musingsponderingsandrants

Parenting, profundities and humour

Tag: personal

Youngest… — July 16, 2015

Youngest…

/sarahsmale/2 Comments

Tomorrow my little girl is 8.

I have actually got no idea where the last 8 years have gone.

It seems like yesterday that she was a tiny, crumpled baby, still to unfurl, nestled snugly, sometimes much to snugly for a hot July, on my chest asleep and content.

I remember before she was born telling myself to enjoy those early days. I knew she was to be my last baby. I knew it would be the last time I would hold a newborn and inhale that just born smell which lasts several days.

I didn’t enjoy my first days with eldest. I was in shock. Completely overwhelmed by the whole experience. I was fumbling around not sure what to do and which way to turn. I read too many books. I got too hung up on doing it all right. I was self conscious and exhausted. I was lonely and unsure how to forge my own path. I got there in the end. But it was a tough road for several months.

When middlest was born the whole birth and early days experience was so different and so much easier that I went the other way and did far too much too soon. I took him to meet friends the day he was born. I ran around after eldest trying to keep everything ‘normal’. Almost inevitably about a week in I ended up in hospital with post partum fever on IV antibiotics and so my early days with him were somewhat marred.  And then he also became quite badly and scarily ill a few weeks later and we had yet another really tough time.

So with youngest I was determined to enjoy those days. Relax. Allow people to help. Do what we felt was best not what the books said. Put her down to sleep on her front if she preferred it. Stay in PJs all day.

And it worked. Those early days with her are some of the happiest of my life. Although in hindsight it all went too quickly I can actually remember some of it going deliciously slowly. Hours listening to music in my newly finished conservatory just holding her and allowing her to sleep on me. Against all ‘that advice’.

She was a joy, not always easy- until we tried that sleeping on her front thing we got hardly any sleep ourselves for five days!- but a joy none the less.

And that is how it has remained. Happy Birthday darling youngest.

End of Term — July 10, 2015

End of Term

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

Today is my children’s last day of term….well I say day it is actually half a day as I need to go back to collect them at 12 noon.

I always have mixed feelings at this time of year.

On the one hand I am immensely looking forward to having them all to myself for a few weeks. I am looking forward to not getting up at 6am. I will not miss the homework. I am excited about my temporary, semi retirement from taxi driving. We will have adventures with friends and family. I will be able to cook meals that take longer than 15 minutes. We are all excited about a family holiday all together somewhere warm and relaxing.

Yes we will still do music practise, I will try to finally help my daughter to learn to tell the time reliably. We will do the occasional times table. But we will also watch far too much TV, play on computers, doss in the garden, do messy craft (I have a yearning to finish off that Belle loom band character which still languishes half done on a loom since youngest and I started it in the last summer holidays) and read books.

We will fall out. I will miss having time to think and write this blog. There will be altercations and contretemps. Siblings will be physically abused, there will be crying and tantrums. My house will descend into even more chaos than usual (husband gird your loins)…

But I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Because on the flip side to the end of term is the fact that another year has slipped away. Almost unnoticed. My children are another year older. Edging inexorably towards adulthood. So these times are precious.

The summer offers a brief moment when the world slows down slightly. A time to really reconnect.

And for that I am eternally grateful.

Manners Maketh the Man — July 5, 2015

Manners Maketh the Man

/sarahsmale/2 Comments

manners-maketh-the-man-2

I drive my children to school. Luckily I share the morning trip with a friend and so I only do the early run one week out of two but I pick up every night, often twice.

The school is on a busy road and I have to turn right out of the driveway to continue my journey home. Lots of people approach the driveway from the left and have to turn in across the flow of traffic.

As we are British a sort of etiquette has developed. If you are approaching from the right and need to turn in left to the driveway you hold up the traffic behind you. Anyone approaching from the left then also holds up their flow of traffic. One car is allowed to turn right out of the driveway, then the car approaching from the left turns in across the flow and finally that person who is coming in by turning left does their manoeuvre. Please keep up.

This does mean the car turning in left has to wait. But in a few minutes- after they have disgorged their offspring, someone else’s offspring, a cello and two violins, four games bags and 4 school bags (that’s probably just me though- is it wrong that I feel a frisson of pride as we execute this?- and only on a Monday)- they will be that car trying to turn out right onto a busy road in rush hour. It is a kind of school run Karma… you give, you receive.

The system works. Mostly. And the reason it sometimes doesn’t work is that some people (one might call them selfish) do not adhere to the rules. And this drives me utterly batty.

Either these other people are new to the school (although that is highly unlikely except in September when an element of leeway is given), stupid (quite possibly, I worked out the turning in/ turning out etiquette within about two days of beginning this school run) or ill mannered.

And if there is one thing I cannot abide is it is bad manners. I am a fairly tolerant person in many ways. I accept that all people are not the same and come with their own unique characters. They will view the world differently to me (I married a Tory supporter for goodness sake) and approach things in a way possibly alien to me. But I believe that one thing should be common to all of us. The ability to be polite.

It begins with the p’s and q’s. My children had this drummed into them from as early as they could speak, and then as quickly as possible progressed from merely adding a please onto a demand to asking in a full sentence beginning ‘Please may I…’. And importantly I speak to my children in the same way. Asking politely and thanking routinely. The first time. I do escalate to demanding once I am ignored a couple of times.

So that is important but it is also a whole host of other things.

Being on time, not pushing into queues, enquiring after people’s welfare, replying when spoken to, smiling at people who are helping us, cashiers, shoe fitters, ticket collectors, sending apologies for any absence, holding doors, allowing other people to go ahead of you (but clearly not in a queue unless, say, I have an entire week’s shopping and they are buying a toothbrush), replying to party invitations within the designated timeframe, dealing with paperwork in a timely fashion. I could find many more I am sure.

Often I get comments in my offsprings’ reports or at parents’ evenings that they are well mannered and polite. It is not something I need to hear. I find it deeply depressing that this makes them unusual enough for it to be commented on.

I don’t know about you but interacting with a polite, well mannered individual, whatever their age, gives me a warm glow. Whilst the opposite leaves me spitting feathers.

Pride Cometh.. — July 2, 2015

Pride Cometh..

/sarahsmale/1 Comment

Feedback-to-kids-google-purnima-e1428658296829

As the more astute of you may have realised by now I am a SAHM… that is parenting forum speak for Stay At Home Mum. It hardly encompasses my role but, hey, that’s a post for another day.

In the days BC (before children) I had a job. Actually it was a career of over a decade in duration. I earned more than my husband. It was really quite high powered and despite constantly feeling like an imposter I was surprisingly good at it. Annually I would fill in those endless, tedious forms about my achievements over the last year and sit in front of a manager- whose only real interest was in my sales results- and receive feedback. And hopefully a bonus and possibly a pay rise. Occasionally over that 12 year period I was promoted which meant a definite pay increase and more people to sit in front of every year and provide feedback to.

And usually if the manager could see past my slight ‘oddness’ – variously described as scruffiness, dislike of networking, lack of killer instinct- I got positive feedback, maybe a few development areas too, but generally a lot of good stuff.

And also I had grateful clients, colleagues who needed me to help them out, managers whose butts I saved.

And I miss it. I miss sitting down a few times a year and being told I was good at something. By someone other than my mother. I miss the cards from clients.  I miss the gratefulness of colleagues.

Now my days are ruled in large part by small people and a house. They are not that good at feedback. Really. So for instance I take it as a positive if the food I provide is eaten by everyone without comment. That is a win. Comments are usually only negative. The abode of course doesn’t speak. It cannot thank me for being dusted. The wall cannot provide gratitude for being painted.

And so the job is long on tedium and drudgery and short on thanks.

Therefore when my off spring achieve something amazing I feel not only the usual mother’s pride but also a slight sense of validation. I know this is wrong. In my heart I know that I am in no way responsible for the wonderful things they achieve. That they are their own people who work hard at something or are just (lucky them) naturally good at something else. But I feel it anyway.

This blog has helped. People like reading it, or so they say! I certainly feel less of a need to post about my children on Face book as a result. (Which incidentally is such a hot topic of debate- I personally love hearing about my friend’s children’s achievements because otherwise how would I know?-but I know opinion is divided).

So there you have it a mostly silent readership is providing that little bit of validation. I will still feel pride at all my kids achieve, who wouldn’t, but maybe I will see those achievements for what they are and not as a reflection of how well I am ‘performing’. And I will just be able to enjoy the moment.

Let’s Not Skirt Around the Issue — June 30, 2015

Let’s Not Skirt Around the Issue

/sarahsmale/3 Comments

ra ra

Today I am wearing a skirt. Those that know me in real life will no doubt be gasping in amazement. I don’t really do skirts. The last time I wore one unreluctantly it looked like that and it was 1983.

I am only ‘doing’ one today as I have just returned from a cervical smear test. I did ask myself if this was something I wanted to air in public (careful with the spelling there Sarah) but as the old smear test is just one of the many ignominies us women have to face why not just share that reality?

The invitations (yep that is how they word them- it stops short of black tie- as if that somehow makes it better) come round alarmingly fast and you sit there with a mounting sense of dread believing the NHS may have made an error in recalling you so quickly. But then you realise that actually, yes, last time you suffered this procedure one of your children wasn’t yet at school and they were sat asking awkward questions from behind the curtain. So although it feels like yesterday when you last chatted about the weather whilst someone slid a metal implement somewhere metal implements have no business being it really was three plus years ago. And so I have decided to just let it all hang out. Again.

Skirts are good for cervical smears. It avoids having to strip off your entire bottom half and with some delicate drapeage one can still believe one is retaining a certain air of delicacy. It’s all an illusion obviously but psychologically it helps.

I realise now that maybe this entry should come with some sort of warning. To be honest this whole piece is probably going to be too much for some of my readers. Mostly the male ones I imagine, especially those who are not yet fathers or those who stayed firmly at the head end during the delivery of their offspring.

You see the cervical smear is a total stroll in the park compared to the total lack of dignity that accompanies childbirth. Until you have had your feet in stirrups with some random doctor trying to repair your reproductive area you can’t say you have reached the bottom, dignity wise. To be honest after the twenty hours it took me to extrude eldest I would have let anyone have a go with that repair just so I could get some sleep…ahh sleep..well of course that didn’t happen. What? a student wants to come in?- hey! I am high on gas and air- bring in a whole class, just get me sorted!

Anyway before I lose loyal readers in droves back to the point (if I ever had one). My reasons for not wearing skirts then.

My main reason is legs. I do have legs. Two of them. Which I believe is the usual complement. I have found that my legs look best in trousers. Specifically jeans. Boot cut. Jeans are my wardrobe mainstay. I will venture into leggings and boots in winter and linen trousers when temperatures hit 25 plus. But usually I am in the old denim.

And so my legs are, how shall I put this, slightly neglected. It flits across my mind occasionally, usually when I see some yummy mummy wafting around in a frothy summer number, that I could don one of my two skirts. And then I remember the deforestation that that would entail. And I reach for the denim.

I do envy women who ‘sort’ themselves out every day. I just can’t fit it in. To be honest I sometimes don’t fit in teeth brushing until gone 11am. And before you suggest I get up earlier we are up at 6 daily it’s just my actual job (the kids) seems to get in the way. And don’t get me started on moisturizing. Really?

And then recently my house has been full of men. All the time. This week one was ensconced in my bedroom for two days from 8-6 and whilst I admired his dedication to building my new wardrobes it was quite off putting ablution wise.

Then as well as legs feet are an issue. Mine are utilitarian. Not pretty. One ex described them as flippers. Cheers. I am not one for nail varnish. A friend and I went to a spa in January and I still have a small bit of that polish on my big toe nails. It’s quite interesting to know how quickly one’s toe nails grow. I can’t find the varnish remover that I have had since 1986 (and that is not a joke btw) maybe it has all evaporated. So my feet and sandals are not really that good a combo.

And then in my line of work jeans are just more practical. I spend my days cooking, cleaning (husband will be spitting out his tea at this point), doing laundry, clearing up kid detritus, ferrying, hauling large musical instruments around etc and heels (with my legs flats and skirts would just be ugh) and floaty numbers don’t cut it. I had curry down my front and had managed to suck my frothy number up my Hoover attachment before 10a.m. this morning.

And then there are a whole host of other issues. The glare of my pallid legs putting motorists off their manoeuvres, the way the kids look when they see me in anything other than jeans (‘You just don’t look like you mummy’), where do I put my mobile phone, wind issues, co-ordination- denim goes with anything skirts need thought, my thread veins, my varicose veins, all my veins really, the ironing. I could go on.

To be honest it is possibly a matter of priorities. I was never one for prioritising my ‘beauty’ routine. And now my main priorities in life are sleep and this blog. So there you have it. Trousers all the way.

This is the Winter of our Discontent… — June 14, 2015

This is the Winter of our Discontent…

/sarahsmale/Leave a comment

winter

As all parents of Primary school aged children will know it is the earth’s tilt (approximately 23.5 degrees) that gives those of us who live a good distance from the equator our seasons. This is the second year on the trot that one of my offspring has drawn that well known diagram showing why the north and south experience their annual cycles.

And I love living in a country with seasons. Every time I go away on holiday anywhere near the tropics I am always surprised on the first evening when the dark descends, suddenly, like someone has turned out the lights bang on 6 p.m. I associate heat and sun with long drawn out evenings. With childhood memories of not being able to sleep because my inadequate curtains let in so much light. So I wouldn’t want to swap those long summer evenings for a regular 12 hours of light, day in, day out. How boring, how monotonous. If warm.

Similarly I wouldn’t want to go the other extreme that some of our Scandinavian cousins have to experience, full time dark and possibly even weirder full time light. The Vikings had it right moving over here- much more civilised.

No, as with a lot of things this country of ours has got this just about spot on, with, for me, one exception.

I struggle to pick a season I like the most. I adore spring, so full of promise and zingy colours, when the light starts to return, cheering my soul. Summer is heady and long. I forget to put the kids to bed as hours slip by bathed in glorious sunlight. And autumn has its own special melancholy, mists and colour and blackberries, the first frost but also the possibility of unexpected heat.

But one thing I can be categorical about is that I hate winter. I don’t do cold. I don’t do dark and to be honest once the distraction/ headache of Christmas has passed winter just feels like a huge mountain to climb. Through the foothills of January, the scree slopes of February and the seemingly endless knife edge ridge of March.

Everything is harder work in winter. My eldest was born in January. That month when day ends at around 4pm and doesn’t start again until gone 7am. That is an awful lot of feeds in the dark. A lot of time to fill when the out of doors is out of bounds. Even when the light was around getting out into it involved so much effort, wrestling with snow suits and pushchair rain covers, that often I could not be bothered. Middlest and youngest were summer babies and life seemed so much easier. We could pop out by merely unfolding the buggy, slipping on sandals and just, well, leaving.

And even now they are older it is still harder work. Collecting them all at their various times from various activities and delivering them later on to other activities takes so much longer when on each occasion I have to don gloves and hat, defrost the car and gird my loins for another dark drive.

But it is not only the lack of light. I hate the cold. I have always struggled with it. A combination of low blood pressure and lack of insulation. I start wearing my thermal vest in October and it does not come off until April is out. I am the one in layer after layer of clothing, under a slanket on my sofa and taking a hot water bottle to bed in an attempt to have warm feet by the time I drop off.

In my third year at Uni we lived in a house with no central heating. My boyfriend at the time and I would regularly wake up to frost on the insides of the windows. Our only source of heat was a gas fire in the living room. I used to wear nearly all the clothes I possessed to keep warm and sit as close to that fire as possible. One time I was wearing so much and sat so close that it was only a friend alerting me to a nasty burning smell that made me realise the arm of my outermost garment was on fire.

And I find it much harder emotionally in those dark, cold months. It is harder to battle inner demons. Harder to feel optimistic. Harder to accomplish tasks requiring perseverance and energy. It is not a co-incidence that I started writing this blog (a long held ambition) at the beginning of spring.

And so I find winter a chore. I spend four plus months of the year battling the dark and cold and expending a great deal of emotional energy in the process.

Then, every year, normally at some point during the Easter school holidays, I wake up one morning and realise I have emerged from it unscathed. More or less. The light has returned, the sun is up and I am free mentally and physically to take life up whole heartedly again.

I know I play like a girl, try to keep up… — June 11, 2015

I know I play like a girl, try to keep up…

/sarahsmale/4 Comments

playlikeagirl_1

I recently bought youngest (7) this T shirt, although in purple, her favourite colour.

And the reason is that my daughter is a soccer player. She adores the game and has played in a team from year one. Since she started a new school in September we have also found out that she enjoys hockey, netball, rounders and long distance running. But given a choice football is what she wants to play.

Whilst I am at a complete loss about where this sportiness comes from, I myself being one of those children who was picked last for every single team sport, every single time, I am immensely proud of her.

I really wanted a daughter. I am not going to lie and say that I was not secretly quite pleased on that last 20 week scan to be told it was 95% likely that a girl was what I was having. I am not really sure why I was so keen on it. There are many superficial reasons, like wanting to be mother of the bride, knowing that daughters tend to turn to their mothers when they become mothers themselves rather than their mother-in-laws, fancying browsing a new section of the baby clothes aisle after two sons.

But I guess the main reason is that I thought over the years I would be able to empathise more with a daughter.

Had that third child been a boy I would have been fine, I love my boys, and another would have been absolutely brilliant. But the fact she was a girl felt like the icing on the cake. It’s controversial to say it but that is how I felt.

And not only I am pleased to have a daughter, I am pleased to have the daughter she is. I am pleased for many reasons but mostly because she is fiesty, strong willed and intensely independent. She is not someone who takes any nonsense and she holds her own in almost any company. She does not see her gender as a barrier to anything. If she is the only girl on the football pitch she shrugs her shoulders, pulls on her shin pads and studs and sets to work.

And that is how it should be. I hope it continues and she can carry that inner confidence long into her future. Because it’s hard, as a female, to do that. I will certainly try to help her with it.

So I am proud of my daughter the football player. Because it epitomises what I want for her in her future. Feelings of confidence, worth & value and a knowledge that she can do anything she wants to regardless of her gender.

My Brain — June 2, 2015

My Brain

/sarahsmale/2 Comments

Just a quickie…

So today I was in the middle of hanging my laundry on the airer. It being rainy here…again…

My doorbell rang, well I say bell, actually it plays an extremely tinny version of ‘I came from Alabama with a banjo on my knee’ …the previous owners of this house were just…weird…I can’t seem to change it…Interestingly on the Fixtures and Fittings list they said they were taking it with them which I thought was a bit odd, seeing as it is sooo hideous, but they possibly ran out of time to remove it as they were too busy taking down every….single….curtain rail… which were on the Fixtures and Fittings list as staying…ho hum, I digress.

At the door were a national bed company who were here to deliver our new flat packed double spare bed. I supervised the process. And then being a little odd I decided to start assembly. I quite like flat pack, as long as I am not doing it with my husband, when I hate flat pack. I like to read ALL the instructions, count ALL the bolts, and nuts, and gizmos and Alan keys. He doesn’t. Let’s just say we are slightly incompatible in this regard.

I was expecting a handyman to call to tell me he was on his way to fit some of the aforementioned missing curtain poles.

I realised I perhaps ought to have my mobile and landline handset upstairs, in case I missed his call through all my grunting and swearing.

I went downstairs and could not find my mobile. So I called it from my land line. I located its muffled ring under a pile of wet washing on my futility room side. Oh, yes, I remember I was doing the laundry. I pocketed the phone and finished hanging the laundry.

I then checked my phone for missed calls from my handyman. There was indeed a missed call, damn. I didn’t immediately recognise the number but thought it odd that it was a landline not a mobile. So I called it.

And got myself…

I actually do worry gently.