I have a fascination with lighthouses, the reliable sweeping light. A constant in unconstant times. A warning and a guide, a sign of life amidst deep black seas. Statuesque, bleak and bold - yet striking in their beauty and such a powerful icon of hope. Solid in massive proportions and embedded in our culture and our minds. Automated now - but illuminating still, and national treasures the length of the coast.
I watched, as a child in pyjamas, a lighthouse across the bay, from the window of a cottage a stones throw from the beach. A happy place at a happy time and the reason perhaps, I hold such a torch.
A bright light unwavering throughout. I can make no comparison in life. A beacon of hope and strength, and a warning voice. A symbol of safety in an unsafe and uncertain world... x
Sunday, 30 September 2012
Thursday, 27 September 2012
A Great Escape
We are to escape, for a night, my husband and I. Not far - an hours drive - should the forces of bad luck or a young family call us home. But far enough - to pretend for an evening that we are not parents at all. To drink wine in a restaurant overlooking the sea. To speak to each other and finish a sentence without the casual interruption of a child. The first night in 2 years we have stayed away, baby free.
Our destination - a haven of fishing boats with a lighthouse on the south west coast. A cliff top, a harbour and twinkling lights. Such a bright prospect, this great escape. To fish from my wardrobe, a dress befitting of an evening meal, of the civilised sort where children and tantrums are not allowed. A date with our past, in the days before the likelihood of a broken nights sleep called us home at a reasonable hour.
Freedom - short lived but complete. Wine and talk and an evening meal - milk, rice pudding and splatter free... x
Our destination - a haven of fishing boats with a lighthouse on the south west coast. A cliff top, a harbour and twinkling lights. Such a bright prospect, this great escape. To fish from my wardrobe, a dress befitting of an evening meal, of the civilised sort where children and tantrums are not allowed. A date with our past, in the days before the likelihood of a broken nights sleep called us home at a reasonable hour.
Freedom - short lived but complete. Wine and talk and an evening meal - milk, rice pudding and splatter free... x
Wednesday, 26 September 2012
Pretty in Pink
A new scarf, in deepest raspberry pink, coils around my neck in protection from the cold. Late September, this year, has not bestowed mellow autumn days upon the north, but a brisk wind, daily and unseasonably cool. The baby is suspicious of the scarf, and tugs and chews this new addition to her mothers neck. In plums and blush and shades of pink, we make a bright and rosy pair.
When pregnant with my daughter, I was convinced she was a boy. When sonographer, doppler in hand, tilted the screen in our direction and said 'girl' I was certain of her mistake. My husband laughed when - eating chocolate for the shock - I declared with utter conviction that our child was a boy.
How liberating then, this girl of mine - living, breathing, growing proof that one can be entirely wrong. That we know not what our future holds. That anything is possible. My girl, not yet a year, is a miracle to her mother, to the consultant who frowned at the odds, and to women the world over who know that healthy babies don't come easy to us all.
She is resplendent in her pink - a rosy glow amidst our sea of blues and green. So surprising, welcome and embraced, that I have not the words to say... x
When pregnant with my daughter, I was convinced she was a boy. When sonographer, doppler in hand, tilted the screen in our direction and said 'girl' I was certain of her mistake. My husband laughed when - eating chocolate for the shock - I declared with utter conviction that our child was a boy.
How liberating then, this girl of mine - living, breathing, growing proof that one can be entirely wrong. That we know not what our future holds. That anything is possible. My girl, not yet a year, is a miracle to her mother, to the consultant who frowned at the odds, and to women the world over who know that healthy babies don't come easy to us all.
She is resplendent in her pink - a rosy glow amidst our sea of blues and green. So surprising, welcome and embraced, that I have not the words to say... x
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
Party Time
The nearly 5 year old has a party soon. No prizes for guessing his age. In a celebration of turning 5 and joining Primary 1, we have booked a hall in a local authority centre, big enough to house an entire field of cattle, and the farm to which they belong. I tell my boy - 'It's a one off darling, a special party for a special year. We won't be doing this again.'
My son is pleased, excited and happy to be the same as his friends. This is the norm, it seems, when you are 5 - the entire class and whatever other friends you have accumulated along the way. We have attended many just the same, where tens of preschoolers and primary 1's, dive on bouncy castles and eat party treats from trestle tables overflowing with food. The party bags are the highlight for my boy - gingerbread men, cello wrapped with a smartie bow tie, won't cut it this year. So to the supermarket we go, to the custom built isle where party bag treats are like pick 'n' mix. Turning 5 - it seems - is big business indeed.
But there are photographs, more than a few, in an old plastic bag in my parents loft. Snaps I've handled many times, that I know so well they have reinforced memories which may otherwise have slipped through the net. A girl in one, bobbed and blonde on her mothers knee, blows out candles on a cake adorned with icing and jelly tots. And red hair and curls, a smiling gran - much loved - with me now years later, in the happy memories she has left behind.
My boy will have his big day - this once - king of a bouncy castle and the head of his feast. But another day that week, when he is actually 5 - I'll take photos of my own - my son, my baby and the family that we love, with parcels, candles and a jelly tot cake... x
My son is pleased, excited and happy to be the same as his friends. This is the norm, it seems, when you are 5 - the entire class and whatever other friends you have accumulated along the way. We have attended many just the same, where tens of preschoolers and primary 1's, dive on bouncy castles and eat party treats from trestle tables overflowing with food. The party bags are the highlight for my boy - gingerbread men, cello wrapped with a smartie bow tie, won't cut it this year. So to the supermarket we go, to the custom built isle where party bag treats are like pick 'n' mix. Turning 5 - it seems - is big business indeed.
But there are photographs, more than a few, in an old plastic bag in my parents loft. Snaps I've handled many times, that I know so well they have reinforced memories which may otherwise have slipped through the net. A girl in one, bobbed and blonde on her mothers knee, blows out candles on a cake adorned with icing and jelly tots. And red hair and curls, a smiling gran - much loved - with me now years later, in the happy memories she has left behind.
My boy will have his big day - this once - king of a bouncy castle and the head of his feast. But another day that week, when he is actually 5 - I'll take photos of my own - my son, my baby and the family that we love, with parcels, candles and a jelly tot cake... x
Monday, 24 September 2012
Milk Teeth
The nearly 5 year old is preoccupied with teeth. The sort to wobble, pull and fall free of the gum. Not yet, alas for this boy. In a classroom where a tooth is lost on a daily basis, my worrier of a son is concerned that he is falling behind.
I tell him it will come, I show him a special box bought on holiday when he was younger than the baby girl. I whisper of the tooth fairy, pillows, and a penny for his bank. He is eager to please this magical apparition, who will visit - like Santa Claus - only if he is fast asleep.
He runs a tongue, again, over 20 teeth set perfectly fast, and drawing a breath - eyebrows raised to the sky - looks thoroughly bored with the prospect of the wait... x
I tell him it will come, I show him a special box bought on holiday when he was younger than the baby girl. I whisper of the tooth fairy, pillows, and a penny for his bank. He is eager to please this magical apparition, who will visit - like Santa Claus - only if he is fast asleep.
He runs a tongue, again, over 20 teeth set perfectly fast, and drawing a breath - eyebrows raised to the sky - looks thoroughly bored with the prospect of the wait... x
Sunday, 23 September 2012
Well Fed
Leek and potato soup this afternoon - the aroma of which fills the kitchen and feeds the soul. The lady of the house is not the chef. I nurture my children in other ways, but when it comes to eating, of which we do well, my husband is the one in charge.
How lucky then, to have married a man with a love to cook. Who is a father and a husband we are lucky to have. Who is patient, clever and kind, and a source of calm in our often chaotic home. Who perhaps realises not that we would part at the seams without him. In years to come, given a little space, he would choose to plant seeds of his own, to water and tend and watch them grow.
The future then, for a quiet man, whose hands may, given time, turn a shade more green. A family man, with a view to an ordinary life, where those in his care are safe, and well and fed. Enough. For me enough - when love and talk and food itself, make a happy table, and a happy day... x
How lucky then, to have married a man with a love to cook. Who is a father and a husband we are lucky to have. Who is patient, clever and kind, and a source of calm in our often chaotic home. Who perhaps realises not that we would part at the seams without him. In years to come, given a little space, he would choose to plant seeds of his own, to water and tend and watch them grow.
The future then, for a quiet man, whose hands may, given time, turn a shade more green. A family man, with a view to an ordinary life, where those in his care are safe, and well and fed. Enough. For me enough - when love and talk and food itself, make a happy table, and a happy day... x
Friday, 21 September 2012
Sand Shoes
In utter contrast to what went before, the sky today is blue as far as the eye can see. To the beach then, with wellies, jeans and jackets, a bucket and spade and a blanket to keep the baby warm. I like the beach on cooler days, when the day trippers have gone for another year and our companions consist mostly of dog walkers and other mums - bracing the wind to please a child who digs in the sand with small chilled hands.
The sun is lower now, and I squint at the horizon while the nearly 5 year old runs in giant circles, arms wide and tilted to the sky. The sun is blinding, and my boy is a silhouette, like those of grainy cine films where golden lens flare obscures the scene. We are lucky here, this afternoon, with sand and sea and time to spare. A holiday from school in the autumn of a years leave from work. I chase over sands to catch my boy, and the baby laughs and reaches to the sky.
Held aloft, she can fly - my girl knows not of gravity or weight. She can soar and dip and follow the gulls. Who high above our heads, screech and wheel and dive, on a tide edging closer to the shore in the last of the watery afternoon sun... x
The sun is lower now, and I squint at the horizon while the nearly 5 year old runs in giant circles, arms wide and tilted to the sky. The sun is blinding, and my boy is a silhouette, like those of grainy cine films where golden lens flare obscures the scene. We are lucky here, this afternoon, with sand and sea and time to spare. A holiday from school in the autumn of a years leave from work. I chase over sands to catch my boy, and the baby laughs and reaches to the sky.
Held aloft, she can fly - my girl knows not of gravity or weight. She can soar and dip and follow the gulls. Who high above our heads, screech and wheel and dive, on a tide edging closer to the shore in the last of the watery afternoon sun... x
Thursday, 20 September 2012
No Sleep Till Bedtime...
It's film noir stuff here today. A bleak outlook, relentless pouring rain, and a femme fatale - beautiful, manipulative and simply NOT in the mood for sleeping. That's not to mention the cynical, brooding mother. Real film noirs seldom had a happy ending, but this one might - a bath, a drink and a tearful climax - and our little leading lady should succumb to her inevitable downfall... sleep. Desperately needed - in a quiet, shady and dimly lit room. x
Wednesday, 19 September 2012
Mother Love
A friend called round today. A woman who, at times it seems to me, possesses the life force of ten. Who is strong, creative and clever, and who is a good friend to those lucky enough to be in her life.
She has watched of late, her eldest child, alter bit by bit from a bright, funny and beautiful girl - to a nervous, hand-ringing wreck. Who suffers panic attacks and who doesn't - really doesn't - want to go back to school. It would break a mothers heart - and what would any of us do? Speak to those in charge, demand they intervene, spend every spare minute reminding your girl of how very, very loved she is. Tell her time and again she has the strongest team in the world - her family - on her side.
But when tried and tested action plans have no effect, and when the very people who could - and should - take responsibility, turn a blind eye, what then is there to do? Extreme measures - a new school, a new year, and a new start. But a girl saved, a family sleeping through the night, and the next 8 years of a child's life hit the ground running on a better track.
This happy ending did not come easy - perseverance and an utter devotion to protecting a loved one did. I applaud my friend for that. And her girl won't forget. When she had neither weapons nor the understanding to fight a battle that was not of her making, her mother told her 'You are powerful, you are our girl, you are loved'. She will not forget. She will carry those words as a shield - she will grow taller and stronger and much more beautiful, and when faced again with those who show neither love, compassion or shame, she will know herself to be better, to be strong, to be OK - and most importantly of all - to be loved... x
She has watched of late, her eldest child, alter bit by bit from a bright, funny and beautiful girl - to a nervous, hand-ringing wreck. Who suffers panic attacks and who doesn't - really doesn't - want to go back to school. It would break a mothers heart - and what would any of us do? Speak to those in charge, demand they intervene, spend every spare minute reminding your girl of how very, very loved she is. Tell her time and again she has the strongest team in the world - her family - on her side.
But when tried and tested action plans have no effect, and when the very people who could - and should - take responsibility, turn a blind eye, what then is there to do? Extreme measures - a new school, a new year, and a new start. But a girl saved, a family sleeping through the night, and the next 8 years of a child's life hit the ground running on a better track.
This happy ending did not come easy - perseverance and an utter devotion to protecting a loved one did. I applaud my friend for that. And her girl won't forget. When she had neither weapons nor the understanding to fight a battle that was not of her making, her mother told her 'You are powerful, you are our girl, you are loved'. She will not forget. She will carry those words as a shield - she will grow taller and stronger and much more beautiful, and when faced again with those who show neither love, compassion or shame, she will know herself to be better, to be strong, to be OK - and most importantly of all - to be loved... x
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
The First Day...
Oh hello lovely blog... I've denied it for a while, but it's time to face facts - we need to be together. My house can remain untidy, my children's dinner can be late to the table, and my husband can be jealous of the hours we spend together. But what fun I'll have - talking to you. Should my conversation begin to bore, simply turn your back and follow another. But for now, for a while, do me the honour of being my guest - and I'll tell you a little of me, of my man and boy, my darling girl, and of the rest... x
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Toy Shopping
On a trip today to the nearest city, we took the nearly 5 year old and his baby sister to Hamleys. My children are babes in the wood, on the edge of a small village, where the local primary school struggles to sustain its numbers. My boy has never before stood at the foot of a huge shopping street - thronging with hundreds - and grips his mothers hand in awe and not a little apprehension.
But the toy store is magical, floor upon floor, and row upon row, of the stuff of dreams for little boys and girls. The baby takes it in her stride, nonchalantly chewing the ear of her toy owl. But my son is in rapture - and I glimpse for some moments - that long ago simplicity of childhood. When our whole world stretches no further than the environment deemed safe by those who love us most.
He took a while to pick a toy, and I had no desire to rush. Then back to the busy street, gripping a bag of new found treasure, and the safe, familiar hand which first held his own. A nice day - and one I hope he might remember - once toys and woods and village life, have long, long ago become a thing of his past... x
But the toy store is magical, floor upon floor, and row upon row, of the stuff of dreams for little boys and girls. The baby takes it in her stride, nonchalantly chewing the ear of her toy owl. But my son is in rapture - and I glimpse for some moments - that long ago simplicity of childhood. When our whole world stretches no further than the environment deemed safe by those who love us most.
He took a while to pick a toy, and I had no desire to rush. Then back to the busy street, gripping a bag of new found treasure, and the safe, familiar hand which first held his own. A nice day - and one I hope he might remember - once toys and woods and village life, have long, long ago become a thing of his past... x
Wednesday, 12 September 2012
Autumn Leaves
Autumn has arrived these past few days. In the chill of the wind, the shortening of the afternoon, and the coolness of a sun now lower in the sky.
My Mother loves the summer. With each arrival of spring she sighs in relief and turns elegant, still beautiful, limbs to the sky. Her daughter is of another ilk. I welcome the mulberry, smoky, warmth of the richest season of the year. Summer promises long golden sandy days - but often disappoints. As the season turns I will wrap my children in warm, bright clothes. We will light our fire, draw our curtains, and tell bedtime stories in the dark.
My son was an autumn baby. In the woods around our home, the leaves will turn a rich, russet red and swirl in the wind. He will crunch them underfoot and splash in puddles - nose berry red from the new chilled air - on his morning walk to school... x
My Mother loves the summer. With each arrival of spring she sighs in relief and turns elegant, still beautiful, limbs to the sky. Her daughter is of another ilk. I welcome the mulberry, smoky, warmth of the richest season of the year. Summer promises long golden sandy days - but often disappoints. As the season turns I will wrap my children in warm, bright clothes. We will light our fire, draw our curtains, and tell bedtime stories in the dark.
My son was an autumn baby. In the woods around our home, the leaves will turn a rich, russet red and swirl in the wind. He will crunch them underfoot and splash in puddles - nose berry red from the new chilled air - on his morning walk to school... x
Thursday, 6 September 2012
Daddy's Girl
The baby girl was FURIOUS with me this morning. She is developing quite a temper, my lovely little lioness. My crime was to thwart her attempts at eating a shoe. Pink, plump and bath fresh, she crumpled her face, drew me a look of sheer rage and yelled MA MA MA MA MA! Before angrily wrestling the rabbits in her cot and collapsing into sleep.
It was a lovely moment - this fit of fury - the first time my darling girl has named her mother - until now its usually DA DA DA DA DA :-) x
It was a lovely moment - this fit of fury - the first time my darling girl has named her mother - until now its usually DA DA DA DA DA :-) x
Monday, 3 September 2012
Food Fights
Teatime is the hardest when my husband is away. The big hand approaching 5 and a half inexplicably sends my children into a frenzy of tears, tantrums and high pitched wailing. And that's not to mention their mother.
Previously, the answer was to continuously shovel food into the baby girls mouth whilst threatening the nearly 5 year old with no pudding if he didn't stop kicking the table. This got us through. Recently however, my youngest has perfected her technique of grabbing the spoon halfway to mouth and splatting the contents back in my direction.
It is, after all, a mothers lot to spend these early days stained from head to toe in a variety of bodily fluids, but by the time 5.30 creeps around I'm at the end of my day - and when I'm a team of one - the end of my tether. I suspect the withering stare greeting my husband when he appears in from the late train is unjust... but I do envy him these capsules in time - aboard trains or planes - when the only way to pass the minutes is to read a book or stare blankly at the evening horizion.
My mornings and afternoons are filled with noise, tears and hair pulling. The humdrum fabric of another day, yet not ultimately the stuff of memories for mothers of the very young. We remember the smiles and the clean bedtime weary nodding heads. We sweep away the trials of the afternoon, back aching from carrying our charge, as we sweep the debris of another day from the kitchen floor... x
Previously, the answer was to continuously shovel food into the baby girls mouth whilst threatening the nearly 5 year old with no pudding if he didn't stop kicking the table. This got us through. Recently however, my youngest has perfected her technique of grabbing the spoon halfway to mouth and splatting the contents back in my direction.
It is, after all, a mothers lot to spend these early days stained from head to toe in a variety of bodily fluids, but by the time 5.30 creeps around I'm at the end of my day - and when I'm a team of one - the end of my tether. I suspect the withering stare greeting my husband when he appears in from the late train is unjust... but I do envy him these capsules in time - aboard trains or planes - when the only way to pass the minutes is to read a book or stare blankly at the evening horizion.
My mornings and afternoons are filled with noise, tears and hair pulling. The humdrum fabric of another day, yet not ultimately the stuff of memories for mothers of the very young. We remember the smiles and the clean bedtime weary nodding heads. We sweep away the trials of the afternoon, back aching from carrying our charge, as we sweep the debris of another day from the kitchen floor... x
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