I may have briefly mentioned that we recently dropped Youngest off at University.
Well, that is not strictly true as she actually flew on a 10 hour flight alone to her university, but we dropped her at the airport.
At that time Eldest was still in residence finishing off a summer job and Middlest was about, in between various trips and activities, so we returned to a fullish house.
Then we ourselves flew on the same 10 hour trip to settle Youngest in her permanent dorm after her month of a nomadic lifestyle half way across the world.
When we returned 10 days later Eldest and Middlest had decamped back to university, and our nest was finally empty.
It has been a week and a half. It has been OK. But the oddest thing to get used to is the silence.
We have had years of loosely contained chaos. Noise. Madness.
And that has stopped.
So I do find myself laughing out loud at podcasts and ‘turning on the TV for company’.
I spent a lot of their childhoods counting the hours until 7pm, when they were finally all asleep. Or when they were teenagers relishing those times everyone was out at various places and I was at home.
Now I have that luxury all the time. And I miss the chaos.
Recently Youngest (as the name suggests, my last child) has moved to Canada to study and play football.
There is a whole lot to unpack in there. Empty nest syndrome (although Eldest and Middlest are currently in residence on their summer uni breaks). The mother daughter bond. Losing one of my best friends. Suddenly having time. The outrageous levels of admin required to move abroad, even temporarily.
But now is not the time for those. Maybe over the months to come I will pen thoughtful, moving pieces along those lines. They may help others. Or just be self indulgent. Or boring.
But so far one of the hardest things to deal with is the time difference. She is 8 hours behind us here. So my days have taken on a new pattern.
She is asleep when I wake up. If I wake up at a normal time. And she is surfacing around 3 to 4pm our time. Luckily for me she is an early riser.
Yesterday she called me as she was making breakfast and I sat propped up on the kitchen counter and after the breakfast bar, as she chewed an egg sandwich and the cud (with me). Before I knew it an hour and her washing up had passed. It was almost like she was here. I could nag (gently remind) her to take her iron. We gossiped and other than the lack of her physical presence it was not dissimilar to our usual breakfast routine, except I was missing Pointless (happy to by the way, it’s not the same without Richard Osman).
Then she disappears to training, or out with her new friends, or on an admin errand to a bank or mobile phone shop. Once she starts classes I am not sure she will have that hour. So I am making the most of that now.
Sometimes she is free mid afternoon and we have a chat as I am just about to go to sleep.
And I have now realised that if I get up about 6am I can wish her goodnight. And also catch up on any messages sent over my night (her day). Like today when the bank need a birth certificate, which is in the filing cabinet here. And provide some reassurance.
The up shot of all this is that I am going to bed later and waking earlier.
So currently the mornings here feel a bit like a desert. Once my other 2 ship back to uni it will just be me arising, rattling round this house. So I need a new routine. I am sure it will come, as humans we are creatures of habit. It will probably involve Wordle.
I’ll just touch on the other stuff. I miss her like crazy, as I did my boys when they left. But I am also immensely proud of what she has taken on at the tender age of just 18. Inspirational.
I’ll start this post with a disclaimer… I am not an economist. Or given usually to political statements. But the world is f##ked, so hey whatever.
I am fundamentally left wing. I always have been. Since I was a student voting tactically in my first ever general election to try to oust the sitting Tory MP. (That failed by the way). Probably before. My parents read the Guardian.
I was lucky enough to be a student in the times of grants and free higher education and (can you believe this) Housing Benefit. I had a comfortable up bringing. Not luxurious but comfortable. I have never been stuck for the sake of £100. I have a family that can support me if needed.
My kids have the same. More so. They are incredibly lucky.
And the thing that annoys me more than anything else at the moment is that no electable party will stand up and do the decent thing and admit that income tax needs to rise.
How have we become a nation so determined to hold onto every piece of wealth (for being able to make ends meet and have a car, phone, TV, food is wealth) at the expense of everything else?
At the expense of people worse off than us.
At the expense of foreign aid (but then hey don’t come here either…)
At the expense of national security.
At the expense of our ability to actually carry on living on this planet.
How is it right that celebrities can go into space for 11 minutes and spout utter nonsense whilst people are starving?
What have we become.
And yes, there are always people hit worse by changes in tax. The squeezed middle. I’d rather be squeezed there than as a disabled person on benefits or a migrant from a war torn country whose crops have failed due to our fossil fuel burning, or as a child in care, or as someone waiting 24 months for a routine operation, or as a victim waiting for their time in court, as a pensioner sitting in the cold, or a family in temporary accommodation, or even a teenager trying to get a driving test.
We need to wise up. And pay for what is needed. Most people won’t even notice 1p or 2p on income tax.
It’s fairest. It’s easiest. And it just needs doing.
When we moved in, in 2015, the front garden was a lawn, with a row of very large conifers behind a 3ft wall flanking the pavement. It was dark and had a couple of shrubs in it, which didn’t do all that well.
About 8 years ago we had the conifers and wall taken out and the lawn removed. We made the gravel drive larger (planning ahead for 3 plus cars, what a great move that was) and turned the rest over to a large (and I mean large) bed.
Since then I have been tending it religiously. I started with 4 trees, three shrubs, some grasses and a few perennials. I also planted some bulbs and scattered some wildflower seed in one area.
Over time it has matured pretty well. I lost some stuff and other stuff has gone mad, but generally it is doing OK.. a bit wild but sort of under control. (That may be wishful thinking on my part).
Some years some stuff does very well, and some doesn’t. Last year, the rudbeckia loved the wet spring, the salvias hated it, and this year the reverse is true. In any condition the ox eye daisies and nigella (I prefer it’s common name, Love in the Mist) always do well…. because they are thugs and prolific self seeders. The verbena bonaseiris also always do well (and are my favourite plant ever).
However, it isn’t an easy garden to manage. My main issue is that I garden on heavy clay. We added some top soil at the beginning, and I allow the tree leaves to lay each winter to rot down, and I add compost when planting. But it is basically still clay.
And so it is either a wet, sticky mess or rock hard.
After a specific quantity of rain, it has a sweet spot were it is workable, but one milliliter over and its a sticky mess and one milliliter under, it’s rock hard.
Last year we were in a sticky mess. The spring was so wet. The garden looked green and lush, however, although a lot of stuff was badly eaten by the army of slugs. What is the collective name for a lot of slugs? Munch? Slither? Plague? Whatever the word, there was a hell of a lot of them.
This year the spring has been bone dry. And my ground is rock hard. There are no slugs that I can see! Bonus. I have had to water all my new stuff (sweet peas, some more salvias, three hardy gerberas, some sedums, and two hellebores). These were planted earlier in the season in that sweet spot I mentioned. The ground was damp after winter but not a total sticky mess.
Anyway, this year I have grown some half hardy annuals; cosmos, sunflowers and zinnias.
They have been on my front room windowsill for a couple of months and I have been hardening them off for what seems like forever.
Firstly, the overnight temperature went down to 3 degrees last week. In May. Not good for my tender plants!
And then I was waiting for rain, in the hope that the ground would soften up a little.
It rained overnight 2 nights ago. So today was the day.
I had about 30 plants to get in the ground. And it has taken me 4 hours.
I ache all over. And even now some of the sunflowers have no support because I can’t get a cane in the ground. I considered a drill at one point, a kind of pilot hole.
Anyway. They are in. And watered. And I have collapsed in a heap.
My Fitbit says I haven’t exercised today. It’s lying!
Today I woke up at 3am in a bit of a sweat. This isn’t unusual for me, seeing as I am a woman of a certain age.
However this time the menopause had nothing to do with it.
My alarm was set for 6.30am, despite it being the school Easter holidays, giving me a break from the usual early wake ups. The alarm was set because Youngest and I had a 10am appointment in London to provide her biometrics (as it turned out all her finger prints and a photo, no swabs required…) at the Canadian Visa office.
The appointment was made by me a while back when I sent her Visa application in. I picked a Thursday because there is never football on a Thursday. There wasn’t supposed to be football this Wednesday either, but that doesn’t always work out. Friendlies materialise at short notice. So I always schedule stuff for Thursdays.
A few days earlier I realised that my weekly online shop, which is always delivered between 9 and 10 am on a, yes you guessed it, Thursday wasn’t going to work. What with us being in London. Thankfully I was able to move the slot to 4pm…
Then yesterday I planned our train times, factoring in early morning traffic, how full the station car park gets, and the walk from Farringdon to our destination, bought the tickets, argued with Youngest about the early start and went to bed.
At 3am I awoke and remembered that I work on Thursday mornings and hadn’t told my colleagues not to expect me. Which I probably should have.
And this is a classic example of how my brain operates. It compartmentalises. Sometimes with quite difficult consequences.
I think compartmentalising is a useful skill, especially when there is a lot going on and the bigger picture is too large to hold. For fear of ending up gibbering in a corner.
I was speaking to a friend earlier in the week, discussing how exhausting it is to always have to hold everyone else’s emotions. Mothering teens and young adults is like that. Yes, there are logistics (quite mind-blowing at times) and lots of practical assistance required (food, lifts, getting stuff, finding stuff etc etc). But the hardest part is holding all those emotions.
Youngest is going to Canada to study for her degree. At the end of July. It’s a massive and scary step for her. But also a truly amazing opportunity. I have to hold all her worry and concern. And also be relentlessly optimistic and excited for her. Oh, and also provide tons of assistance with the frankly overwhelming amount of admin for it.
When people ask me how I feel about her going, I answer honestly that I have no space for that. That emotion is in a compartment that I will open once she disappears through the security gates at Heathrow.
So for about 20 odd years I have been in Project Management. I didn’t really plan to be (it wasn’t really something one did with a decent science degree) but like many folk I sort of fell into it.
To be honest it mostly suits me. Time management. Attention to detail. Planning. Huge amounts of multi tasking. Diplomacy. Dealing with many other professionals. Negotiating with difficult people. Managing finances. Playing the long game. Crisis management. Endless admin. Learning on the job. Giving love and support to clients and making them feel valued. Event planning. Social engagements Contingency planning. Even catering.
Some areas I have found more difficult. Delegating. Working from home throughout (even pre covid). Managing my stress levels. Keeping my cool and emotional stability. The day to day drudgery. The competitive market.
The pay has been shit. The pension non existent. The company did no appraisals. Holidays were of the busman sort.
But I have absolutely loved the role. It has been the best 20 odd years of my life. Seriously. And I wouldn’t change one single moment. There have been immense highs, proud moments. Laughter. Love. Joy. Fun.
Recently, however, there has been a company restructure. And I have more or less been forced into early retirement. There’s no package. Or party. Or golden handshake. I need to slink off quietly.
There will be bits and pieces left to do and I may get called in on a consultancy basis.
But I need to let that (more than) full time role go. It’s hard to adjust. I need to find more hobbies, expand my social circle. And be happy about it.
Because the outcomes of those 20 odd years are out in the world (or nearly).
So there we have it, that’s my real appraisal. That I have raised amazing people who no longer need me.
There is often a discussion in our house about our favourite month of the year.
We are all clear on the worst month, January, despite two birthdays, closely followed by February. But thereafter we often disagree.
I am not a winter person..at all. I can hold on in a vaguely jolly way until Christmas, bouyed along by the twinkly lights, anticipation and sense of purpose. Even with the offspring growing into adulthood, we are still all together, and enjoy the rituals in the build up and on the day itself.
We have taken to going away to Cornwall straight after to avoid the depression of that dead period between Christmas and New Year. We enjoy a new year’s body board and eat too much left over food and chocolate and play daft games.
But then I have to come home and face the reality of January. For those readers not living in the UK it’s safe to say that the dark, murky days of January; dawn at 9am, dusk by 4pm are difficult. Some people like it. Not many though. In recent years we have had no snow to bring any excitement and it’s often wet and cold and dark..the least appealing combination of British weather.
In late March things pick up a little. There are some early flowers, the clocks change and it stays light for longer. It’s a hopeful month. Early spring can be lovely; crispy and fresh, with little jewels of colour from early bulbs.
But to my mind nothing beats England in May.
There is a burgeoning. Plants seem to grow in front of your eyes. The greens of the new growth are fresh and multi hued. Cow parsley dances in the wind like choruses of tethered ballerinas. Birds sing and sing and sing.
The best May I can remember was in lockdown 2020. I am not sure we have had a May like it before or since. The sun shone nearly every day. Confined to our houses and immediate localities everything I love about May came into sharp relief.
We all had to slow down. Every day on my permitted walk the crops in the fields had grown another inch or two, hawthorn blossomed and turned the air heavy with its rich, musky scent. Bees buzzed madly over my garden of alliums and geraniums and salvia. It felt like nature got a foothold back.
But even in damper versions of May there is a beauty. Rain drops caught on new leaves. The water releasing the smell of warming earth. Snails walking down the pavements.
The light is incredible as we build to the longest day. Nature wears its new clothes with pride and abandon. There is no point trying to tame it, the weed battle is already lost.
Others love high summer, July and August, our traditional holiday months but to me the world is already tiring and dimming.
Autumn has its fans with its colours and mists and bounty.
But for me May has it all. And every year I greet it with the same sense of excitement. And mourn it’s passing.
I have reached that point in life when my nest is emptying. It still has one fledgling, and for her I am very grateful. And the other two migrate back to their home nest on a relatively regular basis (last week being a case in point), and are always very welcome. But those years of us as the four musketeers are over.
I haven’t found it as bad as I thought I might, mostly because Youngest’s sport takes up a lot of time. And also because I try to believe the perceived wisdom.
That perceived wisdom is that a mother should be glad when her offspring fly the nest, because their upbringing has all been leading up to this point. The years of love and care have produced young people equipped to make their own way in world. They were never yours to begin with, they were on loan. Etc.
And I agree with all of that. I am pleased Eldest and Middlest are off in the world smashing it. And that Youngest will soon follow. I am immensely proud of the people they have become. They are wonderful human beings, whom I adore.
But today I went to my hairdressers. I parked in a car park I haven’t really used for a couple of years, because for some reason my car feels wider than it used to and I prefer the overground one now. But I went there today.
I walked from there to the hairdressers through the carpark of the Lidl, and down the alley way to the street. And then it hit me that all those years of my taking them to that same salon for their half termly tag team of haircuts (always preceded by an animated discussion on who was going first), walking from that same car park, down that same alley, followed always by a pizza , were over.
They won’t ask me again what those strange boxes are in that Lidl alleyway. They asked me that every time we made that 6 weekly walk throughout their childhoods and adolescence. First as a genuine enquiry and then as a joke. Every damn time.
Today there’s that small thing that has floored me.
So I have sat down to write this blog and realise it has been over 8 months since my last one. Which is scandalous really. Although I guess no one really cares.
I have been trying to think of reasons why I have not put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard, whatever) and here is the list:
My kids and their friends read these posts. I only discovered that quite recently when a friend of Middlest told me he loved my writing. After the initial flood of pride I did start to panic gently about all the frankly quite revealing stuff I have written over the years, It makes me feel somewhat hamstrung, topic wise. I used to write really quite personal stories about our lives and I am not sure that would be massively appreciated by my offspring as they venture off into the world.
So that leaves me. And I am not all that exciting if I am honest.
We have had a lot of work done on the house. Well I have. My entire summer and autumn were taken up managing workmen and what little non grey hair I had left fell victim. Suffice to say home renovation is not my favourite thing. I find it very stressful and I am not yet over it enough to write that blog, which in any event would be very dull. And basically boil down to: everything took longer than expected, cost more than expected and made me very very tense. Waking up in a cold sweat tense.
Eldest left home. That has taken an enormous amount of adjustment for me and him. No more details. He reads this stuff. As I think I mentioned.
Youngest is playing for a top girls football academy which has put our weekly taxi-ing on a whole new level. We have levelled up taxi driving wise. Level 5. Welcome to Hell.
Middlest and Youngest both have big exams this year
Middlest and Eldest are going through the UCAS process, neither in a straight forward apply to Chemistry, get 5 offers and wait way…. no they have to be difficult and decide to study subjects that require a whole lot more work. Medicine and art if anyone is interested.
I have gone back on mumsnet. Enough said.
There are probably other reasons. But suffice to say the muse has well and truly dried up. I am sure it will come back at some point In the meantime I leave you with this dull snippet. In case you were wondering.
musingsponderingsandrants 
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