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.

Three Little Letters

Three little letters that mean so much

Soft spoken words, a tender touch

A smile to chase tears on a sorrowful day

A note to face fears when you’re far away

The laugh that says it will be all right

The way the darkness dissolves in the light

Magic roast dinners, sumptuous pud

Heavy table, laden with food

Washing hanging in the summer breeze

The hot swish of ironing, flattening ease

Holidays long, and so filled with fun

Days crowded with friends, playing in the sun

Baths running, hot water soaked with bubbles

Soothing away all those kiddie troubles

A hug, the warmth, the story at night

A last blown kiss before turning out the light

Kids getting older, the love doesn’t jade

Arguments, blow ups, smiles do not fade

Advice, oft ignored ‘til realization dawns

Staying up worrying, stifling yawns

Becoming a grandmother, the gentle pride

A baby who won’t leave her childs side

The swell in her heart as the first words come

Three little letters, it’s simply

                                      ‘MUM’  

If you enjoyed this, please consider nominating me for a BritMums blogging award, many thanks!
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On the Social

As a writer, marketer, and certainly as a mum, I have a peculiar fascination for social media.  This is a bit of a love-hate relationship.  For years I would look at the Facebook phenomenon and puzzle why everyone would be so interested in the lives of people they barely knew, and in some cases actively disliked.  I saw my personal friends fall in and out with respective virtual friends, some became depressed at the apparent golden lives of others, and some deliberately maintained a role as a voyeur – looking and judging without commenting.  As a slightly addictive and very quick-to-pen personality, I deliberately kept out of the social media loop for a long time, knowing that to commit word to type would mean that I had left an indelible print that may come back to haunt me for many years.

However, there comes a time when actually, as a parent, it is best that you know the danger that your kids face, rather than warn them ineffectually and hope that they don’t fall into the abyss created by social media.  This started when Eldest Son turned 13, and could now legally have a Facebook account like his friends had had for years.  Like many parents, I felt that there was only a certain amount of control that I could continue to have over my kids lives, and what better place to start than with social media – allowing him to have that freedom of voice, yet setting up administrative parameters and rules to be obeyed for his own safety, and ultimately legacy.

And so we joined Facebook together. And while I was at it I joined Twitter (@ruthym007) and had a brief flirtation with Pinterest, YouTube and Instagram.  During the course of my writing and work, I have looked at many social media sites, blogging sites, chat sites, community sites and interactive web sites and have found that there are enormous social e-groups out there – all willing to give you the benefit of their advice, whether or not you want it.  It becomes an all inclusive, all pervasive entity that sucks you in, whether you or not you want it.  And so you become silently embroiled in the anger of the mum from Fleet who has just been splashed by a 4x4 on the school run, and others join in with that fury and cite their own stories of puddle rage, and then the conversation turns to general ranting against all people who drive 4x4’s, and then the 4x4 drivers of the group start protesting that they are not all bad, and so on.  It can take hours of your life, or just seconds, your choice.

And this is what, essentially, the divide in social media is about.  It is a tool for communication that was not available to people of my age when we were growing up.  The most that we committed to on paper was the odd (in my case some very odd) letters, both personal and official and flirtation through an office fax.  Photos were three dimensional and kept in albums (or in my case plastic bags in the loft). Now emails can be forwarded to another circle at the press of a button, and anything on social media can be captured and resent to any corner of the world.  None of us can escape it – even if you are not on social media, a picture of you, no matter how old, can be flashed around the world in seconds.  And it’s the same with those old letters and flirtatious office faxes.  So what is the answer?  Well, the likelihood is that you will never know about it, unless someone mentions it, and for years I found myself amazed that everyone knew what I had been doing at the weekend courtesy of friends on social media.  At that point perhaps only 50% of my personal friends were on it, and we laughed at those who obsessively clicked and tapped their status updates wherever we went.  But that percentage has shifted, and two weeks ago I was out with a group of 8 mums, and only one was not on Facebook.

Sadly, I see more and more people of all ages sitting opposite or beside each other tapping away at their phones.  The art of communication it appears is electronic.  From a personal point of view I now make an enormous effort to leave my phone in my handbag and no longer place it on the table in a restaurant.  It is actually more difficult for me than it seems, but if someone has taken the time to meet me for a meal, it is the least that I can do.  And I don’t have that kind of relationship with virtual friends.

On the other hand, I saw the power of Twitter only last night. We have been party to enormous amounts of flooding around our area due to an unprecedented amount of continual rain.  A horse was trapped on a patch of land the size of a dining table. @Natasha_Herald tweeted <If you have a horse trailer please tweet>  It was retweeted 92 times, shared to Facebook  and several offers of help were produced in 20 minutes.  A newly built community that worked at electric speed.

Of course, in the meantime, Eldest Son simply uses Facebook as another communication tool, rather like his mobile or his Xbox.  When he came back from school last Friday with an extra pair of school shoes (I kid you not) and I was ranting and raving about having to phone or email around the list of parents, he simply put up a message on FB and within two minutes came downstairs to announce that they were Harry’s and he would give them to him on Monday. I was left twittering ineffectually.

Watching Benefits Street last night on television, about a street in which there is a preponderance of unemployed people living on the poverty line in social housing, I was struck by the sense of traditional community that they displayed, albeit in a rudimentary way.  But then again, how does that differ from the many social groups on-line? Joined together in a common cause, whether it is the dole, dancing, disease or dogs?  Perhaps rather than fighting the rise of social media, we should embrace it for what it is in all of its contradictions, superficial, helpful, distracting, empowering, depressing, meaningful, pointless – and above all malleable. Communities on social media do not replace the ones that we build in real life, but they can build you up when you are down with a simple <Like>, they can find you anything you want, they can advise, they can lecture.

And unlike Real Life, there is always an off button.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

If you have children of 5 years or over, and are a car driver, then you will (if you haven’t already) one day discover a strange phenomenon known only by London cabbies or Limousine chauffeurs – that of the Invisible Ear.  That is, from the moment that your progeny starts to bring friends home for tea, or in the spirit of good mumminess you offer to give a wayward child a lift, or it’s your turn to do the football run, or indeed (as has once happened to me) a strange child simply clambers into the back of the car and demands to be taken to my house (I didn’t), as the driver, you suddenly become invisible.  Gone then are the two most important things that your children will say to you every day 1) what they ate for lunch  2) what are they having for dinner? 

Instead, their friend brings out of your child more information than you have ever done, and what amazing information that is – unless of course you make the stupid mistake of joining in, in which case if it’s the teenager involved, he merely looks at you wishing that you would instantly explode, if it’s the preteenager, he rolls his eyes and says that you’re really sad, and if it’s the 9 year old he and his friend become instant mutes and giggle on the back seat pretending to shoot you with their fingers…

But if you stay quiet and carry on driving, they carry on talking.  I now know why in my twenties, even thirties, all right… maybe a little into my forties, I would get into taxis with my mates after a night out, and at the end of the journey the driver would be laughing.   It is because, once those car doors close, there is a false sense of privacy, a feeling of shutting out the rest of the world, a space in which to release all that information that is rushing around your head, be it muzzy with alcohol, dizzy with teenage hormones or sparking with prepubescent neurons.

A friend of mine F, whose turn it was to do the netball run, set off in the car to pick up her daughters friend.  F rolled up to the house at 8.30 am in her duvet coat and wooly scarf, beanie shoved on her slightly hungover head, feet trussed up in wellies, teenage daughter in a strop.  The other mother A opened the door impossibly coiffeured and impeccably dressed in a crisp white t shirt and blue jeans, with casually low slung converse boots and not a scrap of make up.  Inwardly F marveled at how great A looked for her age, A was, after all, an older mum, as she bundled the girls into the car.  As she drove off, her daughter turned to her friend with a sigh and said ‘Your mum is soooo cool, she wears fab boots. And she looks sooo cool – I really love her hair, and she’s so pretty.’  F studiously carried on driving although her ears were reddening.  The other girl stopped BBMing on her phone and turned to her daughter, ‘You wouldn’t have said that a couple of weeks ago – she had a chemical peel and bits of her face were dropping off all over the place and she looked like an angry baby.’

Because of the car, I can now proudly talk as an expert on the merits of Xbox versus Playstation, can tell you why the England Cricket team are hopeless, what the best school dinner is, whose single is really the best in the Top 40 regardless of statistics, and who is the fittest girl in Year 4 (and why the girl with an ipad mini and an iphone doesn’t rank).  Other mums who have ferried my kids to places have told me what I wear in bed (or not), which of my children received a bona fide Valentines card (or three) and didn’t tell me, who we entertained for dinner at the weekend, and what I am getting for my birthday…

It does not, however transcend the Teachers Ear Syndrome, which thanks to several friends of mine, have kept us entertained on many a night out.  I asked one friend how her new posting was working out.  She said that a five year old Irish boy with the face of an angel had told her that his mummy thought she was much better than the ‘focking halfwit’ of a teacher that he had had before.  She was torn between correcting his language and defending her predecessor…

Perhaps though, it is best to enjoy the Invisible Ear phenomenon for what it is – a sign that your kids are growing up, learning to express themselves no matter what their age or style, and testing out their ideas and opinions in a contained (and motorized) vehicle. 

Just sit back, and enjoy the ride…