Unsung Heroes

The Lollipop Lady

There are unsung heroes in life

The soldiers, the nurses, the teachers

The man who drives the school bus,

The dinner lady who puts that extra spoonful 

On the little boys plate

Because she knows that he had no breakfast again.

The old man who still walks his dog, who died 3 months ago,

The dog walker who asks for his help, even though she doesn’t need it.

They come in different shapes and sizes, different colours and sounds

One even wears a bright high –vis jacket

She’s the lollipop lady.

She’s not our lollipop lady – we pass her standing at the side of the road

As we drive in our shiny car to school

But she’s always there, and we look out for her

She becomes a start to the day.

In the snow she wears a shapeless long blue waterproof coat

And big blue wellies, her cheeks all flushed.

My kids love it when she stops the car, walking into the road with her sign

As children file like ducklings behind her

And mums with buggies straggle along in bunches chatting.

Sometimes she gets a wave from us, and she waves back

Sometimes one of the ducklings says Thank You, but not often.

And one day she was not there, and my kids were sad.

‘Where’s the Lollipop Lady?’ they asked, their morning stupor gone

And she didn’t come back for several weeks

Cars no longer slowed their pace

In recognition.

My kids stopped looking for her.

Until today.

We saw her at her post

Thinner, hugging the buggy women who greeted her

Noticing her at last

Standing proud, in her high – vis jacket.

©Ruth Morrison 2014

#Word of the Week - Positive

It is always difficult returning from a holiday.  For a start, there’s the house.  It always seems that little bit ‘distant’ – a shock to the system in which one is desperately pleased to be back on terra firma, but where the sense of responsibility and routine smacks you between the eyes like a low hanging sign.

And then of course there are the piles. Of washing. Of bills. Of junk mail. Of filing that you hid away in the excitement of going on holiday. Of decisions that you have been putting off, but with the excuse that you are going on holiday.

And the biggest thing to contend with is the feeling of anticlimax.  The ‘is that it now?’ The thought that the benefits of being on holiday dwindle faster than the tide washes the sand beneath your feet.  That your happy bonded family will be dispersed by the electronic pull of friends far more knowledgeable than silly old mum and dad and their crap in-car music, or the many activities in which your children bond with others, charging towards the same goal with a common purpose, and as a parent you become secondary to these responsibilities of youth.  And the feeling of dread hangs over you like a sword of Damacles as you load the washing machine for the fifth time that day, or go food shopping for a ‘normal shop’ – splashing out on a French stick to hold on to that holiday feeling for just that little bit longer…

Those who are on Facebook may have noticed a recent trend in which people are nominated to join in for a week of Positivity – over 7 days you post a daily list of three things that are or have had a positive effect on you.  This sounds easier than it actually is.  I was nominated by two people when I was on holiday in Italy – and decided to set myself the challenge of doing it when I got back, in the hope that it would offset the post holiday blues.

It was an eye opener.  It involved a different mindset. A willingness to unfetter my exterior shell of capability and culpability and see the world differently.  In a normal situation I veer wildly from a glass half empty to a glass half full.  I had to look past the washing precipice of pessimism into the lake of optimism. I had to fish something out of that lake, three times a day for 7 days.

And I did it.  Sometimes it was a bit of an old boot – a negative on the noisiness of the bin men turned into a positive  - more times it was a revelation – you can have fun in the rain, people can surprise you, there are new discoveries and places just round the corner if you keep your eyes open.

And I’m not sure if it was conscious, or subconscious, but my little family changed too. The boys have all offered, and cooked, meals this week (within their capabilities).  We have kept up with the holiday routine of clearing the table and washing up rotas.  We’ve had some really fun conversations or short trips out. The holiday bonding has carried on temporarily because none of us want it to break. I say temporarily, not to be pessimistic, but realistic  - Life will inevitably get in the way, but for the moment we are all enjoying the positive effects.

Positive. My Word of the Week, for a week.

Til next time.

Have you done the Positivity challenge?  How did you get on?

The Italian Job: The Start

So this was it… suddenly the time had come for us to depart.  And for once in a long time I felt very unprepared.  It has been a bit of a thing, our holidays.  Most of our friends go all inclusive.  Or they try the cottages in Cornwall.  Every one of them proclaim that it is simply the best way to vacation- there’s so much to do, to see, to eat.  We’ve done Cornwall at Easter for years – it’s practically a tradition, sitting there on the beach at Perranporth in fleeces whilst kids and husbands, seemingly impervious to the weather, reenact Baywatch in various episodes with not one Hasselhof between them.  And our one experience of all inclusive certainly worked in terms of food –my hungry family ate whatever was offered whenever, but after about 5 days lounging by the pool, joining in the watersports and meeting lots of people, even the boys got a bit bored… whereas G and I had cabin fever. Our happiest days were spent hiring a car and enjoying the land around us – G loved the landscapes and we loved the shopping.

So, back to our kind of holidays.  Before Little Man had become a reality, but was an actuality in my swelling belly, we had taken a tour sans schedules or charters off the beaten track to a massive villa in Tuscany, where we invited the grandparents and had a lovely idyllic time. This spurred us on, two years later, to travel, with 3 children under 8, in a car to Spain, where we went to Paris (and Disneyland), Le Mans (where we mistakenly got on one of the perimeter race tracks in our Nissan Pathfinder and roofbox) Andorra, Grenada, Rosario (to visit friends who had just moved there) Al Hambra and Majorca (again to stay with friends but we seemed to cause a lot of attention with our GB plates). We saw fiestas, carnivals and lots of sights were well documented in our photo albums.  Two years ago we did a marathon tour of Australia.  So this year we decided on Italy.

 Why?  It kept G quiet, part of the joy for him is in planning out the route, which is then changed by me when I remind him of the realities of travelling with three boys – a 9 year old, a 12 year old and a 6ft 1 14 year old. So he sorted out our vehicle, his car, a golf estate with the racing roof box from Le Mans. In a break from tradition, and a nod to the kids desire to look inside rather than outside the car whilst travelling, he set up a complicated system of adapters and chargers for all of the electronic devices, including a brand new sat nav, which he has since said came with no instructions (more on that later).  I was then presented with a map of Italy, several bits of sticky paper with nights and locations, and proceeded to book up hotels in those areas.

Those of you with a strange family size that doesn’t fit the 2 adults/2 kids hoteliers dream, will realise that this is no mean feat when you are on a budget.  Luckily, over the years, the world has been getting smaller, families bigger and hotels have had to adapt.  And the internet is extremely useful.  So in one happy but slightly stressful afternoon I booked up all the hotels/apartments.  The plan was to travel down through France and Italy stopping en route, and then have a relaxing break in a pre booked villa in Sorrento before making our way back again. With 3 kids and a car, it became quite clear in some areas that it was going to be expensive, and so I looked out of town at more flexible options. We have yet to see how it all pans out, but so far, so good.

Garmin, sitting pride of place...

The alarm went off at 4.30am, and G shot out of bed as if he had been electrocuted. The boys had packed their bags, with all the essentials like gismos and hair styling products. We were all out of the house by 5.15, Tesco bags crammed full of BLT’s as a nod to breakfast.  Getting to the tunnel early, we were put on an earlier slot than booked and as the boys began to wake up, we reached France.  Garmin, our sat nav, woke up too, ready for our first stop, Dijon.  She (we haven’t learned yet how to change her slightly nagging voice, but I quite like her as she sighs and throws her hands up gallic style as we yet again go off in the wrong direction) directed us to Lyon.  G disagreed with this, and so we had to resort to (this is where friends of mine will grin, as they know how I love itineraries) my printed out directions from hotel to hotel, or in this case, tunnel to hotel. Garmin was right of course, and so G and her settled down to become better acquainted, just as the first ‘I’m hungry’ started from the back.

Swapping seats to the back to unfurl cramped legs

One service station later we were all traumatized. Eldest Son had been stopped by an over officious assistant who told him to put back his drinks and step away. At least, that is what he thought she had said, what she meant was, was that there was a certain place to pay for cold drinks, whilst we were queueing for baguettes. Once we got to the front of the queue, the server looked at me quizzically when I ordered three double hot dogs. ‘Trois?!!!’ she bellowed in incredulity as she looked at me.  I pointed out the children.  She muttered under her breath and slammed the baguettes into submission.  G and I had ready made ones, in a bid to pacify.  She refused to let G pay for the cold drinks in her queue, directing G to another queue.  Little Man wailed that he hated France.  This was not going well…

Hotel Armony, wasn’t really ‘armonious.  Situated on an industrial estate (lots of clothes shops and shoe shops) it stood like a slightly shabby teenager at a glamorous function. But it was cheap, it had parking, interconnecting rooms and a restaurant.  We were knackered.  The staff took to Little Man and didn’t even mind when he broke into an impromptu song and dance routine, Happy Feet style, as he waited for his food.

Little Man, our official tour photographer

We toddled off to bed, full and weary, the boys giggling through the interconnecting doors, Eldest Son trying to stop Little Man from jumping on top of him in their shared double bed.  Suddenly the boys broke into hysterics as Middle Son shot into our room, his face green, his toothbrush in his mouth.

Ahhhh Dijon, famous for its mustard, and somewhere that my boys will always remember as the place that Middle Son mistook Eldest Son’s hair gel for toothpaste…

Killing The Snake

I’ve been a little quiet on the blogging front due to a number of things – some good, some not so good, others just plain trying.  One of the good things was that I managed to get away for a few days with my very oldest friends, a quick jump on to a plane from the various points of the UK in which we live, and within hours we were gassing away in the sunshine in Majorca.  It was a wonderfully carefree time in which we lived in bikinis and didn’t give a damn about our sagging bagging bodies riddled with scars of childhood or childbearing mishaps, drank what we wanted and ate when we wanted without the rigours of the school run or kids’ feeding times.  And we talked.  And I tried a gentle form of yoga for the first time, despite having an existing ankle injury before I’d even got on the plane.  And for the first time in over a year, my body enjoyed being stretched and pulled back into shape. 

And whilst I was away, sans kids and husband, they too thrived in their own little ways.  G managed supremely well as always getting the kids to and from their various activities and this year didn’t manage to poison them with burnt lasagne.  They were all delighted to see me back and within half an hour I didn’t feel that I had been away… 

But I had come back enervated and energetic and willing to try something new, and when a recruitment agent called me to ask me to an interview I thought ‘Why Not?’  It’s not that I was particularly looking for a job - I run my own small business from home- it’s just that I’ve been working from home for years and frankly I’m beginning to bore myself.  At times I think I’m going a little mad. Even the dog yawns when I try to involve him in conversation… And it was only 17 years ago that I was a bona fide yuppie, the breadwinner of the family, so I figured that a small permanent part time office role would get me right back into the swing of things.

So I pulled on my glad rags and tottered on over to the interview in heels that had lain unworn in my wardrobe for a while.  And I got on really well with the interviewer who would be my boss, and I left feeling that it would be something new and exciting.  And I called G animatedly to give him the rundown on how it went.  He of course has been office based and therefore worldly wise in office politics for an awfully long time, whereas I float in and out of offices in my consultancy, spreading equal amounts of cheer and fear, depending on the role.

I didn’t get the job.  And this was an enormous blow to me – from a professional perspective, someone else fitted the company culture and role better.  And from a personal perspective I felt rejected and dejected – this had been the best that I had looked and felt in myself for a long time, and it clearly wasn’t good enough. And that day I got a call from my medical consultant to say that I needed to have another procedure on my ankle, which made me feel a little more useless and decrepit.

And then I got a call from the school Matron to tell me that Middle Son had been hit in the knee with a cricket ball, but he was all right, a bit swollen and bruised.  I got over there in time to see him return to the game and proceed to get hit in the thigh and retire again. He woke up the next morning raring to go. He is a fabulous high jumper, but that day he jumped awkwardly in a schools competition on a height over which he would normally fly.  And as he lay there concussed,bleeding and crying, first aiders looking panic stricken towards me, my dodgy ankle suddenly grew wings, and in no time at all he was in hospital, his head glued together again, and asking for ice cream.

As we sat at home, snuggled on the sofa and hiding under a blanket from any more bad luck, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a brightly coloured object.  It was a snake, fashioned out of loom bands (that worldwide craze in which bracelets and such are created out of elastic bands).  It was, he suggested, the harbinger of doom, the denizen of despair – or as he put it, the bad luck omen.  He had found this object on the path two days previously, before all our bad luck had started. None of us had made it, it had simply appeared. He was convinced that this was the font of all our woes.

And so we had a ceremonial killing of the snake for all of our sakes.  We decided on a cremation in the garden.  And boy did it go up in flames, and it burned and burned for about 5 minutes.  And then it went out with a last hiss.

I don’t know whether it has worked. I do know that Little Man brought home the best report I have ever read.  And Eldest Son won a coveted Rowing trophy which I was there to witness. I do know that I have back a happy, healthy child in Middle Son who is going straight into a Nationals Athletics competition today. I do know that every day my sons say 'I Love You Mum' to me - whether it is before they step out the door in the morning, or with a last sleepy breath at night. And I do know that after the second procedure on my ankle yesterday it feels bruised, and battered, but a little bit better.

 

And as for the job?  Well, it obviously wasn’t the right time or place or opportunity for me.  But I do know that from now on I will have my eyes wide open to anything that charges (or slithers) around the corner.

'Gissa Job'- How will your child know what to do as a Career?

I read a very interesting article the other day which said that the Welsh government had been advised to rethink the way in which schools were providing careers advice in schools.  Essentially, the <article> was saying that the guidance was in dire need of updating and school leavers needed to be enlightened as to the opportunities available and encouraged to think about what they wanted to do before they stepped out of the school doors forever.  It would appear that in Wales, a number of school age kids leave at 16, with relatively low GCSE results and no idea of what to do as a job, let alone a career.

I cannot pretend to know whether or not this article was representative of the truth, or indeed whether it is another scaremongering tactic by the Press for some reason, be it political or anything else, but I have to say that as a relatively intelligent (well, on a good day)mother of a rapidly growing teenager, it is something that I am starting to wonder about.  He takes his GCSE’s next year, and already we have had to go in to the schools to discuss A’ level options, and he is only 14.   It is frightening how much he has to decide at such a young age, and how his subjects will then influence his University or further education choices.  As parents it is also frightening – we grew up in an age before the internet was commonplace, jobs were divided into trades or professions and the rest of us who just got a generic Bachelor of Arts degree managed to stumble into careers until something better came along.  Nowadays you pretty much need a dedicated degree for everything – and the choices are baffling.

I remember our careers advisor at school.  It was in Wales, but don’t tie that up to the beginning paragraph because it was a private school -  or as it was billed ‘ An independent School for Ladies’, and as such had its own rules and regulations when it came to careers advice. Our careers advisor was also the History teacher, and was the second prettiest teacher in the school by virtue of the fact that she wore layer upon layer of mascara.  We would stare, our shiny faces devoid of makeup, in fascination during History as her eyelashes stood out like little spiders legs, and she would pick at them absent mindedly as she talked.  Miss Black (rumour had it she was married to a Mr Green, but I think someone was having a laugh)was quite a good History teacher and she also waitressed in the evening at a posh hotel, and by all accounts she was very good at that.  But she was a rubbish careers advisor.

 

We’d go in to what I can only recall was a broom cupboard, where there was a proliferation of books and papers covering a desk, behind which she sat, and in front of which you’d hover until told to sit.  She would then peer through her lashes at you and ask what you thought you would like to do as a career.  You then told her – my list included PR (because I thought it sounded quite a laugh), fireeater (I always wanted to do that), Olympic swimmer (hmm) and an award winning actress.  A friend of mine said she wanted to be an archeologist because she liked designing things (I know… this is what Miss Black had to work with…) a chef because she liked eating things and a History teacher (because she liked Miss Black).  

And after you told her, she would go through an ISCO psychometric test that we had all taken – which narrowed down our careers according to our personality type and the answers that we had given (coupled with of course, our grade predictions).  She then read off the typed up results and gave us a bundle of university prospectuses (or should that be prospecti?) and sent us on our way.  My list suggested that I went into PR (result!), or Advertising, became a journalist, went into teaching, or (and this was a little odd) went into the Fire Service… My friend’s was even shorter – it suggested that she became a secretary, or went into the Fire Service…

The school that my son goes to is, by comparison to my own experience, very switched on when it comes to careers.  Throughout his time there, there have been talks from various parents and professionals, there is a careers convention coming up for the kids, and the children are encouraged to look on the internet at the variety of jobs around.  There is no doubt that the sheer amount of information that is out there is frightening in itself – a few taps of a keyboard and you are immersed in worlds which simply weren’t accessible when I was making those decisions.  

And as a parent it is confusing.  For a start, everyone is now an engineer – whether it is a technical engineer, a print engineer, a mechanical engineer or a BT engineer.  Hierarchies are moveable, everyone has a title -there is more than one Vice President of each company, you now have companies where everyone appears to be a VP.  And of course, aside from the age old professions, there is a new gamut of jobs of which we were barely aware, because it was in its infancy, and that is IT.  Spawning millions of jobs worldwide, the IT industry has not only invented new trades and professions, but has transformed the workplace for our kids.  No longer will they be working in one place, but they will have access to a global network, no matter what job they do.

And so it was with trepidation that I opened up the latest careers email from the school which encouraged us to take them up on the offer of a <COA> psychometric careers analysis for our child (and for a fee).  This would then give him a  36 page document and up to 20 suggestions of careers, and courses  based on his answers.  I thought for a couple of minutes and then said Yes and pressed Send.

Because you know, that basic typed up list that I got wasn’t that bad.  30 years down the line you can see that as we stumbled through life, my friend did actually take a secretarial course and subsequently took a degree in Project Management in which she now has a career.  I dabbled in various things, but ended up best enjoying those that were Press, PR and Marketing related, and ended up running my own home based business which covers all aspects of commercial writing. Our own minds had told us what we were suited to- and rather weirdly- whether from a subconscious memory of that tatty piece of paper, or fate, we ended up doing them, despite attempts to the contrary.

But neither of us ended up in the Fire Service.  On the other hand,never say never…  

The Pedestal

I had my first row with Middle Son this morning.  I’m talking full blown stand up argument 5 minutes before the school run where he and I stood yelling at one another.  It was all over a lost shoe. And it was all over in minutes.  But it shook me.  It’s not that I’m not used to the odd quarrel or heated debate – far from it, I come from a long line of shouters and arguers – but it was the first time that Middle Son had yelled back at me with real anger in his pre-teen voice.  And what’s more was that he was right – his tone of voice was wrong, his words came out all unpreparedly wrong, but the point that he was making was right.  And it was upsetting.  And he charged out of the door to school without saying goodbye.  And that too was upsetting.

You see, the lost shoe wasn’t lost at all – I had forgotten to put it in his bag in the first place, and he had used his initiative, and I had told him off for it.  Yes, perhaps if he had packed his bag himself as I had asked, the shoe wouldn’t have been left behind, but I had done it myself in the name of speed, and had got it wrong.  And he knew it.

It is very difficult to gauge as a parent when the balance shifts and you are no longer on the pedestal, the child realizing that you are only human, and all his perceptions change.     

I guess it is whether you step off, fall off or if you are pushed.  I’m hoping that I will simply step off the pedestal – admit my failings as a mother and perhaps gain my kids respect as an adult.  It’s not an easy thing to do when you have been in charge of a little life, but at some point you have to let them make their own decisions, and their own mistakes. And by the same token, if you make a mistake, ‘fess up and say you’re sorry.

One of the lively topics of conversation that I have with my friends is if you would prefer your kids to play up at home and be good at school, or vice versa.  A few favour the latter – a controlled professional environment teaches the kids to take control of their actions and feelings - but I am definitely of the former train of thought, not because I want my kids to be seen to be well behaved in public, but because I would prefer that they have the space at home to be frustrated, to learn to control their tempers, their anxieties and their hormones in a safe environment where they won’t be judged by society at large.

Middle Son was only doing what I had allowed him to do, what I had encouraged him to do, and by shouting back at me it taught us both that the parameters were changing, and the pedestal wobbling. 

And when I go and watch him in a mixed year schools athletics competition this afternoon where he is the youngest in his team, he will of course ignore me politely until I proffer the universal peace offering that is a bag of Haribos. 

And then I will be shouting again. Shouting his name with pride with a whole load of other mothers clinging on to our pedestals as we watch our young people compete.  

Make Up Lessons

They say a picture paints a thousand words.  And so this is going to be my post on a lovely sunny Saturday in Blighty.  This afternoon the family are going to decamp to the school May Fair – I say the family, but of course, as with most weekends, everyone is spread out.  Middle Son is at a sleepover and will meet us there where he will refuse to make eye contact with me until he runs out of money, Eldest Son is on the River Thames somewhere in a boat, G is doing the garden, and so Little Man, Grandma, Grandad and I will be sampling the delights of the school BBQ, winning back the prizes we donated in the tombola, and if we are lucky will get to throw wet sponges at the headmaster (all in the name of charity of course).

It’s been a busy old week, and one in which it was not a good idea to come down with the sore throat ear thing that has been doing the rounds.  So I limited myself to an afternoon of dying quietly, and during that afternoon I was sorting out some old photos.  Well, I say sorting, but the reality is that actually it was a kind of dawdling over photos…

And one was so vivid in my memory that I had to share it with you.  Those of you who have little boys will know how fascinated they are with the trappings of womanhood that you have about you.  The lotions, the potions, the jewellry, the shoes, the makeup – they may not admit it, but they are drawn to them like Magpies to bling.  Some men never grow out of it.  Some just hide it, only to come out at rugby dinners or stag nights. But on the whole little boys find it an amazing alien world to which mummies and girls belong.

Unless, that is, they are left on their own…

Which is what happened 5 years ago and G was left in charge. The boys found their face paints and decided to do their own make up, with the addition of my brand new Chanel lipstick in red.  And when the colours simply didn’t work they just wiped it all off on my white towels.

Words painting pictures?  Something needed to paint over my words when I got back home…

Educating Summer Babies

When I was pregnant with ‘Frogmella the bump’ (yes, too much Harry Enfield in our youth) who turned out to be Eldest Son, any existing parent rolled their eyes when I said that it would be a summer baby.  We hadn’t planned it so –after years of being on the Pill, I assumed that when I stopped taking it on my honeymoon that it would probably take a good few months or years to conceive.  It took exactly two weeks.  I returned from my honeymoon in November and began married life by throwing up every morning for five months. 

In fact, I was quite looking forward to having a summer baby.  Frogmella was due to pop forth about mid August time and I had visions of my floating around in a white linen dress and a large straw hat (I have no idea why, I look terrible in hats) pushing a pram in which a gurgling baby clapped its chubby little hands at the blue skies and the dappled sunshine on the trees.  The reality was that by the end of July I had stopped counting after 5 stone heavier, it was sticky and hot that year, and the unbearable pressure of baby wedged so far down the uterus meant that I wasn’t floating anywhere – just waddling like an overweight penguin.  And the only linen dress that would fit me resembled a teepee.

And so it was that I was relieved when Frogmella emerged, a week early, and a boy.  It was not an easy birth, albeit a natural one – and afterwards I just managed to feed my son before I was rushed into surgery due to complications, leaving a stunned G with a 2 hour old baby boy and no idea of what was happening to his wife.  Baby and I emerged four days later on the 6^th of August, blinking in bewilderment at the sunshine outside.  And he grew, lying gurgling in the pram in the dappled sunshine, as I slopped about in some joggers, illusions of stylish mummy out of the window.

It was when we were looking at schools that we realised the implications of being born in the summer for our son.  School terms start in September in the UK, in the academic year in which you turn 5, which spans from September 1^st to August 31^st.  This in effect meant that as an early August birth he had only been 4 for a couple of weeks when he joined, and was nearly a year younger than most of the kids in his class. This had an impact from both a social and an educational point of view.  He had terrible separation anxiety – the first day it took 2 gap year students, 3 teaching assistants and a Head of Year to prise him off me. Things that seemed obvious to a September born child took another couple of months to click with my son.  In sports he would get frustrated, being uncoordinated, clumsy and just not getting the rules of games. And he was tall, and so people would forget that he was young, and get frustrated when he couldn’t ‘verbalise his feelings’.  And as parents who knew no better we would get worried when we saw that the others in his year were on more advanced books, or maths questions, or spellings.

As someone who was brought up in Kenya, our school year started in January, which is my birth month.  In theory that would have made me the eldest, but I was shunted up a couple of years into a class with kids who were 2 years older than me.  At the age of 10, I was with other girls who were more developed physically and socially than I was.  It was a relief for me to come to boarding school and be with peers my own age.

There is a movement by educationalists which encourages the schools to perhaps delay the starting age of summer children so that they are not so disadvantaged.  Under this movement parents will no longer be discouraged by local schools from placing a 5 year old summer born child in a reception class with 4 year olds. It means that in theory the summer babies will have a chance to catch up.

But would that have worked with my son?  In Infants school there is no doubt that there was an enormous difference in ability between the range of ages, but there was the same difference between the genders. Girls seemed to just Get It, whilst the boys bundled like puppies in the corner of the room.  In Junior school the eldest kids, regardless of gender, were the most eloquent and seemed to have an innate confidence which my son took a while to possess.  And now he’s reached Secondary school?

In the middle of taking some GCSE’s a year early, he has adapted to the pressure and knuckled down to work.  In his school year sports he is one of the top rowers, the best sprinter, and is in all the A teams.  The first term that he joined he was chosen out of the year to make a speech at his Year Awards night. At 6ft 1 he would look out of place in the year below. He still has slight confidence issues every now and again, but has learned to sit back and watch.  Years of having things explained to him has made him immeasurably patient with his younger brothers, as he helps them with their homework.  And I have learned to step back now, and not fight his battles for him as the youngest in the year, because he no longer needs me to.

There are times when the parents in my antenatal class have all wished that they had kept their child back a year. And none of us would want to repeat the blood, sweat and tears that it sometimes takes to keep your child focused and confident when he can’t make sense of the world around him.

And there is no doubt that all parents deserve to have a choice.  That gurgling child that lies in the pram, little chubby hands working  to catch the shadows of the leaves in the sun, deserves it. 

Accident & Emergency

There’s nothing worse than the feeling you get when you are confronted by your child running towards you screaming and clutching a heavily bleeding hand, and you realise that you have to take him to hospital.  A little part of you hurts with him, a big part kicks into Efficient Mummy Mode, and yet, if you’re honest, there’s that teeny weeny part that thinks ‘Oh God, now I’ve got to face A&E’.  This is, as most parents know, one of the hardest things to do with a sickly child.  We are very fortunate in this country to have a thriving NHS, which although antiquated in parts, has a very ‘fair for all’ policy, and which attempts to take care of all who walk through its doors.  And this policy means that on entering A&E your case is assessed at various points, and those who are deemed less of an emergency than others are constantly shunted down the list as more pressing cases are admitted. 

As a parent of three boys, we have had our fair share of hospitals – and primarily all through the A&E.  Eldest Son has had major surgery on a finger, several overnight stays and a couple of x rays. Middle Son who went through a phase of running into walls and coffee tables, has been glued and stitched on his head three times, and as a baby had breathing problems and associated overnight stays.  Little Man has been x rayed several times, has had his chin glued, and once had an emergency five night stay in a hospital in Devon.  And from the sound of it, this is not that uncommon in a family of our size and with no (touch wood) ongoing health issues.

In our area, the hospital is relatively big and modern, and we have the main A&E and then the childrens A&E – which differs mainly in the décor with enormous animal murals, books and toys and a TV with set stations blaring throughout the day. The access is through the main A&E, where people with blank faces sit staring at a sign which tells them that they will be waiting for an hour if they are lucky, and would say (if it could talk) Why Didn’t You Bring a Packed Lunch?  Which is precisely where the clientele of the kids A&E differs, in that most parents know that in the case of an emergency, a spare chocolate bar will never go amiss, but only after assessment and Calpol. 

In amongst the snuffling of babies with bunged up noses and chests, teenagers proudly holding sprained limbs from just sustained sporting injuries, and where toddlers with viral induced red faces try and beat each other up with saucepans over the toy kitchen, parents wait patiently, as CBeebies blares continuously in the background.  And then a tired doctor with a friendly smile calls you into a cubicle and draws a curtain, so that no one can see your reaction, and can only hear your child’s.

And then it’s glueing or stitching or x raying, or up to another department.  Occasionally it is an overnight stay where you slump uncomfortably in a chair beside the tiny figure of your little boy as he tosses and turns in fever, his cries mixing with the other on the ward.  And despite needing the toilet, you can’t leave him, for fear that he may rise and find you gone.

And at dawn he wakes up, temperature gone, angry cheeks pale once more, and he smiles and stretches.  And you feel like a used tissue, crumpled, slightly damp and stuffed into the corner of the chair.  And a crisp smiling nurse with a starched top and a cheerful voice signs you out, as you emerge into the sunlight, blinking. 

We may moan at the state of the NHS, or the wait at A&E, but when the going gets tough for your kid, there’s no better place for them to be.

Community Spirit

Remember Evie? 

 A little girl who began to show signs of illness earlier this year, a substantial weight loss, severe anaemia, and then the lumps started to appear.  Her mother told me that she knew then that something was majorly wrong.  She was right, within two weeks, a diagnosis of Hodgkins Lymphoma was made, and Evie went straight into chemotherapy.

She is eight years old.

One of the reasons why I wrote the A Story for Evie was because of a natural human urge to want to help those friends who are suffering.  Evie was in unfamiliar surroundings, but her family were in unfamiliar territory and in total shock.  At first they didn’t even understand the vast amounts of information that was flung at them, and from that faltering position they had to make decisions about treatments and locations and all the while coping with the hidden terror that comes with cancer.

One of the things that they were told was to be totally honest up front with Evie and her siblings.  Her older sister at 12, was savvy enough to realise how serious it was, and her younger brother at 4 was too little to understand the implications of the disease, but was devastated that she would lose her hair like all the other children on the ward where he visited her.  As outsiders, one can only imagine how the parents coped.  As outsiders, we all felt helpless, wanting to do something, wanting to say ‘It will be all right’ and smoothing away all the fear, the pain and the sleepless nights.

In my last post Memory Lane I wrote about how valuable old friendships are, and how we should treasure them.  But I also acknowledged that new and recent acquaintances can be just as immeasurable in the love and friendship that they offer.  Hence when I wrote the Story for Evie, which urged people to give to the Little Princess Trust, a charity who made wigs out of real hair for sick children, and Evie’s mother shaved her hair off in support, there was an outpouring of donations.  People, new friends, old friends and family just wanted to help.

And there were a number of other things that people did for charity in the name of Evie.  This little 8 year old inspired people to run, to shave their heads, to hold bake sales.  She came runner up in the Pride of Bracknell Awards, and the mummies at school decided to organise a fundraiser fun day in order to raise money for Evie herself.  This was billed as Evie’s Wardrobe of Multicoloured Wigs – and as friends we were all invited to donate any toys, unwanted gifts, our time, or just to come along and show our support.

Held at the Pines School Professional Centre in Bracknell on Saturday, I took Little Man along.  We didn’t really know what to expect.  The first thing we saw when we walked in was Minnie and Mickey Mouse walking around and greeting everyone.  And then I was enveloped in a massive bear hug.  It was Evie’s dad with a big beam on his face.  Evie’s Aunties greeted me from the stalls that they were manning – chocolate drop, bits and bobs stall, and treasure hunt.  There was a stunning cake stand that seemed to stretch for miles, and face painting, nail painting, biscuit decorating, crafting, name a bear, several sweetie stands, clothes stands and the ever popular tombola.

Picture courtesy of  Jasmine El- Mekki

And above all there was the aromatic scent of curry simmering in the kitchen cooked by Evie’s grandfather.  You could have lamb, chicken, and chickpea curry, with 2 rices, a naan, an onion bhaji and a tomato and onion salad for £3.00.  Little Man perked up.  He loves curry.  He also loved a big cuddly bear (that I was sure that we had donated in the first place), his two tombola prizes and the two cakes that he bought.  He bought raffle tickets, won some chocolate on the chocolate game and tried to guess the correct square on the find the treasure game.

I spotted Evie and her mum, both of whom gave me a hug.  Evie was serene, seemingly unfazed by being the centre of attention and being smothered in the outpouring of love that came her way whenever someone new walked in.  She asked me if I liked the bracelets that she had made, and were up for sale.  Little Man and I watched as she showed us how to weave the little elastic bands into these colourful rubber bracelets.  She had made them all whilst undergoing her treatment in hospital.  I asked her to choose me two, and I put the money in an already over flowing pot.

 

I will treasure those bracelets.

We left as Evie and her family posed for the local newspaper.  All around them was the protective sea of pink T shirts of all of the volunteers.  The love and support emanating from them was palpable.

 

And as we got into the car, Little Man turned to me and said

 ‘That Evie, she must be really famous, to have all of those people raising money for her.’

  ‘No darling’, I said, ‘She’s just a normal little girl, but she and her family are very, very loved’.

Evie's fundraising day raised a large amount of money for her and her family, and so they have asked that any readers who are touched by her story and wish to donate, please give to The Little Princess Trust, a charity who provides wigs free of charge to sick children undergoing treatment.

School Trips Away

You know when you get that piece of paper – inevitably, in my case, a couple of days late (and after another mummy has asked me all about it, prompting me to remind my child to remember to give it to me) – announcing the impending school trip?  Does anyone else feel a slight dip in enthusiasm, before glancing at the note, the deadline, the cost.  It’s definitely not that I don’t want my kids to participate in all the extra curricular (but of course enhancing to their education) activities, it’s not even particularly the cost (although nearly £2000 for a cricket tour to Barbados curbed our summer hols big time that year) – it’s the packing.

I know, ridiculous.  Especially as I am well travelled and went to boarding school from the age of 10.  I am an elite packer.  I can pack for England – in fact I could probably pack England in a rucksack and take it on as cabin baggage.  But getting all the stuff ready for an away school trip is a nightmare.  For a start, you realise that your kid has been existing on four T shirts (the others deemed unsuitable for some reason or another).  Normally this would not be a problem as the washing machine is on permanently in this house.  But when they are away for more than four nights, and they are hot and sweaty, it becomes a bit of an issue. So that’s a shopping trip.  Then there is the inevitable ‘Kit list’ that helpful teachers put together – this always includes waterproofs (I agree, the British weather is not predictable) a torch (why, I know they are staying at a cheap hotel, but surely they have lighting?) and the request for plastic bags for dirty clothes.

I have three boys, one of whom is too young to do overnighters, but the others are dab hands at it. Eldest Son, having been through the ranks of Beavers, Cubs and Scouts, is, like me, an uber packer.  After a trip his plastic bags are crammed with washing, and the torch has moved in the bag – so he obviously found a use for it. Middle Son is a disaster.  The last trip he did, he found the plastic bags (for dirty clothes) blew them up and then burst them noisily behind the teachers who wrote the kit lists. He arrived back dirty and happy, with a bag considerably lighter, having managed to lose a number of items and gained some from another child. And it didn’t matter that he only had four T shirts, because three of them appeared to come back absolutely spotless.  We won’t even go there with the pants and socks…

The other thing of course is that your child grows – often without your realizing, and all the stuff that you packed away from the last trip, or the last child, suddenly doesn’t fit.  And so we have gained several pairs of waterproof trousers (all unworn), the ‘spare pair of old trainers’ isn’t, and the wash bag suddenly becomes heavier, because your child has discovered ‘products’ like hair gel and cologne.  

Eldest Son and I worked through the list yesterday for his impending few days away on rowing camp.  This list required four sets of clothes to row in, because they would get wet (or hopefully not…). We duly located four pairs of jogging bottoms – some smaller than the others, four hoodies, and so on. We bagged them up into individual days – stopping short of labelling them Day 1, Day 2 – he is 14 after all… I talked him again through his enormous holdall –telling him to put the rest of his wash stuff Here before he left in the morning, that his socks were in this bit and so on.

He rolled his eyes.

‘I know what I’m doing Mum’ he said, slightly belligerently as I put the list in the bag for him to check he had everything on the way back.  (None of the kids ever use this itinerary, or check list, but it makes me feel efficient).

And so it was, at 5.30 this morning I waved him off as he left to catch the coach to his destination.

He’ll have a fantastic time.

(Without the soap, hairbrush, and deodorant, that are sitting unchecked on his bed).

Britmums linky

My weekend

As Oscar Wilde said ‘Life imitates art’.  Mr Wilde was obviously not born in the days when flat pack furniture abounded.  We have spent most of the weekend standing poring over drawings that do not resemble the finished product, or indeed look like the piece we saw in the show room.  The fact that we were looking at one set of fitting instructions for the wrong bit of furniture withstanding, flat pack furniture is the stuff of comedy.  Where else would you get your husband, all tooled up, drill in hand, sans safety goggles, only to discover that he just needs the allan key provided?  Where else would you get cheap in-family entertainment as the kids hold cabinets in precarious positions of general unmadeness whilst their hapless parents search around for a missing bolt, only to find that the cat is using it as a puck across the new shiny wooden floor?  And where else can you stand back with satisfaction as you look at the slightly wonky end result and say with pride ‘I made that’?

The other thing that kept the kids entertained this weekend was the sunshine, and the app VideoStar.  For those of you who hate technology, or for those of you who have teeny weeny kids who are still entertained by large plastic objects, or childrens’ presenters dressed in primary colours, I apologise now. For all the other muppets out there whose kids drag them in and out on the tide of electronica, listen up.  The app seems to be simple, downloadable on most things beginning with an ‘i’ (altho, alas, not an iRon) and allows the kids to make short snappy videos cut to music with lots of effects thrown in.  It teaches them how to edit, time and direct.  Little Man and his friend E, a girl, spent hours in the garden cartwheeling, making up routines on the trampoline and mimed singing in an attempt to create a fantastic pop video.  (All I can say is that they did some pretty good stuff, but Simon Cowell does not need to hang up his grey jumper just yet…)

Mind you, it was interesting to see– there was no shyness in front of camera for a start.  They have grown up with cameras, and everything is noted and recorded for posterity on some sort of digital media.  Where we had to wait two weeks for Truprint to send back our snaps only to see that your hand had obliterated most of the shots, they can now instantly delete and retake.  Where we had to rely on our memories of the holidays, they create their memories there and then, with tag lines, captions and hundreds of ‘likes’.

We were delighted to hear that this confidence shone through in Little Man’s efforts at an audition that he did a couple of weeks ago for a local drama group that he attends, and that he had landed the role of Oliver in the musical of that name.  Of course, the hard work hasn’t really started in earnest as it is still Easter break, but already he has been given some of the songs to learn, and soon he will have a script.  We have all regaled him with the well known things about the storyline and the songs, and I have no doubt that he will enjoy it all the way.  And so it was that amongst the flat packs, the VideoStar apps and the running round in the sunshine, occasionally I would hear strains of ‘Where is Love’ from the musical as he warbled around the garden setting up new shots.

The kids were huddled together, having eaten some snacks that I gave them earlier.  They sent Little Man over.

 ‘Please mum, can we have some more?’ he asked.

Maybe life does imitate art after all Mr Wilde…