Lilly raced around filling her own bowl and leaving none for her sister and brother. Now, we have always had a rule that in the interest of family harmony, they divide up the bounty like they do at Halloween, but Lilly wasn’t in the mood to share.

“It’s not fair,” she protested. “I found the chocolate so I should get to keep it.”

My middle daughter, the diplomat, shrugged her shoulders and said that she had more than enough chocolate anyway whilst my son, not usually given to violent behaviour, hit his eldest sister over the head with his bowl.

Lilly responded by stuffing a handful of mini eggs into her mouth sending her blood sugar and temper into overload. A full scale riot ensued, shattering the peaceful Easter morning and my dreams of a harmonious, happy start to the day.

Hubbie and I waded into their midst. Eventually order was restored and tempers were sated with enough chocolate to keep them going until next Easter.

Ten minutes later they were all rolling around together on the floor giggling over something stupid on TV. That’s the good thing about it – no matter how old they get or how many times they fall out, underneath it all there is an unbreakable bond bound by love.

Happy Easter.

Away Day

2012-03-06T02:18:00.000-08:00

I recently had a day away from my family.

As it was a school day, my escape had to be planned with the kind of precision that would make the fiercest sergeant major smile. I had pre-packed lunches in the fridge, clean shirts ironed and hanging up, a written timetable for hubbie detailing who had to be where and when and the correct sports kit laid out on my son’s bed ready for later.

In the words of my husband “What could go wrong?”

Half an hour into my journey, I was relaxing on the train with a steaming latte and a good book when my mobile rang.

“You didn’t wake me up. I’ve overslept,” shouted a very grumpy teenage daughter. “Can I have a lift to college?”

“Better ask your Dad, he’s on duty today.”

“Oh, typical! He isn’t even up yet,” came the reply shortly before the line went dead.

I resumed my book and took a sip of my latte. A full twenty minutes elapsed before I received a second call. It was daughter number two.

“I haven’t got any lunch.”

“It’s in the fridge.”

“But we’re in the car.”

“Maybe you could go back for it?”

“No, we’re already late.”

“Ask Dad for some dinner money then,” I said, but she had already hung up.

Happily my son doesn’t yet have a mobile phone, so I knew he couldn’t phone me, even if there was a problem. He’ll be alright, I said to myself, they all will, stop worrying.

But as someone wise once said: “As soon as you become a mum you will be anxious for the rest of your life.”

I phoned my husband.

“Is everything alright?” I asked.

“Of course it is. Do you think we can’t cope without you?”

Well, yes, actually, I thought, but I didn’t say it.

Several hours and many miles later, I received a call from my friend asking why my son wasn’t at football practice.

I phoned home again. Father and son were happily playing on the PS3, sports practice forgotten along with dinner, so it appeared from the subsequent calls from my daughters.

“Fish and chip shop,” I suggested helpfully, having missed my train home to answer my mobile.

“No money.”

“Ask Dad, he’s in charge today.”

“But mum,” she said, “He’s fast asleep on the sofa.”

Guess the day had just proved too much for him! Poor dear.

Getting a Life

2012-02-12T09:06:00.000-08:00

The older I get, the more aware I become of the passage of time. Of course, there are daily reminders; the fact that my ‘baby’ reaches up to my shoulder and my eldest is learning to drive, not to mention every time I catch sight of myself in the mirror or how tired I feel now at the end of the day. Things will continue to change and move on around me; my children will all grow up and leave the nest, I will get more wrinkles and aches and pains. These things are a part of life but all that said, in my head I still feel 21 – well, maybe not quite 21 but certainly no older than 30.

There are still so many things that I want to do or haven’t achieved and I have realised that there is no longer any point in putting off until tomorrow, life is too short. I made the conscious decision last year to make the most of life and say ‘yes’ more often than I say no.

Having joined the fantastic WoSWI (Westcliff-on-Sea WI) I have made some wonderful friends, developed new interests and started a writing group. Now that we live so close to the sea, I have begun walking – good for the figure and the soul – all we need now is a dog (watch this space, I think it might just happen!). I have rediscovered my love of theatre; the buzz of going to see some small obscure production and the thrill when it turns out to be a little gem.

I have been working hard (perhaps a bit too hard) at times and have had a couple of exciting writing commissions and am brim-full of ideas for future projects. In the past, I have often thought ‘I can’t do that’ whereas I now tend to think ‘of course you can, why not?’

I am naturally cautious my nature, I tend to stop and think (sometimes I wish I had some of my daughter’s personality) when I should just dive in. Like most people, there are opportunities I wish I had taken up and there are times I nearly took fright and ran but stayed with it. Almost without exception, I have never had cause to regret the things I found the courage to do, only the opportunities I missed.

So before I get any older and less able (I look at my own mother who has been independent and active but has had to curtail many activities recently) I shall continue to keep saying ‘yes’ to life and trying new things, even when (or, particularly when) they scare me.

I have been so busy doing things lately that I haven’t managed to find the time to write about them and this blog has been sadly neglected but then maybe that’s a good thing – I have achieved what I set out to do – live more!

'tis the season

2011-11-08T03:22:00.000-08:00

I know, it’s a bit early (for me anyway) but it will be here before we know it. Only 46 days (apparently) until the big day.

Time then for 40 (plus) days and nights of frantic, planning, shopping and stocking up on enough food to feed an entire football team for a month. Let the madness begin!

Reading the excellent http://ivegotadrillandimnotafraidtouseit.blogspot.com made me break out in cold sweat as I realised that I had completely forgotten about the Christmas cake this year. I make a huge one every year which I share with my mother, sister and mother-in-law. Bearing in mind that all three of the aforementioned ladies are retired, I’m not sure why the task still falls to a working mother-of-three who has moved house recently, but there you have it!

So, I dug out my faithful old recipe (as Paula says everyone has their favourite – mine comes from Good Housekeeping circa 1992) and set about shopping for ingredients, overlooking the fact that this is the only time of year that Sainsbury’s sells out of glace cherries.

Several (OK, two) trips later, I had everything needed to bake that cake (except of course, the time to do it).

I would like to say that as I write, the cake is cooling in the kitchen and I am relaxing with the first festive sherry of the season (the only time of year it touches my lips – ugh! I tend to forget what it tastes like in the months in between), with a smug expression and a smut of flour on each cheek. However, this is not the case. The cake has still to be baked and family honour upheld.

Whilst, I was trying to pinpoint a day to bake, my sister rang to remind me that I promised to go Christmas shopping with her and my mother. I wrote last year about the joy of family Christmas shopping trips so I won’t repeat myself here, only to say that I will probably need more than one sherry afterwards!

Then he-who-has-never-written-a-Christmas-card-in-his-life (aka hubbie) kindly reminded me of the need to get the cards done early this year so that we can include a change of address.

And up and down the country, relatives are plotting about who is coming for Christmas and for how long. I have little say in this and await instructions (swiftly followed by the ‘which grannie is going to have whose room’ argument) but when they all arrive I will smile valiantly and make sure that I am well stocked up on trifle (a good use of the rest of the sherry when I remember that I don’t actually like it).

With the risk of sounding more and more like that well-known Dickens character, I should add that I do enjoy Christmas and no doubt in years to come when I pass the organisational responsibility on to my children (I wonder, will they invite me?), I will miss the days when I was the one at the heart of everything.

Or maybe not!

Friends and Neighbours

2011-09-21T07:12:00.000-07:00

As you know, I have moved house recently.

It took us about 18 months to secure our lovely house by the sea but, finally, we are in. On the first day here our new neighbours popped round with a card and a huge box of chocolates (there goes the diet again!). In fact, I have probably had more conversations with the couple next door in a month than I had with my last neighbours in ten years and I thank them for making us so welcome.

It started me thinking how we are often too busy to pass the time of day with those who live around us and it is a great shame. My mother knew everyone in the street where I grew up (she had lived there for years and still does) and I can remember that everyone was always popping in and out of each other’s houses. These days so many of us don’t even know who lives next door, let alone the entire road.

Another happy side effect of moving house has been the number of people who have dropped by to see us. No matter how many boxes we have had to unpack or rooms to paint, we have stopped what we are doing and reached for the kettle (ok, yes, more often it has been the corkscrew!). In the past, I have frequently had to cancel lunch dates and other social engagements because I have just been too busy but moving has given me the perfect excuse to make time for the people who matter. As a working mum with three children, our schedule is always hectic but it is important to take time out for friends and it is all easy to forget that.

It has been a very sociable and enjoyable few weeks. We had to deal with the inevitable leaky taps, squeaky floorboards and, in our case, five hundred spotlights, as we discover the house’s little quirks but it has been made easier by the kindness of friends and family who have fed my children, packed and unpacked boxes and (my sister, bless her) scrubbed out the oven.

I would like to say that life will carry on this way but already, as the new term starts, I am finding myself pressured by the school run, work deadlines and the practicalities of family life, as well as trying to find time to wield a paintbrush.

I can only say that I will try.

New Horizons

2011-09-07T09:11:00.000-07:00

It is a time of change for my family.

Not only have we moved house recently, but each of my children is embarking on a new stage in their lives.

Having achieved good grades in her GCSEs (it was touch and go at times!) my eldest daughter has just started an A level course at college.

My middle child is just beginning her GCSEs and is excited at the prospect of studying subjects she has chosen.

And my son is now in year 6 as we begin the process of looking at a suitable secondary school for him (excellent sporting facilities will feature high on the list of priorities).

It is incredible to me how quickly the years have gone by and how fast they have grown up. What happened to those baby years? Having a growing family brings different challenges from their younger years. I worry more when they go out and spend a fortune on petrol ferrying them around (rather that than they travel home alone!). But I feel privileged to watch them grow into the unique individuals they are becoming, each with their own strengths and talents.

I am aware too, that before long they will be ready to leave the proverbial nest. Lillie will be 17 in a month’s time and what seemed like a distant point in the future is looming ever nearer. This is as it should be and I will be only too happy to see them fulfil their potential and go out into the world.

I told my daughters recently that if lived well, a life should never be static but consist of lots of progressive stages. It almost feels as if I have lived several different ‘lives’ but each one was appropriate at the time and I regard change as exciting.

As we all settle into our new home and my children each begin a new phase in their own lives, it is good to reflect on how far we have already travelled on the huge adventure that is family life - and how far there is still to go.

The Big Move

2011-08-12T02:16:00.000-07:00

I am in the process of moving house.

Ten years worth of accumulated junk is being sorted and packed into boxes to move a couple of miles across town.

There are advantages and disadvantages. I will be nearer to my mother who still stubbornly refuses to consider moving herself, although the days of having the luxury of choice are quickly disappearing and I fear for her future. On the down side, it is further away from schools and my youngest child will need driving to school for at least the next year until he takes the next step up to secondary education.

I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, we could do with a fresh start but on the other, I have been here a long while - this is the longest I have lived anywhere since leaving home.

My husband has always hated this house and it has never been lucky for us. The house has a troubled history and it has always felt uneasy living here. I have never experienced that warm feeling when entering the house that says you are glad to be home.

In the early days of living here, a lot happened that remains unexplained that led us to having the house ‘cleared’. It is much better these days but the feeling of an energy that exists outside of the family still lingers. There is one room in particular that always makes me shiver and no one can sleep in. If I am honest, this house has just never worked for us and it will be a relief to leave.

Financial and other restraints have prevented us from making the move before and much as my sane and rational side says that bricks and mortar cannot influence your future, psychologically a move should be beneficial to all of us.

However, ten years is a long time and my youngest son has known no other home so there are a lot of memories here but I believe you carry these with you rather than leave them behind.

I think it can be good for children to know that you can make a change and it will be alright. I have made some big moves in my own life and they have always turned out to be for the best.

Everyone should move every few years in any case, if only to clear out the junk!

This will be another chapter in our lives, a new beginning, and although the next house is smaller, I am looking forward to being two minutes away from the beach. I can look out of my front window and stare at the sea. Inspiring stuff for a writer.

It is perhaps fitting that I have just published an eBook, dedicated to the town I now live in (http://www.apexpublishing.co.uk/pubdetails.aspx?Num=267).

We move next week. I am ready (well almost!).

On friendship

2011-07-12T06:22:00.000-07:00

“Why would she do that?” my daughter asked about a so-called friend who had been messing around with another girl’s boyfriend.

“She’s supposed to be a friend.” The old cliché ‘all’s fair in love and war’ came to mind but the simple truth is that girls can be heartless when it comes to affairs of the heart, and ever was it so.

Years ago, when I was not much older than my daughter, I can remember my best friend at the time taking up with my boyfriend and the first I knew of it was when I turned up at his house and she opened the door. I cried for about a week and cut them both out of my life. I moved on to a better relationship and he did the same thing to her six months later. I forgave her and she remains to this day, one of my closest friends.

I’d like to tell my daughter that relationships, with girls as well as boys, improve as you get older but I have found that grown women can be every bit as devious, calculating and unpleasant as my daughter’s (ex) friend. Millie nearly fainted from shock when I told her that I could count my true friends on one hand. For someone, like herself with in excess of 1,000 ‘friends’ on Facebook the idea that I should admit to having so few seemed inconceivable.

Yes, I know a lot of people. I have a lot of acquaintances. I am in touch with people from school, university, work and the school run. I am on speaking terms with our neighbours and I know my children’s friends’ parents well enough to pass the time of day. But my true friends, who I could call on if need be, at any time of the night or day, remain in single figures.

I tried to explain: “You meet many people on your journey through life, some stay with you for a time, others fall by the wayside fairly quickly, but only a few will travel with you until the end.”

Millie didn’t really understand and I didn’t expect her to. Even though we have moved house and she has changed schools and knows all about ‘moving on’, she still expects the people she is friendly with now to be in her life in 10, 20 or 50 years time. And, just maybe, one or two of them will be.

I can count my true friends on one hand (well, maybe two) and my hope for my daughter is that she is able to say that when she reaches my age because the passage of time reveals those who truly are our ‘best friends’.

Growing Pains

2011-05-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

When my children were babies, I will admit that I sometimes found it tough. The constant round of changing nappies, washing and feeding combined with lack of sleep and limited free time, meant that I often looked forward to the future when they would be more independent.

Now that they are older and able to go out on their own, I have different concerns, from reckless drivers to paedophiles, not to mention alcohol, drugs and (in the case of my teenage daughters) boys! I now realise that whatever their age, the worry never ends. Being a parent means that you are destined to be anxious for the rest of your life.

I still want to keep them safe but I also recognise the fact they also need to go out in the world, experience life for themselves and make their own mistakes.

There is no short circuit or quick fix. And no amount of trying to instil in them what you have learned in life is going to help. As parents, we can advise them but they have to work things out for themselves.

Sometimes, this hurts. You, as much as them. None of us wants to see our children go down the wrong path or make bad decisions but sometimes all we can do is stand by and let them find out for themselves. And be on hand to pick up the pieces when things do go wrong of course!

My eldest daughter has caused us many sleepless nights already and I am sure that she, and her siblings, will continue to do so.

But I am a great believer that given the right upbringing and influences, no matter how far they stray off the path, they will find the right way eventually.

So, whilst it is difficult to send the children you have nurtured and cared for off into the unknown, you have to let them go.

And if we have done our job well, hopefully they will come back. Stronger, happier, more independent and capable people.

Boys will be boys

2011-04-28T07:27:00.000-07:00

It is an established fact that boys are different to girls.

Ok, moving away from the obvious, I mean given the same parents, upbringing and influences, boys will generally seek out more masculine pursuits than girls.

This is, perhaps, why my 10 year old son has injured himself for the third time in as many weeks.

Firstly, it was his arm, the result of getting stuck in a tree –happily he escaped with wounded pride on having to be rescued, but no broken bones.

Then he hurt his foot during the final match of the season (Achilles tendon to be precise – which has blighted the careers of more than one professional footballer). This not only put him out of the second half (luckily his team still won) but curtailed all sporting activities for a fortnight.

This week, having returned to full health (and school), he slipped on the newly laid Astroturf and hurt his back resulting in him being immobilised for a further two days.

Then there is his collection of (toy!) guns. When my son was born, after two girls, vowed that I would never let him play with guns. This went out of the window very shortly after his second birthday when it became apparent that if we weren’t prepared to buy him the aforementioned toy, he would improvise with whatever came to hand. We relented and he now has a Nerf arsenal worthy of a small arms dealer. (I should add that my son remains one of the most gentle boys I know and would not intentionally harm so much as a spider.)

Added to this is the sheer joy he gets from taking things apart to see how they work, even though he has long since found out that they don’t always go back together again! Lately, he has come to the conclusion that the toy manufacturers don’t always deliver and he has started designing his own games, cars and toys (ok, yes, guns too!). We have diversified from Lego and Meccano into elaborate creations handcrafted from wood and metal. If the football career doesn’t play out(!), I can foresee a career as a designer.

My girls love shopping, my son hates it. I have just taken him on the bi-annual trip into town to buy enough shorts, t-shirts and sandals to see him through the summer months. A similar trip takes place in the autumn.

My daughters have inherited their parents’ love of books whilst their brother has just enough attention for a Simpsons comic.

The girls like rom-coms, he prefers action thrillers.

I could go on. The last month of injuries has confirmed what I always thought to be true; boys are definitely different to girls.

And as the doctor said when I presented him with the latest injury: "Boys will always be boys."

(Not so) green fingers

2011-04-15T04:22:00.000-07:00

A strange event occurred last weekend. I decided to try and turn the abandoned wasteland at the rear of our house into a garden.

Now, anyone who knows me will, at this point, be laughing loudly. I am not known for my ability with plants. In fact, no matter how hard I try to look after them, watering, pruning, feeding and yes, even talking to them encouragingly, they eventually repay my kindness by dying.

Knowing that we are not the best when it comes to gardening, hubbie and I have opted for the safe approach; a large grassed area we call a lawn. It actually doubles as my son’s football pitch which is perhaps why it is rutted and full of holes for most of the year.

The remainder is what could best be described as a cottage garden; or weed patch to the uninitiated!

But every now and then I have the urge to create something beautiful to look at through the window.

So, last weekend found me weeding and mowing and raking and planting. Yes, planting. I even dragged hubbie to the garden centre where we spent a pleasant afternoon marvelling at the ability of others to grow things.

I carefully selected the unlucky plants that would be coming home with me. The cost of it all nearly had me heading for the nearest park under the cover of darkness – they surely wouldn’t miss a few!

Back home, my plants looked pathetically inadequate to fill the space they had been chosen to occupy but I am told that they will grow!

Several rubbish sacks (yes, I know that the bin men won’t take them away if there is even one twig sticking out – I sent hubbie to the tip) and one bad back later, I was pleased to find that we still had an ornamental fence underneath the undergrowth.

I scrubbed weather worn containers and planted geraniums and pansies and one or two other things that promised to grow well with the minimum of care.

By Sunday night, I was pleased with my handiwork.

Now if it will just stay that way until this time next year, everything in the garden will, as they say, be just rosy!

Has anyone seen my mother?

2011-03-28T03:02:00.000-07:00

Some days I wonder where my mum has gone. Not in the physical sense – I know exactly where she is, in the same house that she has lived in for the past 65 years (and steadfastly refuses to leave).

No, I mean in the sense that the direct (some would say rude), immovable and inflexible old lady I am frequently presented with bears no resemblance to the patient, kind, smiley woman who brought me up.

In recent years, my lovely mum has become a Jekyll and Hyde character and more often than not these days, Hyde wins the day.

Never one to shy away from speaking her mind, she now does so at the top her voice in the most public and inappropriate places. Like at a family dinner, when she ‘whispered’ to me that the lady at the next table really shouldn’t be having desert and it was no wonder she was so fat!

I know that everyday life is becoming increasingly tough for her…

Her limbs have started to stiffen and simple tasks that she once took for granted have become increasingly difficult, painful even. I watch these changes in my mum and realise that we are all powerless against the will of Mother Nature.

Happily, my mum has always been in sound mind but just recently there has been a subtle change. She is a little bit more forgetful than usual and doesn’t remember things I told her yesterday. On other occasions, she tells me that same thing several times and gets annoyed when I point out that she really doesn’t need to phone me ten times a day to tell me about great aunt Bertha’s varicose veins.

I do try to understand things from her perspective but it is hard to support someone who is so prickly all the time, a bit like trying to cuddle a porcupine.

I know that, for her, the world has become a difficult place and my once fiercely independent mother would suddenly rather stay at home than venture out in it. Opportunities that she would have jumped at in the past are viewed as a series of obstacles to be overcome and are just too much trouble. And I can’t print her response to my suggestion that I get a wheelchair so that I can take her out more easily – you can imagine!

And yet, on other occasions, we still have a laugh together, mum and me. So I know that she is still there – the woman from my childhood. Sometimes these days, I just have to look a bit harder to find her.

Jerusalem - without the jam!

2011-03-14T09:01:00.000-07:00

There have been some changes in my life recently and, surprisingly, one of the smallest has had the biggest impact. My son, and youngest child, has started walking to and from school on his own. This leap of independence in his life has had a surprising effect on mine. I didn’t appreciate how much I relied on the school run to meet and interact with other parents. As I predominantly work from home, playground conversation provided a link to the outside world.

Realising that action needed to be taken before I started talking to the walls, I looked for new ways of meeting other like-minded individuals. Having heard rave reviews about a new branch of the WI, I was intrigued to find out how this well established (some might say old fashioned) organisation could work for a modern generation of women.

So on a cold Thursday evening, I took the first steps towards my brave new life and walked into a room full (and I kid you not, there were well over a hundred people) of women I had never met. I expected to spot maybe one or two familiar faces in the crowd, but quickly realised that I was on my own. Rather than crying into my glass of wine (yes, wine was on offer as well as tea!) I sought out the nearest friendly face and struck up a conversation. The experience was incredibly liberating.

Having just been to see Calendar Girls the stage show, images of flower arranging and jam making were fresh in mind (taking their clothes off aside). And my first experience of the WI was both exactly like this and yet completely opposite. Sarah Mills, the resourceful and engaging founder of this new branch of the WI (www.westcliffwi.co.uk) has done a truly marvellous job of fusing tradition with modernity.

I must admit that as everyone stood up to sing Jerusalem, I experienced a moment of panic, with scenes from the iconic show still uppermost in my thoughts. I fully expected someone to start lecturing on the merits of purple sprouting broccoli. Fortunately there was none of that.

What I found was a group of women of all ages and from different walks of life chatting happily with one another, everyone from grandmothers to young singletons. It was lovely to see different generations interacting and it was impossible not to be drawn in and make friends. The established members went out of their way to make myself and the other newbies welcome.

With a range of activities on offer to suit all tastes from knitting to photography, there is something for everyone. And so far no one has even mentioned jam.

Would I recommend the WI to other women? Most definitely yes. What I experienced was women at their best, being themselves, away from the responsibilities of family and working life, supporting good causes and, equally importantly, one another.

And just to ensure that I don’t completely forget the true ethos of the WI, you will be pleased to learn that I have just signed up to bake a batch of cakes for the upcoming humble jumble.

Who cleans the loo in your house?

2011-03-03T10:26:00.000-08:00

A recent survey revealed that although many women with families also hold down jobs, the majority of domestic chores still fall to them. This does not surprise me in the slightest for in my own experience, even when our partners are well intentioned they still fall short of the mark.

I have often been grateful that my husband can cook and even admit that he is really good at rustling up a nutritious meal out of next to nothing, the only down side being the state of the kitchen when he has finished. And we are talking mess on a grand scale here, not just a few items left lying around. At the risk of sounding ungrateful (which I’m not) I often think it might have been simpler to do the job myself rather than have to spend ages clearing up afterwards.

To be fair, hubbie has tried to amend his untidy ways over the years, but the fact remains that if it was left to him, the house would be in utter chaos. Maybe (as he has suggested) I worry too much about a bit of mess but if it were left to him, I am certain that the toilet would never get cleaned. He doesn't mean to be negligent, it just wouldn't occur to him.

So, I wonder what would happen if for just one week I stopped doing things. Would anyone even notice?

Who would:

Put a new toilet roll on the holder when the old one runs out?

Hang up wet towels.

Do the washing.

AND the ironing.

Put the newly laundered clothes away.

Make sure everyone had the right kit on the right day.

Get them to their chosen activities.

AND bring them home again.

Organise the shopping.

Prepare and cook meals

AND clear up afterwards.

Hoover the carpet and sweep the floors.

Change the beds.

Do the dusting.

Clean the bathroom.
AND the toilet.

The list is endless. Maybe, if I just stopped being responsible for all these chores my family would learn to do things for themselves.

Or maybe not!

What do you think?

Girl Talk

2011-02-11T06:52:00.000-08:00

‘A daughter may outgrow your lap, but she will never outgrow your heart.’

I have heard it said that we lose our daughters for a time during their teenage years but that if we keep the door open, they will come back to us.

My eldest daughter is 16 and we have had our fair share of dramas since she became a teenager but I have always tried to keep the lines of communication open, even when I could have happily strangled her. We have had tears, tantrums and disappointments but we have, on the whole, kept talking.

Lillie has often been moody, uncooperative and, at times, completely unrecognisable from the angelic little girl I loved as a child but every now and then I catch a glimpse of the woman she will become.

Relationships have been ill stared in our house this week and Lillie has had an ongoing argument with the LTB (long term boyfriend). In spite of the slamming doors, late night calls and red eyes, I have been largely unaware of the source of the problem. Until yesterday.

Seeing that she was unhappy, I took a cup of tea and some chocolate biccies up to her room, expecting to leave her to it but she wanted to talk. And I listened.

We sat for over an hour discussing relationships and life in general. Gone was the unpredictable teenager we had been living with for the past week and in her place was a sensible, intelligent young woman who was dealing with things in a mature way.

We ended up giggling on her bed and it felt like spending time with a close friend.

This morning, Lillie was back to stomping around her bedroom and scowling. The moment had passed.

But I have looked into the future and there is reason to be optimistic.

Moving on!

2011-02-01T07:01:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I started a conversation with my mother, one that we have been having on and off for a long time.

“Have you thought anymore about moving?” I asked her casually.

“Yes, I have,” she replied. “And no, I don’t want to.”

But we have reached a point where it is impractical for her to live alone in a house that is far too big for her and even she realises that. The time has come to review the options, which are:

1. Continue to struggle on her own until such time as she is forced to move (possibly resulting in another hospital stay or going into a home);

2. Move in with either myself or my sister, or,

3. Consider some kind of sheltered accommodation.

Option 1, whilst undesirable from her daughters’ point of view, is the one that my mum is clinging on to. She hopes to stay in the family home until the day she dies and I understand that, I honestly do.

We are in the final throes of moving house, and I have to admit to being apprehensive. We have lived in our house for over a decade, by far the longest I have lived anywhere since being a child, and it will seem strange to move on. I can’t imagine how frightening it must be for my mother, who has been resident in the same house for 60 plus years, to make such a big change.

I have thought very hard about option 2, and aside from the difficulties of multi-generational living, I cannot see it working from a practical point of view. I have three children and even after the move, we won’t have a spare bedroom. Mum can’t manage the stairs in any case and our new house has less downstairs rooms (although bigger) than we have now.

Which brings us to option 3. My mother tends to equate sheltered accommodation with living in a care home (akin to shacking up with the Devil) and I know from the experience of my mother-in-law (MIL) that it is not the same thing at all. It is communal living (MIL is rarely short on company) but with your own front door and there is always someone on hand in an emergency. But how do I convey this to a stubborn 86 year old woman?

We have been rolling around in this particular issue for quite a while and with each day that passes, finding a solution becomes a bit more pressing.

Yesterday, there was light at the end of the tunnel. Mum did admit to seeing the sense in taking a look at the possibilities.

It is a small start, but one on which I am hoping she can begin to build a new life.

Cake, glorious cakes

2011-01-18T13:07:00.000-08:00

The last thing that I should be doing after the excesses of Christmas is making cakes but as the whole family was suffering from the January blues last weekend, it seemed like a good way to cheer everyone up.

Beth was extremely pleased with the One Hundred Muffin Recipes cookbook that she received as a present and was keen to start baking. So, we donned our aprons and spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon weighing flour, beating eggs and trying out some of the weird and wonderful flavour combinations suggested in her book.

We whipped up a batch of sticky toffee swiftly followed by another of spicy carrot cake. The kitchen was soon full of the aroma of freshly baked muffins. Judging by the speed with which our offerings were wolfed down by the rest of the family, the cakes tasted every bit as good as they looked.

Inspired this early success, we went on to make a tray of chocolate and marshmallow muffins, at which point we were enthusiastically joined by Josh. The cakes emerged from the oven looking moist and plump and totally delicious, resulting in two very happy children.

I have always found baking to be therapeutic and a good way to wind down a stressful week. Beth, who has been struggling to recover from a virus, clearly felt the benefit and was more animated than she has been for some time and even Josh had eventually tired of shooting at things on the games console.

So, in spite of the new laptop, PS3 and other unspeakable time guzzling horrors that have entered the house over the festive season, the thing that has brought the most pleasure recently, is an afternoon spent making cakes.

Now, if only they were as enthusiastic about clearing up after themselves, life would be just about perfect!