tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57255525699399716552024-03-19T15:41:36.358-07:00YELLOW WELLIESAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-14245879942397814572016-11-14T15:49:00.001-08:002016-12-03T13:20:33.275-08:00ENTRY FIFTY ONE - THE SOUND OF SILENCE<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI0F1pjmtU7eoTvz4qZMThDvS5sffvdT7JYpdUsEVRE0Z7WdpYVVowE07tAFjDlH65tIQd_ojMiOtS46TgDyHlybYU49MkHZZlnWeo44B29KnmRMPP3BONGd6wlmvdR17B-q9Jo0rI7W0U/s1600/firework.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI0F1pjmtU7eoTvz4qZMThDvS5sffvdT7JYpdUsEVRE0Z7WdpYVVowE07tAFjDlH65tIQd_ojMiOtS46TgDyHlybYU49MkHZZlnWeo44B29KnmRMPP3BONGd6wlmvdR17B-q9Jo0rI7W0U/s400/firework.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When
one writes ‘The End’ one imagines that it will in fact be the end. That a
journey of three years, neatly and emotionally summed up in one last, glorious
chapter, would be over. Yet sometimes the game plan has to be adjusted even
after the game is over, and this is one of those times. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This
is an entry I never imagined I would write. <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">O</span>ne I hesitate over even as I know it will reach countless others who have
suffered, and those who are yet to receive the news that no one expects and is
never welcome. This is an entry about miscarriage - in particular about silent
or missed miscarriage – something I had never heard of until it happened to me.
To us. Until a shadow I had never thought to fear fell upon a life as yet
unnamed and barely felt, but already loved<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> and</span> looked forward to<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It
is early September. Summer begins her gradual retreat, crowned <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">with</span> a <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">g<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">olde<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">n</span></span> </span>trip to Italy
which spins by in a burst of colour, heat and happy nuptials. And then two little
blue lines catapult us into the first stage of a great adventure, one that
changes everything. A few weeks later, on the eve of Felix’s third birthday, a
tired and happy little boy goes to bed and I go to the toilet. And see blood.
It is hard to explain the feeling as panic rushes to my head <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">and m<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">akes me dizzy with fea<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">r</span></span></span>. I lie down while we call 111, irrationally convinced that if I stay
horizontal I can prevent something very bad happening. Reassuring words
and advice do nothing to relieve the fluttering wings of fear that beat my
heart into a frenzy, and I lie awake hoping that the tiny life does not ebb
away.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A
few days later, still bleeding, I go to hospital for a scan. Thick with foreboding
I lie back while the sonographer enters the blackness of my womb and I pray
that the news is good. It is inconclusive, either my dates are wrong or things are not what they should be. We wait a week to see what develops and it is a week both black and
white. Fear rubs uneasy shoulders with hope, each muscling the other out of the
way in an awkward dance. Life continues as normal and I walk talk and work,
look after Felix and outwardly function, yet my soul weeps. <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I fear I alrea<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">dy k<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">now the truth.</span></span></span> Medical science may not offer the definitive
answer but my body has spoken loud and clear and it is only with force of will
that I drown it out, clinging to the hope that I am mistaken. But I
already know, because on the day of Felix’s birthday I started feeling
better. I stopped feeling nauseous, drained and lethargic. All the<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span>symptoms and foibles of early pregnancy had eased. Sure enough, a week later, a sentence starting ‘Unfortunately’
confirms our fears. Now what?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Options <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">are <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">explained</span></span>, sheets of paper with
information given. The term 'silent miscarriage' stays with me as we make our way
home, ringing as loud as a bell in my ear. Missed miscarriage; a kind of non
event when the body pulls the plug on the development of the miniscule foetus
but forgets to pull the flush. A kind of horrid limbo when your baby is not
actually dead but is not 'viable<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">'.</span> Awful, callous word, meaning it may yet be growing
but not fast enough, for in these early stages the foetus must double in size
weekly if it is to win the race for life. And mine – ours - hasn’t. It’s still
there, growing too slowly to ever be fully grown. And now must be ‘dealt with’<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">,</span>a phrase that reminds me of a contract killing which in fact it kind of is.
Option a, wait for nature to take her course. Option b, take some pills, go
home, and wait for the bomb to drop. Option c, hospital for a ‘routine
procedure’ which vacuums the ‘materials’ out of the womb. We are
sent home to consider what to do. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In
the manner of the conjuror forcing the <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">marked</span> card on you, option b seems the
most reasonable. Not as drawn out as option a, not as severe as option c. Never
having had general aneasthetic I fear going under with the simple dread of
ignorance, and words such as ‘perforation of the womb’ ‘scarring that may cause
infertility’ and ‘possible need for blood transfusions’ despite the ‘very low
risk’ coda frighten me into accepting the pills. And <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">so we find oursel<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ves at home</span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">w</span></span>aiting for something awful to happen, armed only with codeine
enriched paracetamol and my unspoken dread that this will in some way approach
the horrors of birth. Nothing happens, and when Monday dawns it is to the
realization that it was a waste of time and I will have to have the operation.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The
routine procedure turns out to be just that and <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I aw<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ke from the aneasthe<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ti<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">c</span></span></span></span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">feeling oddly<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>refreshed and <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">p</span>leasantly high. That evening I am back home
surrounded by family and food, being waited on hand and foot, trying not to
make my zen-like stonedness obvious to all, but in the days that follow I
arrive back to earth with a bump, realizing that in all the confusion of
waiting and hoping and trying to solve ‘the problem’ I have foregone grief. Yes, a
flood of tears on hearing confirmation of bad news, and several bouts of crying
in the preceding weeks but since then nothing. Just an achy numbness that feels
bland and endless. <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At last</span></span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">there is</span> nothing to focus on apart from the fact that
nothing will now happen. That the spring baby we hoped for and created is now
gone. That I have become a statistic. 1 in 3 is now me, and how strange
and impossible it seems. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0d4dvOQKrt0gySFEyVNSbJYcBiNp77qeyMLJelIa9JjPE54aMbpYTnUl6RIz447C2UCjZa3jpDPFdSbr6-3SyjwFnaIGx6dNK0iqITZVbahUgPg3BhnYufDolGiW8rWR0yNl7FnBdFU19/s1600/bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0d4dvOQKrt0gySFEyVNSbJYcBiNp77qeyMLJelIa9JjPE54aMbpYTnUl6RIz447C2UCjZa3jpDPFdSbr6-3SyjwFnaIGx6dNK0iqITZVbahUgPg3BhnYufDolGiW8rWR0yNl7FnBdFU19/s400/bird.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And
so begins my campaign of talking, of sharing, and to my shock and growing
conviction that something must change I find that everyone has a story. And I
mean everyone. Wife, sister mother friend aunt, friend of friend, stories of
sadness and loss begin to cluster like a gigantic flock of birds, each tiny one
forming the speck of a whole that could black out the sky. I start slowly, at
work, with friends, undertaking the sad un-telling so characteristic of
miscarriage, where anyone you told or hinted to or who somehow suspected needs
to be untold. Never have I understood the wisdom of not <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">blabbing <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">during </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">the fi<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">rst trimester </span></span>better than in that fortnight. And with every telling,
with every bit of love and compassion offered in return, with every story
shared and every moist eye that reflects my own sadness, I feel like I
understand what needs to be done. Miscarriage needs to come out of the closet.
Why is it that this is not spoken of, when it seems every human over the
age of thirty has been touched by it? Why is there still this taboo,
as if you must have done something wrong?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Conviction
and strength begin to overcome my lethargy and I become a kind of miscarriage
evangelist. I tell anyone who will listen; <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">friends at my <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">voll<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">eyball club, </span></span>m</span>y bosses former and
current, both of whom have experienced exactly the same. I begin to wonder if
there is <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">anyone </span>who has not <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">lost</span> a baby in some way at some
point. This is the most common and yet least spoken of thing I have ever
experienced, and I wonder why this is? Is it still a hangover from the dark
ages, when a woman who could not carry a baby to term would be viewed with
contempt and suspicion? How did any women ever survive at all, I wonder,
between the dangers of giving birth and the almost inevitable probability of
multiple miscarriages throughout life? What horrors did these poor
beleaguered women carry in their sad, unhealed wombs, blighting them and
possibly killing them. Enough!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I
am throwing open the window and saying this is me, and it might well be you.
Strength in numbers; and as far as I can see this flock is vast, uncountable,
unfathomable. So join me and speak up, speak up for all women now and past and
future who will receive this awful news, and for their heartbroken partners and
families. Even if we cannot prevent miscarriage, which maybe one day we will,
we can overcome the silence that surrounds it, cloaking it in a vestige of
shame and blame. I did nothing wrong, you did nothing wrong. We are blameless.
We shall overcome, and we shall conceive again. </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-56059071549238536222016-08-21T15:08:00.000-07:002016-11-14T13:46:26.284-08:00ENTRY FIFTY - FINAL BOW<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It is
mid August and the summers end looms like a late afternoon shadow. It has not
been a vintage year; a chilly start muddled with downpours, weeks of tedious
humidity and bleak, grey-white skies. This has been a summer to take what you
can when you can, snatching fine days for picnics and river swims, forging
ahead with camping trips – dodgy forecast and all – and dreary mornings
brightened by a visit to the rose garden at Hampton Court, where an
embarrassment of velvety blooms hang heavy and rich with fragrance. Dinners of
fish and chips on the beach, eaten straight from the paper and swaddled in
hoodies; this is what British summertime means. In the last fortnight the
blackberries have come into season, lustrous black jewels bursting with tart
sweetness. Felix is in heaven, his face smeared with claret, berry stained
hands testimony to rich pickings. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";"> </span>
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<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When
Felix was less than a year old, my cousin and her family visited from Poland. We had
much to catch up on, and during the course of an emotional conversation about
birth and miscarriage she said something that has stayed with me and which I
think about during moments both tender and tricky. 'No matter hold old your
child or children are, whether three months or two years or five, you always
come to believe that this is the best time. That they are now at their height
of sweetnesss, their perfect ripeness. That this is the moment you will look
back on in years to come and remember as the golden time'. How right she was
and what a gift to a parent it is. It is this selective madness that makes
parenting possible, that offers dollops of sweetness to mask the sour taste of
tantrums, sleep regressions and food strikes. That burnishes reality; enhancing
the good and making the bad fade as if it never were. Every parent believes the
best of their child, seeing through to the core of gold that exists in every
tiny person, glimpsing the limitless possibilities that surround them like an
aurora. Being a mother to Felix has tested my spirit, my relationship, enhanced
and pruned and strengthened, bringing out the truest, most resilient and
resourceful parts whilst cutting out the deadwood. In turn I feed this energy,
commitment and zeal for life back into him, one vessel endlessly refilling
another. A miracle of infinite sustenance. </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvsbt1fvGia5vqv76reL2b2rb6Tldox3DvuQGczDutnVJLMw9czuV9-y9LTIHP7E-V_xsH2_-GE_YE_47UMhYvKPdoDP8jGWRem5Dh90_8-JGs89Qr8f56bD2vBS8h8RjUYuTZtatr5XE/s1600/pointing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvsbt1fvGia5vqv76reL2b2rb6Tldox3DvuQGczDutnVJLMw9czuV9-y9LTIHP7E-V_xsH2_-GE_YE_47UMhYvKPdoDP8jGWRem5Dh90_8-JGs89Qr8f56bD2vBS8h8RjUYuTZtatr5XE/s320/pointing.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I write
this final entry just as everything changes again and a new routine is becoming
established. The daytime nap is no more. After months of on/off napping, at
times daily battles and spells of relapse, he has decided that definitely he
does not wish to or need to nap any longer. This has changed the very landscape
of our day, and therefore the equilibrium of life in general. Gone are my two
hour slots of daily writing, replaced by a brief half hour of enforced ‘quiet
time’, enough only for a cup of tea and a period of doing absolutely nothing at
all. For the rest of the day, all twelve hours of it, he is on the move, a
darting, dancing, questioning, playful robin with the short fuse of a tiger and
the emotional fragility of a teenage girl. It’s quite a whirlwind, and evenings
find me too strung out to compose my thoughts enough to write. It’s not the
physical demands that tire me, but the almost constant need for attention, the
eagle eye and elephant ear that notices everything and asks ‘What’s that
mummy?’ </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Yet just
as Mother Nature adds another burden she takes also something from the load,
sensing that otherwise you may simply collapse under the onslaught. His ability
to play alone, and the development of imaginative play, has hugely improved. He
can be left in a room by himself for some considerable minutes without the need
for supervision. As parents of toddlers will understand this is an immense
blessing, and means you can sneak off for a quick glimpse at your phone, go to
the toilet, or just sit looking into space for a few minutes. For
non-parents-of-toddlers, imagine a meeting that lasted all day, from the moment
you wake up, during breakfast and through lunch and dinner, having to take your
toilet breaks with someone knocking on the door and saying ‘can I come in?’ and
never being allowed to speak your mind, swear, be callous, impatient or give a
bad example (lest it be instantly copied and magnified to the nth degree) In
fact whilst being the best, kindest, most patient, encouraging, stimulating,
loving and selfless person you can be, whilst the boss (or in this case your
child) rushes about creating mess, wanting to simultaneously draw/play
trains/brush the cat, needing regular snacks, meals, water, milk, cleaning up,
hand washes and bum wipes and trips to the toilet or corners of the playground
to wee even though they only just did one ‘but it was only a tiny one and now
there’s more’. Therefore these precious moments when they become lost in their
world of play, that incredible space in their imagination where a little
plastic house can be simultaneously a garage, a moving train that announces its
destinations and just a plain old house are like tiny breathing holes, giving
just enough air that you do not stifle. </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOVysD6dvRX6u-_ka2rvp2WMlfpAw6xB3ajyma1maWIJiGzSgo3JsPX7H_Hwf7WsZvUEi9UP0qeeegGVxZgu81uHZCr6SmLtGX2cCIKY-xUKY1x35DMZCQHiwSIEHspj06usr8gOcYuKM/s1600/angelwings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOVysD6dvRX6u-_ka2rvp2WMlfpAw6xB3ajyma1maWIJiGzSgo3JsPX7H_Hwf7WsZvUEi9UP0qeeegGVxZgu81uHZCr6SmLtGX2cCIKY-xUKY1x35DMZCQHiwSIEHspj06usr8gOcYuKM/s320/angelwings.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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</span><div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Everything
is changing, and everything is about to change. In four weeks time Felix will
celebrate his third birthday, and I can hardly believe that I have been writing
these entries, these odes to our amazing journey, for three years. Soon, our
extended period of intimacy and exclusivity will be challenged, for the term
after he turns three, in his case January 2017, Felix will be at last be
eligible for some free hours of preschool. Only for three mornings a week, and
then only for three hours at a time, yet this will be the first time he has
ever been left for more than a few minutes with a non family member or close
friend. It’s a seismic shift in our relationship, and my primacy as mother, the
chief carer, the main educator, the shaper of the dough that is Felix, will be
in part handed over to others. What a very odd and disquieting prospect, after
so much time being the centre of his world. Not that I’m saying it is not time,
if anything it is long overdue, and yet the thought filled me with so many
mixed emotions. For many kids and parents this enforced separation comes a lot
younger, and whilst this is undoubtedly harder and often more harrowing, having
been so long in harness with each other it seems utterly impossible that this
will not always be so. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Felix is
about to fly a little way from the nest that I have so painstakingly built and
feathered with my own down, the nest that has come to symbolise the unbreakable
bond forged by our many years together as a couple, the nest built on love,
laughter, art and music, and a deep level of mutual respect and admiration. He
is strong, able, and confident, and the time is ripe to stretch those wings. It
is a season of change, and as an unassailable sentimentalist I am already
marking the time before he begins his tiny foray into the wider world. In part
I am looking forward to it, thinking of the time I will have to myself, the
mornings of freedom, the chance to write, organize my life, do whatever I
choose, yet I am painfully aware that the singular time we have spent together,
co-conspirators in the adventure of our own making, is drawing to a close, and
at times the thought of that makes me weep. Oh, the passing of time, the
growing up of the child. Never again can you have any of it back; that is why
it is vital to fully appreciate and experience it as you go. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
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<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Every
morning as I open the back door so Felix and I can welcome the day, a robin
swoops down to greet us, red breast flashing against the green of the garden. I
can no longer consider it coincidence, for the regularity of this
daily occurrence spurns chance. It is a small thing, and yet somehow it
represents all that I am grateful for. Every humble pleasure, every speck of
joy, every tiny miracle, Felix, my darling, brilliant, beautiful boy, it has
all been about you. This whole book, this unfolding of myself, this journey of
growth and improvement, this opening of the eyes and heightening of the senses,
this marvelous, extraordinary escapade, it is you who have made this possible.
I love you more than life itself, and I love life very dearly. It is time to
end now. I cannot help but feel a keen sadness, and the tears run unchecked as
I write these words. But comes a season to begin and a season to end; and it is
only the wisdom of age and of experience that helps to show you which is which. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEmMP4LiEb74WdhS3Li-6XeimA4Og4u6juWMlDeLiTsq0AZcju9f8fqXsyP2cbHvkEPs_jaj3J9a7pKFWmN47JDh9DEivkMwOzeM3HS5Zh68j0UhsaPyDfOHTmV4uWKytnHEJBpGzKEfMD/s1600/familyofthree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEmMP4LiEb74WdhS3Li-6XeimA4Og4u6juWMlDeLiTsq0AZcju9f8fqXsyP2cbHvkEPs_jaj3J9a7pKFWmN47JDh9DEivkMwOzeM3HS5Zh68j0UhsaPyDfOHTmV4uWKytnHEJBpGzKEfMD/s320/familyofthree.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">“One of the strange things
about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one
is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one
gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands out and throws
one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly
changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East
almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging
majesty of the rising of the sun--which has been happening every morning for
thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment
or so”.</span></span><br />
<form>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Frances Hodgson Burnett, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secret Garden</i></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">THE
END</span></div>
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<![endif]--><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-52023763501688827672016-07-06T16:04:00.000-07:002016-08-09T13:06:45.789-07:00ENTRY FORTY NINE - NO FEAR<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcB2J9ATQ7VOzC8QKHFmBCYQ3YgsdnbKznbZh4Tj2ZctxBbXqCz92mIzMFz9GqAarsuy8tFW9dk4Eb2GQYkpbINwnDcvet7d8DwPpL1BjGfFGp81Ofwt2m-MFFy7gsOLIAHKK3LDqZFffR/s1600/katandsurfing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcB2J9ATQ7VOzC8QKHFmBCYQ3YgsdnbKznbZh4Tj2ZctxBbXqCz92mIzMFz9GqAarsuy8tFW9dk4Eb2GQYkpbINwnDcvet7d8DwPpL1BjGfFGp81Ofwt2m-MFFy7gsOLIAHKK3LDqZFffR/s1600/katandsurfing.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";">No Fear: surf speak for the moment one sallies forth,
attempting the amazing feat of riding a moving body of water on a floating board. Catch the wave and hoist yourself upright, find your
balance and enjoy the ride, fall off and get sucked under, remembering to keep
the sun in your sights. Swim up to the surface, breathe. Repeat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Scary how quickly you can
lose sight of which way is up and which way down, and it is only now - nearly
three years later -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that I see just how
far the current had pulled me under after Felix’s birth. For the first six
months I was too busy tending his ever present needs to consider
something as intangible as my own mental health. After the physical trauma of delivery
I was so grateful that I would not be (oh horror)
incontinent that I felt utterly fine. Emerging from the first stage and
entering the arena of weaning, sleep training and ever shifting patterns of
napping, I was too busy to worry about my feelings. What new mother can spare
the energy? In fact, it was only in the run-up to his first birthday that the truth began to seep out. Until then I had assumed that my fears and anxieties
were natural and normal, that the grief I felt in regards to my experience of
labour and the fear that engulfed me whenever I let my mind slip towards the black abyss was simply a part of the healing process and that things would
improve without the need for intervention. I let the tears flow freely and
poured out my story to anyone who would listen, convinced that the telling
would heal the hurt, the way it had always done in the past. Insomnia was submerged by night feeds, and the demands of new motherhood providing a perfect
cover for the fact that a cohort of demons had invaded and were slowly taking over. It was only when Felix started sleeping through
the night that the true damage was revealed, just as the low tide exposes all
the detritus washed up on the beach. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I write this ent<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">r<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">y</span> in </span></span>order to try and help all those women who </span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECrHbx2LALzPa_nvoYBfkOfZ1gFRCsKg0eE1R8bpEXhRsUT8uYoP_9qaHiWHRXqlq15XKUF2XN9C-SsKo-OqnW5our8ubhgCOmahitWyeF4obCn55Z4Rdpn2yPP0Fwm_HEuF5UhTyUXux/s1600/lonelytree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECrHbx2LALzPa_nvoYBfkOfZ1gFRCsKg0eE1R8bpEXhRsUT8uYoP_9qaHiWHRXqlq15XKUF2XN9C-SsKo-OqnW5our8ubhgCOmahitWyeF4obCn55Z4Rdpn2yPP0Fwm_HEuF5UhTyUXux/s320/lonelytree.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">have experienced complicated, traumatic,
or tragic births, still births and miscarriages and other sufferings that have
no name. You are not alone. Your grief and suffering is not impenetrable, you
can and you should seek help. Among those who study postpartum afflictions, the
profile of women exhibiting signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is on the
rise. Two recent studies have found that approximately one-third of all
postpartum women suffer some elements of PTSD, and three to seven percent
suffer full-blown PTSD. “During childbirth, many women experience real threats
regarding physical harm or death to themselves or their baby,” says Inbal
Shlomi-Polchek, a psychiatrist and co-author of the Tel Aviv study. “During a
painful birth, many women believe that their bodies are torn or destroyed
irreversibly.” Such is the truth of giving birth, and whilst a lucky percentage
sail through with a minimum of fuss or pain, for many others the agony<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> and </span>fear<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span>they undergo during those<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> twil<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ight</span></span> hours when your baby goes from
unborn to born and you go from woman to mother, are deeply scarring, both mentally
and physically. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Mothers and soldiers, we
are kin, for it is these groups who suffer must from PTSD. I have come to perceive
a very real stigma surrounding the experience of giving birth, and saying that
you had an awful, potentially life changing time is frowned upon. ‘Don’t worry,
it’s all over now’ and ‘But think how lucky you are to have a lovely, healthy
baby’ is a sentiment I heard echoed more than once. Labour and birth are
considered ‘natural’ and ‘wonderful’ and ‘life enhancing’, and no doubt that
they can be, but they equally can be agonizing, terrifying, and dehumanizing. I’m
guessing <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">you</span> wouldn’t tell a battle scarred soldier to chill out, it’s all over,
and look, you're all in one piece, would you? <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Y</span>et <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">those are </span>exactly the kind of
platitudes that traumatized mothers are offered. Unfortunately<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> - </span>and to
some incredibly<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> - </span>modern medicine and care does not always, or even often,
deliver <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> civilised, well managed, 'good' birth</span></span>. So what have a new mother and a soldier in common? The
list includes long hours of pain and fear, exposure to the threat of death or
serious injury - believe me<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> that </span>fear for your unborn child is terrifying
beyond compare - a loss of dignity and control, the chilling feeling that a
battle is underway and must inevitably come to a close, and an all-consuming
sense o</span>f the presence of mortality and the terrifying fragility of life, all
this whilst you are experiencing the worst pain of your life. Without any
training. Without any briefing. Without any armour. Stripped, in fact, to the
very essence of what you are. And when it is all over and your body has come
through the ordeal, you may find, as I did, that your mind is caught in a web
of grief, fear, anger and horror, and that you are unable to stop the endless
replay of those bloody hours in which you were invaded, torn and mutilated,
subject to fear and horror and a level of pain you have not previously imagined
possible. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Dear mothers, hear my words; do
not suffer in silence, covering up your heartbreak and anguish.
Your pain and grief can be addressed, processed and ordered and
stored correctly in your brain and in your heart, and you will find that an
enormous, crushing weight has been lifted from your mind, your heart, and your
spirit. You will rediscover your joy for life, enhance the love that you feel
for your children, family, friends and self, feel once again free to contemplate
becoming pregnant again without a sick fear invading your soul, scorching it like acid. When my panic
attacks, bouts of weeping, progressive insomnia, horror of pregnancy, and bewildering surges of adrenalin become impossible to
ignore or couch as ‘normal’ I thought, ‘OK, enough’. After a referral from my
GP and an assessment from a clinical psychologist that diagnosed me as
‘probably suffering from post traumatic stress disorder brought on by a
traumatic birth’ I finally had a name for what was happening to me. For me, part of the horror had been the feeling that a corrosive process had taken control of my
psyche and was inexorably ruining what was good and healthy, blocking out the
light and feeding on the darkness it created. A cancer of the spirit. What we
know about cancer is that early diagnosis is vital in treatment, so too is
early diagnosis and effective treatment in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYAPW91sHRpqHoF6Xv8ykzFk6sQOsQIe8lPPXprfL7ZB4AAiMKEW099oK0seDBWYke6F9y0pEVyf3PA7hZoUUVG91t1-I3M0HQoUHv0JrS2kEhyQ2ehRSPNwHzeFN5JrZ4iD47vLem0bT/s1600/bigsmiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYAPW91sHRpqHoF6Xv8ykzFk6sQOsQIe8lPPXprfL7ZB4AAiMKEW099oK0seDBWYke6F9y0pEVyf3PA7hZoUUVG91t1-I3M0HQoUHv0JrS2kEhyQ2ehRSPNwHzeFN5JrZ4iD47vLem0bT/s320/bigsmiles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">I write this for all who have been through ordeals
which have stolen something intrinsic from their spirit. If any of this rings
bells with you, if you feel that, just perhaps, you are not ‘quite alright’, if
you can’t sleep at night or wake trembling in the morning bathed in the slick
sweat of fear, if you feel that birth was something you survived or endured,
and want more than anything to forget but cannot, then contact your GP, or any of the organizations named below, and get help. After a course of trauma focused Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, a
process that involves many hours of talking, re-living the experience, and then
re-sculpting the irrational thoughts and fears that surround it, and finally
letting my ‘updated cognitions’ take the place of those damaged and
irrational demons, I have torn through the blackness and out of the abyss. I no longer feel broken and
damaged, on the verge of tears, hyper alert and panicky, My sleep - blessed
blessed sleep - is nearly what it was before. I can talk and write about my
experience in a way that is positive and perhaps even helpful to others.
I am no longer caught in the crossfire of my own mind, where ravaged memories
seek endlessly to be laid to rest. I am free. Free to
contemplate having another child. Free to enjoy motherhood and life. And let me
tell you, that this is freedom indeed. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-35971557626587146252016-06-10T14:32:00.000-07:002016-06-21T14:06:46.103-07:00ENTRY FORTY EIGHT - POTTY MOUTH<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOJF3r1YMbOBG87uNUBIqlzsRAXm67vluqutYwkGnL-vGUr0mgzg2YWLYRpVJvVcq20QKWtgIh6mg_N3HBI7byRRdyV6oDxO8g2oh57-yWUIP32rb-o9vdFuK3ktErIsW8yiV8YNT9stQW/s1600/treeswing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOJF3r1YMbOBG87uNUBIqlzsRAXm67vluqutYwkGnL-vGUr0mgzg2YWLYRpVJvVcq20QKWtgIh6mg_N3HBI7byRRdyV6oDxO8g2oh57-yWUIP32rb-o9vdFuK3ktErIsW8yiV8YNT9stQW/s320/treeswing.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Unpainted toe nails glow
like pale shells against the lightly browned skin of my feet, and a very faint yet
discernable tan line shows the ghost of flip flops. It is June 10<sup>th</sup>
and it is finally summer, albeit a volatile summer peppered with abrupt drenching
storms, rumbling claps of thunder and chilly days that call for coats and
covered shoes. Solstice draws ever nearer, and on fine evenings an afterglow of
day hovers in the sky till after ten. We have started taking breakfast in the
garden whenever possible, and as I sit under the benevolent canopy of the
ancient oak tree, watching as the sun rises over the roofs of the houses and
pours honey-golden light into the garden, I can hardly believe a year has
passed since we moved to Teddington. Robins and blue tits dart and chirrup and
the movement of branches creates a kaleidoscope of greens, and I wonder how
we survived so long without this blessed outdoor space. Not to mention a second
bedroom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Months have passed since I
last composed an entry, and this self imposed silence has been a fertile time
during which I have worked hard to reestablish my ailing career and allowed
much needed time for reflection. And yet in recent weeks the urge to write has
built steadily like a slowly worsening itch, and I have found myself scribbling
thoughts on scraps of paper and in iphone notes. Rust never sleeps, and a
writer can never really stop writing. Time then for another, belated entry, for
I feel I have earned the right to bugle from the treetops. Felix is potty
trained! The tyranny of nappies is over, naps and nighttimes aside for the time
being, and I feel like a grave burden has been lifted. After months of
procrastination and a failed attempt in the miserly dregs of winter – snowsuits
and multiple layers proving an insurmountable barrier - suddenly 48 hours has
changed everything. This only serves to mark how effortless teaching your child
can be when they are naturally ready to receive the lesson, like a flower
turned up to receive the morning dew. One evening a fortnight ago, Felix
expressed clearly his wish to be rid of nappies, so the very next day out we
stepped over the threshold, pants and jeans the only thing between his nethers
and the outside world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’ve heard the rhetoric
about keeping them in for a few days while you’re </span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxOiX9Zqtz_GI2sPdQJtfnw_DIKyi5HjmdDAvPc8HRzRFoCCuQqVwlVJz4Mu8YOVlto5mGLD4jPzhyphenhyphenHcw1suJaSlaa_Hb8K0ysoyCWo0zrsQXxk2ZSaYQdRYWTjSF_FA1mZNlTvD54hpd/s1600/pottybarrow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUxOiX9Zqtz_GI2sPdQJtfnw_DIKyi5HjmdDAvPc8HRzRFoCCuQqVwlVJz4Mu8YOVlto5mGLD4jPzhyphenhyphenHcw1suJaSlaa_Hb8K0ysoyCWo0zrsQXxk2ZSaYQdRYWTjSF_FA1mZNlTvD54hpd/s320/pottybarrow.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">training but that was never
going to work for us. A wild horse cannot be stabled, so off we trotted to
playgroup as usual, with firm entreaties not to wee in the bike seat and the
potty lodged snugly in the bike basket. ‘Do you need to wee?’ I asked as we
cycled off. ‘No’ he replied. Two hours and no wees later, I put him back in the
bike seat. ‘Right, I have to go to the bank, tell me if you need to wee’. Queuing
up to cash a cheque I noticed his face had assumed a charged expression, ‘Do
you need to wee?’ I asked, ‘Yes mummy’ he replied, looking helpless. Quick as a
flash I whisked him round the corner into the private banking section,
thankfully empty, and whipped out the potty. At first he sat rigid and alert
but then his body relaxed and an endless stream of wee poured forth. ‘I’ve weed
mummy’ he cried in delight as I smuggled the slopping potty outside and slung
its contents into the gutter. ‘Well done my boy!’ I felt as proud as a hen that
has laid its first egg, and as we re-entered the bank I stifled a laugh. Lucky
them, I thought to myself, that I didn’t sling the whole lot over them while screaming
‘This is what I think of your policies you bunch of scoundrels!’ The story has since
done the rounds of friends and acquaintances, with some thinking me insane and others
a hero.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think a lack of shame
and inhibition is just the ticket when you’re potty training; and I’m more than
happy to pop him on his chamber pot on the train platform, high street or
playground. As far as I’m concerned it’s a vital learning process that modern
society has lost sight of in our obsession with cleanliness and the disguising
of the natural functions of the body. How on earth are our children meant to
learn when we spend all our time and energies shielding them from what is
innate and essential? Maybe it is just that I’m not really British, at least
not by blood, and therefore fundamentally uncultured and primitive, but my
defiant Polish nature considers it an essential human right to piss when I need
to. I must confess I am inordinately fond of weeing out of doors and sans
toilet. Why waste water and paper when you can crouch and let nature take its
course? Seen in this light, al fresco weeing is in fact the mo<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">st</span>
environmentally friendly course of action, and one we should all adopt more of.
I’m certain that having such an uncouth mother has done Felix the world of
good, and allowed him to unleash his stream lot more easily than if I had been
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a </span>buttoned up <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">type</span> who runs the tap when she’s whizzing just to
disguise the shameful tinkling . <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">H</span></span>e has now
become so fond of his potty that he insists on carting it about in his <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">plastic</span> wheelbarrow wherever we go, eliciting fond smiles and occasional
guffaws from those we pass. ‘Free The Wee’ I say, its time to piss and be
proud. </span></span>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-24557124519130026932016-02-19T14:10:00.001-08:002016-04-07T04:34:22.116-07:00ENTRY FORTY SEVEN - CURTAIN CALL<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj564G4ukC8E4_7FcFahOpKbVTTdVxCoW9RIIf5pPeleh4K_bxlysXb6GtrxxJNiKZ6vLNYfy1FQvjfiZOxy63XMfTk7YH1gzNNTNdaNpZLHpZXkRd6GU-eluKMmgc1kAAYo4vG9riRRdr_/s1600/hovebeach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj564G4ukC8E4_7FcFahOpKbVTTdVxCoW9RIIf5pPeleh4K_bxlysXb6GtrxxJNiKZ6vLNYfy1FQvjfiZOxy63XMfTk7YH1gzNNTNdaNpZLHpZXkRd6GU-eluKMmgc1kAAYo4vG9riRRdr_/s320/hovebeach.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For some time I have thought I
should wrap up this blog; that perhaps I have written all that I can about
motherhood, about Felix, about the all consuming, relentlessly
mercurial nature of the baby - toddler - child. This force of nature that
endlessly reinvents itself, developing new habits, skills and words seemingly overnight,
shimmering in transformation like a mirage. And then something happens;
something so significant, so wonderful, or so terrible, and I rush to put it
into words and communicate it in the hopes that my words may reach others who
understand, who also struggle with the immensity of
parenthood and marvel at the complexity of the child. I see now that my urge to write
has been underscored by the fact that I had my own journey to undergo, not only
the incredible voyage of motherhood but also the journey through the darkness that
began with Felix's traumatic birth. A year <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">after his birth</span> I wrote an entry entitled 'Dark
Side of the Moon' that explored the possibility that I would never be ready to
have another child. A lot has <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">changed in that time; <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I</span> have fought and won<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> the <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">dread battl</span>e with my de<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">mons<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">, <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">and thus I find<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span>myself in the astonishing position
of seriously contemplating another baby. Not even in an abstract way but in a
concrete, when shall we do this kind of way. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Perhaps
that is why it is time to stop writing Yellow Wellies, or at least to keep an end in sight</span>. Not because
the journey is over, not because Felix has stopped doing things deserving of
recording and treasuring, not because I have simply run out of ideas, but
because a new journey is beginning and it needs space to grow. In order for
spring to bloom winter must first have its time. To strip the branches of old
leaves, to wither the flowers and freeze the sap and aggressively clear the
ground so that new growth may follow. The field must have its fallow period,
its time of brown and empty ground when it appears sterile, when in fact the
very earth itself is incubating life. Yellow Wellies has been a platform for
sharing my experiences but also an outlet for the unspeakable pain
inside, the void that opened up in those life changing hours between pregnancy
and motherhood. That pain is now dealt with, not in a perfect, orderly way, but
in a way that makes progress not just possible but necessary. Suddenly I feel
like the time is coming, that within bare branches tiny buds are forming. I am
preparing myself, mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually, to undergo
the journey <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">into the unknown<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span>where the ghosts of my demo<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ns lurk, and yet <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">where a light sh<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ines so <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">bright that it beckons me near like a l<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ighhouse to a stricken boat.</span></span></span></span></span> </span>To once <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">again </span>carry life and give birth. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWv0EeMbqnM_pSHchj6xAF8Aoqq3jV7p5vPNZOhlJtKx8L3zwEPUQ34QkeK9lP4pk5P_sBOh2yBNIT5zskBkkamqUNbclaLfgkmL2nQKayPR7UnqgyHriifNhDfi9XKswmM2cyurStGcz1/s1600/felixintree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWv0EeMbqnM_pSHchj6xAF8Aoqq3jV7p5vPNZOhlJtKx8L3zwEPUQ34QkeK9lP4pk5P_sBOh2yBNIT5zskBkkamqUNbclaLfgkmL2nQKayPR7UnqgyHriifNhDfi9XKswmM2cyurStGcz1/s320/felixintree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Who knows if it will even happen?
Too many people I know try for a second child only to be
confounded. Sad stories of miscarriage abound, unexplained infertility, months
of hope followed by months of worry and frustration. I used to think that if
you could have one child you could certainly have many more, but this is not
the case. Nature, ever contrary, has her own ideas, and it may be that we only
ever make this one beautiful, perfect, shining child. If so, I’m forever glad
that child is Felix. A lifetime ago, before Felix really existed, I was
convinced that I wanted a girl. I knew nothing then of the soul of the baby you
carry within you, this innately unique person who emerges from the vessel of
the mother fully formed, complete with its own personality, abilities, and
passions. This entity that will follow its own course and increasingly display
its will and desires to you as it learns to communicate. This creature that
becomes more and more amazing every day that you spend undertaking the thousand
seemingly mundane, workaday tasks that keep it alive, fed, amused, safe. That
in fact this one <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">remarkable</span></span> child will take you on a ride through the
undiscovered, untrammeled paradises of the universe. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In having a child you become
intimately conscious of your own place in the circle of life. The miraculous growth before
you makes your own slow demise, your gradual, daily descent towards decrepitude
and death bearable, meaningful, and essential. I can only imagine the heights
of vanity, self indulgence and ultimately self destructiveness I may have
achieved had I not been grounded by this anchor, a rock in the ever flowing
river of life. In him I see the folly of eternity and the wisdom of
mortality. </span><br />
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<![endif]-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-77588007681718748542016-01-12T13:45:00.002-08:002016-03-30T15:30:12.061-07:00ENTRY FORTY SIX - GLAD TIDINGS WE BRING<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">On the last day of 2015, Felix and I
crouched in the damp earth and planted a bag of bulbs. A bright picture of
spring idyll adorned the packet; ‘Blooms Bees and Butterflies’ it proclaimed
proudly ‘Plant these and help combat the worldwide decline in the bee
population’. Who could refuse such an entreaty, for the plight of our essential
pollinators is an agricultural and environmental crisis of gargantuan
proportions. ‘One bulb at a time’ should be the motto of us all.</span><br />
<br />
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">2015
has been a year of epic change; Felix has metamorphosised from a speechless,
newly walking baby to a chattering, dancing, fully</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> fledged little boy. Over
recent months I have worried that he was slow to start speaking, and his
frustration at not being able to communicate his increasingly complex thoughts
and desires mounted and created a barrier between us. And then, like a river
bursting its banks, the words started to </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Ea_iOVWvKXCafRtcPoowe3gyeYtWEUvRL4bzUfSe_wn7CyscbdlAwLYQRAv_zCT80rkK3yGJFyZsU_Y1ZcBtqiBaRJdoGXyN3uZagNUQDuCGemMVGJG0I5neZY4H4W40KsQKKp4I3GVP/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Ea_iOVWvKXCafRtcPoowe3gyeYtWEUvRL4bzUfSe_wn7CyscbdlAwLYQRAv_zCT80rkK3yGJFyZsU_Y1ZcBtqiBaRJdoGXyN3uZagNUQDuCGemMVGJG0I5neZY4H4W40KsQKKp4I3GVP/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">pour forth in a glittering stream. His
delight at being able to express himself has made a huge difference to our
lives and daily his vocabulary grows in richness and diversity. He can request
songs, ask for meals, make little jokes like ‘Knock knock, who's there? Felix!’
His passions and fears finally have a voice, and we begin see the person that
he is becoming ever more clearly, like an oil painting taking shape layer after
layer. First the background, then the shadows and highlights, and now the finer
forms and figures become more defined with every brushstroke. I am sure that
every parent believes their child to be a masterpiece that they have had a hand
in creating, and after all I am simply a doting and pathetic mother. In his
eyes the entire world is being fashioned as if from scratch, and I am in thrall
to its splendour. This is not to say that he is not at times a wheedling,
whining, tantrumming, insanely irritating and rude little toddler, for this he
most certainly is. And yet his bounteous smiles streak across the surface of my
heart like searing stars, and his voice melts any icicle of anger that forms.
Mispronounced words become my own catchphrases, and every new sentence thrills
me like the finest poetry.</span></div>
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">During this year I have undertaken my own
voyage, away from pain and fear and towards hope and the wish to one day have another
child. Late last year, over a year after giving birth to Felix, I realised that
rather than the horror of that event receding it was beginning to possess me.
On the surface all was well; the physical effects of a complicated birth had
healed but the psychological and emotional scars were burrowing ever deeper
into my psyche. I was experiencing chronic insomnia, long after Felix was
sleeping the whole night through. Words like labour, delivery and maternity
lurked like giant spiders under every bed, always ready to wrap me in their
terrifying embrace, invading my dreams and increasingly my waking hours. I
suffered from palpitations, surges of unexplained adrenalin and unprovoked
panics and bouts of weeping. I realised that the time had come to face my
demons or risk being consumed by them gradually, like a death of a thousand
cuts, and so I went to my GP, herself a mother of three, and confessed my
fears. Rather than thinking them foolish or inconsequential she listened with
grave attention and swiftly referred me for counseling for Post Traumatic
Stress Disorder brought on by a traumatic birth. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I was lucky. I found a therapist whose
natural sense of empathy and professional skill twined with my urgent need for
a sympathetic and trained ear into which to pour my poisoned story, and so
began a dance that would last several months and at times leave me as flayed
and stricken as a victim of unspeakable torture. Together we relived and
discussed the burning black details of those hours in which I hovered above the
abyss, a gaping void of pain and dread poised to swallow me whole. I voiced
fears that I thought had no name, regurgitated memories so twisted and
grotesque that my mind had thrown them into the scrapheap, where the vile
things survived like filthy maggots. Post traumatic stress was something I had
associated with soldiers and survivors of genocides, not normal, healthy women
like myself who had entered a hospital to perform that most ‘natural’ of acts,
childbirth, and come out the other side damaged and disturbed. And yet, after
consulting the scale of stress under which trauma is graded, it turned out that
my experience ticked a lot of boxes. Long hours of pain, helplessness, fear
that the worst might happen, and critically an extended period of time in which
my body was under siege and therefore releasing a constant supply of the ‘fight
or flight’ hormone adrenalin, which as it turns out blocks the brains ability
to process memories as they are happening. This creates a situation where the
memory is incorrectly stored and instead filed in its raw state; therefore
repeatedly exposing the sufferer to the original trauma whenever it is
triggered. I was living within a minefield, and the only way out was to find
and name every hidden bomb. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZKgzCOB-B9xNljmBdRLnYMqr88U6NVBkNE85lNe4fBqrU5qRSrv0M6xMj9ARjdQizDqKldUooWvGJpa8iqGi8d8kTvK13sSip0PE91dKxvk0mCGIBCEguRBjaQ0DHSkYoBdGDa3eIl3zQ/s1600/twoinbed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZKgzCOB-B9xNljmBdRLnYMqr88U6NVBkNE85lNe4fBqrU5qRSrv0M6xMj9ARjdQizDqKldUooWvGJpa8iqGi8d8kTvK13sSip0PE91dKxvk0mCGIBCEguRBjaQ0DHSkYoBdGDa3eIl3zQ/s320/twoinbed.jpg" width="238" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks,
depression, intense anxiety and insomnia are some of the symptoms of PTSD, as
well as an inability to control emotions. Sweating, shortness of breath, a
racing heart, hypervigilance (looking for signs of danger constantly = my giant
spiders) and eventually acute mental breakdown if the original trauma is not
dealt with. Make no mistake, PTSD is no walk in the park, and increasingly
traumatic labour and birth are considered amongst the most common causes.
Somehow, it’s OK for a soldier who has seen all manner of death and
dismemberment to admit to these symptoms, and yet every day women suffer the
most acute pain, fear, and loss of control of their lives and it is considered
completely normal. It is time for this conspiracy of silence to end. Everyone
who has have gone through any kind of complicated or traumatic birth experience
should seek help, for I promise you, the visceral ghosts that stalk you can be
exorcised.</span><br />
<br />
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Three months
after completing my course of CBT, I feel I am cured. To me this is a miracle,
and one that I know will alter the course of my whole life. I am able to
discuss labour and birth, even my own, with dry eyes, not because the memories are
blocked but because they are filed correctly under ‘past’. I am no longer under
siege; I am free to go forth and consider the possibility of having another
child. My giant spiders have been slain, each and every one, but only through
sheer hard work and many hours of intense pain. The reliving of an acute trauma
is something that you will never forget; if you do it properly it is
literally like going through the event again; all the pain, fear and
helplessness threatening to submerge you. You must then update it with more accurate cognitions, for example ‘I am
dying’, but lo and behold, you didn’t die. ‘I cannot cope with the pain’. But
look, you did, are you not here as hard proof of the fact? ‘I will be incontinent’.
Nope, wrong again. You must face down each and every one of your fears, look
them in the eye and realise they are in fact sordid phantasms. CBT helps to unblock the trapped memories and steer them into the right part of the brain, until you can look back and think; I survived. I did not die. I am
here, and I am OK. Early on in my therapy, my wonderful, gifted, candid
therapist, said to me ‘This will always be the worst thing that ever happened
to you. We are not seeking to change or deny that. You have to learn to own
this as part of you. What we can do is put this memory, for that is what it is,
in the place where it belongs. We can close Pandora’s box, after looking deep
inside it, and seal it up forever, knowing that what is in there did not in
fact conquer or kill you. This is freedom; this is what can be achieved. But it
can only be done by you, I will help you look into the abyss and yet not fall in,
for the abyss is only in your mind and only you can reject it and live
in the light. I am delighted, proud, and honoured to say that am living in the
light once more, a survivor of a terrible trauma that produced the best thing
in the entire world, and edging ever closer to doing it all over again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For help and
advice on recognizing the symptoms of PTSD visit <a href="http://www.ptsduk.org/">http://www.ptsduk.org/</a>. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-89874180447130649832015-12-15T14:31:00.001-08:002016-03-25T08:11:10.894-07:00ENTRY FORTY FIVE - A VERY MINDFUL CHRISTMAS<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyLmiTbnNKQ_URCbWl809Ih5-xe3KV5Qh6LCrNY44L7DZb7R9Oyvf3pOeUQOZ61wBxGIo_DbCx7T-KALBEilogLR5Hij5gUixWQ1Wf9G2KRuxHopByLeiNNFDlfZ-yK2Acbr6PqN9MKZre/s1600/shopwindow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyLmiTbnNKQ_URCbWl809Ih5-xe3KV5Qh6LCrNY44L7DZb7R9Oyvf3pOeUQOZ61wBxGIo_DbCx7T-KALBEilogLR5Hij5gUixWQ1Wf9G2KRuxHopByLeiNNFDlfZ-yK2Acbr6PqN9MKZre/s320/shopwindow.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";">In the depths of winter it is impossible
to imagine summer. T shirts and bare legs, picnic blankets and long warm days. Winter holds a beauty all of its own; more subdued and sombre but just as
striking, you just have to know where to look and how to see. Witness the
copper haze of bare willow branches against a grey sky, the translucent
eggshell of a frozen puddle, just waiting for a foot to crack its brittle
surface. The welcoming glow of lights from within when all is dark and gloomy
without, and above all the scintillating, sparkling, twinkling festival of
lights that is the run up to Christmas.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Mindfulness; how very current and
fashionable a concept, and something that small children understand
instinctively. Without effort they live fully in the present, and it
is up to us to learn from them so that we too may become mindful and content
once more. This most essential and noble of abilities, forgotten
somehow in the clamour and confusion of growing up and growing old. What we need to do is grow down to the child’s level, for if you
want to see something afresh, see it through the eyes of a child. The first
step is to make sure you actually have your eyes open; so many people live like
sleepwalkers, wandering with eyes fixed blindly ahead and never
sparing a glance at all the wonders that surround us. And anything can be a
wonder in the eyes of a toddler;</span> a<span style="font-family: "verdana";">
fallen feather, a shiny sequin, the plume of smoke from a lit chimney. Even the
bleak and barren charms of winter are beautiful to the innocent eye; the newly
bare branches of a tree, now a superhighway of activity for squirrels and birds
laying down their winter supplies. Rubbish caught in a fence that looks just
like a jackdaw, a pile of rotting leaves to kick and a puddle to stamp in.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmGQPsV4XRAkRE766wHVGzr3GMM1jctWTHzbRV82Uk3DTZD32cmaMZODU623pKEWV9ubgFDUZCrx2CjSqhg5aKFIxEM8wFOe7Leo_8v0GRuPzl7eIPIGQeLIIqkR-JqjGMtRUxjRb9Nfn/s1600/winterriver.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmGQPsV4XRAkRE766wHVGzr3GMM1jctWTHzbRV82Uk3DTZD32cmaMZODU623pKEWV9ubgFDUZCrx2CjSqhg5aKFIxEM8wFOe7Leo_8v0GRuPzl7eIPIGQeLIIqkR-JqjGMtRUxjRb9Nfn/s320/winterriver.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";">It is unfortunate that those of us with
children may feel more than most that every day is a rush to get things done,
an endless struggle to get them dressed, potty trained, fed, to school, nursery
or whatever else, but alongside all these tasks and responsibilities - within all the mad rush - lies a margin in which we can find mindfulness. It's time to get on your
child’s wavelength and take pleasure in the small things, to marvel at a bus or
a train as it rushes by, to feel the weight of wooden bricks in your hand as
you help them to build a tower, to make a special trip to pick some holly, so
gaily festooned with berries and thrillingly prickly. I promise if you do, and
do it wholeheartedly, you too will find the magic that lives inside the everyday. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Of course
children need to fit in with your day, and in fact they enjoy the chores and
tasks that we can find so dull; filling the shopping trolley, putting on a
wash, even sweeping the hallway. Felix loves a broom and insists on helping me
to push it about. But if you wonder why your kid is bored and resentful when
all you've done is drag them around the shops looking for gifts for people you
hate, then forced them into a high chair while you drink lattes and send texts,
then shoved them back in the car to race home so you can make them a dinner
they don’t seem to want in front of the telly they don't in all honesty need,
then you might need to think again. Sprinkle some fun and adventure into their
day and you might find that you too have your mojo back, as well as a child who
eats better, sleeps better and I dare say behaves better. Children need fresh
air and mud, they need to stamp and kick and touch. They need the park, the
beach, the forest and the river. They need the wind in their hair and the cold
on their cheeks. Not just the safe environs of the playground, not just the
airless vacuum of the shopping centre. Too busy? Stop for ten minutes on the
school run home and feed the ducks, no one will starve to death if you do. Or
take the bus; children find public transport more exciting than you could ever
imagine. There's a reason the wheels on the bus is still a nursery favourite
after so many years. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_hcVFzcSqrsQbBahFcm_1Xzj9jZnU7fUI1MO46gr9SX8TAQTCW5Ed84hsy1OYKCbxxYvyjIk9O_dvZNAaWAusjrRCcEs8q6BCC7OLGJ6Cej2CcWvzCl4_Z35Kt-jSq9OADr1H8fNH22xw/s1600/maxfelixtree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_hcVFzcSqrsQbBahFcm_1Xzj9jZnU7fUI1MO46gr9SX8TAQTCW5Ed84hsy1OYKCbxxYvyjIk9O_dvZNAaWAusjrRCcEs8q6BCC7OLGJ6Cej2CcWvzCl4_Z35Kt-jSq9OADr1H8fNH22xw/s320/maxfelixtree.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";">As Christmas approaches and the world is all
glitter and gold and flashing gaudy snowmen, the time of the child draws near.
The baby Jesus lies peaceful in countless nativities, whilst children act out
the timeless tale of an urgent search for an inn by the guiding light of the
Christmas star, with the three wise men and a poor woman in advanced labour
forced to give birth in a stable. Spare a thought for her when you're complaining
about secret santa. As gifts are bought and wrapped and hidden away, it is the
children who really bring the magic to the day, and anyone who is lucky enough
to be spending any part of Christmas with a child should start to count their
blessings. We are the lucky ones, and in the choas and crassness that surrounds
the modern Christmas our children are the guiding light by which we can all see
more clearly. And so I wish you, and your kin, a very merry and a very mindful
Christmas. Ho Ho Ho...</span><br />
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<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-29545858822737205422015-11-11T15:02:00.000-08:002016-03-25T07:53:53.166-07:00ENTRY FORTY FOUR - NORTHMOOR HOUSE<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>“Once a
King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia. But don't go trying to use the same
route twice. Indeed, don't try to get there at all. It'll happen when you're
not looking for it.”</i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>C.S Lewis,
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.</i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgif7FRdeNdU_OunehxTfSBGH4HCpmurwtc-dcZQ1gJlTPK25IMGvILsaf5veLrYBOyyRihfigxi7C93Yx_R1ICuuxU8pVSMiLmuuO-RwCemxhop4A2ylcFWFH7-8LSpXk6-o8oqnxGX25K/s1600/northmoor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgif7FRdeNdU_OunehxTfSBGH4HCpmurwtc-dcZQ1gJlTPK25IMGvILsaf5veLrYBOyyRihfigxi7C93Yx_R1ICuuxU8pVSMiLmuuO-RwCemxhop4A2ylcFWFH7-8LSpXk6-o8oqnxGX25K/s320/northmoor.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I
have always been captivated by the work of CS Lewis<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">, </span>and never completely given
up hope that I might stumble upon the door to another world. Thus while
looking for an appropriate venue to host our wedding party, we discovered
Nothmoor House; a manor so splendidly Victorian, rambling and remote and ever
so slightly down at heel, I felt I may finally be close to finding that elusive
magical wardrobe. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After
a long drive from London Felix was desperate to explore, racing along echoing
corridors and peeping into rooms which telescoped on infinitely. At one
end of the ground floor a grandfather clock presided over the main staircase,
at the other an old fashioned kitchen led to a network of rooms unchanged since
the reign of Queen Victoria.
Larders, pantries, cellars, billiard rooms and priests holes, every doorway
revealed a new delight. Staircases multiplied as we roamed the house, trying to
establish the order of rooms for guests who would soon arrive. At the very top
of the house, tucked under the eaves, a small second floor beckoned. Taking
Felix by the hand we climbed the steep stairs<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> to find</span> ourselves in a room of powder
blue. Nauticalia dominated; a fine oil of a boat sailed over the mantelpiece,
whilst a miniature galleon thrust triumphantly forth on the dresser. This was
to be our room, a refuge from the celebrations that would spill merriment over
the time worn bricks. ‘Bluey’ Felix remarked approvingly, ‘Bleuey bluey bleuy’.
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We
couldn’t afford a big wedding, <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">yet</span> fourteen years together called for a </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYlcN7v4JTIjdEmSFMyPCrmSJARicU6hudnPhkDXn_4bouDvXVVgB5dZ7cgfR71JrTOf04JJ5ZI9Zaqxwt7KVpKLwwEf_qEBn93L0CjoQ5T3i82YrSjFBcA3gHuoVA6YSwyw7_k2tpS6y/s1600/weddingtable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHYlcN7v4JTIjdEmSFMyPCrmSJARicU6hudnPhkDXn_4bouDvXVVgB5dZ7cgfR71JrTOf04JJ5ZI9Zaqxwt7KVpKLwwEf_qEBn93L0CjoQ5T3i82YrSjFBcA3gHuoVA6YSwyw7_k2tpS6y/s320/weddingtable.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">decent
show. Thus we decided on a two point plan to alleviate costs. Step
one; tie the knot <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">legally</span> in a simple and cost effective registry do. Step
two; host a debaucherous weekend of celebrations in a remarbable setting that
would weave its own spell on our party, whilst doing all the catering,
decorating and everything else ourselves. A triumphant team of toilers produced
a sausage and mash that would shame a chef, and at a table laid by my nearest
and dearest thirty seven candles shimmered in glass holders - one for every
guest plus a few for absent friends - we savoured a repast prepared by loving
hands, listened to heartfelt words spoken by those who know us best, and later
danced to an ever changing band of musicians, one drummer succeeding another in
an orgiastic blur of jamming. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wore a dress that belonged on a ballet stage; a hundred layers of
tremulous tulle floating to the knee; on my head a crown of
multicoloured flowers. Yellow, pink and blue blooms, red berry, green leaf and
whispering white gypsomilia; </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN_gQty94O1tLd5ux-KMex-lwWs5mkmHoTFaQDEw9xKPNOBuqcWd7m4FGT51EXQ_A47Ya10k1cezuahCOAvW63kNHZ32o2I8AARPeaFYtNHPu29xirqReHFYSxt6OpKyNnKeL2Txp585f/s1600/stairwalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN_gQty94O1tLd5ux-KMex-lwWs5mkmHoTFaQDEw9xKPNOBuqcWd7m4FGT51EXQ_A47Ya10k1cezuahCOAvW63kNHZ32o2I8AARPeaFYtNHPu29xirqReHFYSxt6OpKyNnKeL2Txp585f/s320/stairwalk.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a nod to every season. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the garden a group had assembled around the
firepit; clustering around the flickering orange glow as people have done since
time immaterial.</span> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Stars untroubled by
city lights shone with bright cold clarity in a sky of black velvet, gazing
down indulgently as we tried in vain to set off the heart shaped sky lanterns<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> unt<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">il at last </span></span>one lit and flew trembling into the night sk<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">y. </span> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The n<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ext day</span></span> a hungover group of survivors decamped to the beach, driving across an Exmoor aflame with autumn colour. Low mist hovered over
the heather and gorse, painting the undulating wilds in a wash of watercolour hues.
Lynmouth was as quaint and picturesque as could be, Felix chasing waves and
throwing stones while we watched <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a striking</span> sunset streak the sky
with peach and rose. Back at the house, our numbers depleted but still great in
spirit, we embarked upon an unforgettable game of Sardines. I have never played
this other version of Hide and Seek and doubt I will ever play it as memorably
as this. The endless rooms and stairways, innumerable bathrooms and uncountable
nooks and crannies made for an epic game, culminating in a spooky
final round. Just as we were getting tired of searching the house a peal from the
servants bells rang through the silence, raising the hairs on the back of my
neck. As we raced downstairs we saw <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a </span>bell still slightly swinging but no
one to be found<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">, and whe<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">n at long last </span></span>we found the elusive seven, tucked behind pieces of furniture in the TV room like forgotten u<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">m</span>brellas, we raised a great cheer. </span></span><br />
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That
night, as I crept up to bed on the creaky staircase, feeling the half emptiness
of the house yawning around me, I felt how keenly places like these need
laughter and light and revelry. They need children and grandmothers and all in
between to fill their echoing spaces and give them purpose once more. These stately
homes that Britain
has in such abundance, these crumbling and forgotten grand piles, these
other Narnia’s waiting to be discovered. For one enchanted, unforgettable
weekend I was both a bride and a memory of all the brides this house has seen.
Every floorboard has been stepped upon ten thousand times, every bed seen its
fair share of passion and anger, love and betrayal. Our wedding party joined a succession
of events grand and humble, joyful and melancholy, that Northmoor has hosted.
As I luxuriated in the giant clawfoot bathtub, the Victorian proportions of
which have never been bettered, I felt the ethereal substance of history tangible
about me. A princess for a weekend, just as every bride dreams of being.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNNCcWyj1Z4E8HC34DLURkH83mmOKsr23AAAPpWRG-Wg7zqyFj5v3lC5Qq6Ab1HlCn728ntiS7SsFmza3ujy_EniqWOHuptHo5yF9MUS0e0Zmza1gHPS8O0HditRTW62O-AzXCW00Wvwi/s1600/heldbymen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNNCcWyj1Z4E8HC34DLURkH83mmOKsr23AAAPpWRG-Wg7zqyFj5v3lC5Qq6Ab1HlCn728ntiS7SsFmza3ujy_EniqWOHuptHo5yF9MUS0e0Zmza1gHPS8O0HditRTW62O-AzXCW00Wvwi/s400/heldbymen.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On
our final morning, as Felix and I wandered the grounds in the warm October sunshine,
pilfering raspberries from the kitchen garden and watching the chickens peck about
idly, I felt myself firmly rooted in the moment. This was me now; blessed with
a beautiful boy as fair as the morning sun and a husband with whom I laugh
every day, surrounded by friends from many corners of the globe, and cocooned in
the warmth of love and festivity. ‘<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Damn it</span> to hell' I exclaimed out loud,
startling Felix and the hens, ‘We should get married more often’. </span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-62431349106213477132015-10-15T07:23:00.000-07:002016-03-25T07:40:15.515-07:00ENTRY FORTY THREE - INDIAN SUMMER<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7I8I8lW0s_fGyA1WoLVz6b4BphDvaLOsP2Bka-T55sVinLVpXSinnnTsd1nAe-DSeTTQV0j3Mwir1EkmQCREi9IwDSCk-dJ_m7c64HhyphenhyphenjN6ntTqnn3Z12w-sh4hNcu6JbYIfgvVzKGD3m/s1600/felixintheroses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7I8I8lW0s_fGyA1WoLVz6b4BphDvaLOsP2Bka-T55sVinLVpXSinnnTsd1nAe-DSeTTQV0j3Mwir1EkmQCREi9IwDSCk-dJ_m7c64HhyphenhyphenjN6ntTqnn3Z12w-sh4hNcu6JbYIfgvVzKGD3m/s320/felixintheroses.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After a cold and sodden August</span> late September
brought a much needed Indian summer.
Mother Nature seized her moment, producing a second crop of blackberries and a
triumphant blaze of late summer flowers. For a golden fortnight the primary colours of summer and autumn combine, scarlet berries jostling with yellow sunflowers, while lawns glisten thick with emerald blades,
the smell of cut grass mingling with woodsmoke to create a juxtaposition of
spring/summer/autumn. Ruby leaves shine beacon-bright on oak trees and
horse chestnuts have slipped on their russet and gold cloaks, children have
returned to school, but Felix and I bask in our extended summer. Almost too
late we have found the rose garden at Hampton
Court, a walled heaven of scented blooms carpeted with
velveteen dropped petals like confetti. Felix races about sticking his nose
deep in the flowers like a hummingbird collecting pollen, and the air is thick
with the sweet, exotic smell of a hundred varieties. Rosa Dancing Doll,
Nostalgia, Red Radiance; every name suffused with romance and promise.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It is true that I
may be seeing the world through rose tinted glasses, for the past month has
been studded with wonders almost too many to name. After thirteen happy and
fruitful years my beloved and I finally tied the knot. We </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gqiJG3D1nrnbLw5Ozd3zQPy0gHdbs31_vA-bO_6ROIg_GDbWMoD_1OVW8GOKErpb6MVa1BQi41BYw0v_iiCTR0IMC1cbGXrLZbaH_PwzGFwn4aebRR1yfUE8oRMFMUIE0gTic-AhJgNl/s1600/weddingsteps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gqiJG3D1nrnbLw5Ozd3zQPy0gHdbs31_vA-bO_6ROIg_GDbWMoD_1OVW8GOKErpb6MVa1BQi41BYw0v_iiCTR0IMC1cbGXrLZbaH_PwzGFwn4aebRR1yfUE8oRMFMUIE0gTic-AhJgNl/s320/weddingsteps.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">walked down the
hallowed steps of Chelsea
Old Town
Hall amidst cheers and fluttering confetti, the
smiling passengers of a passing double decker adding a surreal twist. Defying
convention as ever, a fortnight later I flew to Ibiza
to celebrate my belated hen do. Nestled amongst the booming clubs and raging
hedonism we basked in the September rays, laughter flowing as readily as the
mojitos. There is a <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">type</span> of hysteria only achievable when a gaggle of women
get together,<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">prompting</span></span> imbecilic antics that would shame a teenag<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">er</span>. Five
days of shameless indulgence culminated in an unforgettable sunset at the aptly
named Sunset Ashram, a kind of hippy beach club that draws a blissed out
crowd to celebrate the setting sun with pagan enthusiasm. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After such extravagance
it was time to drop back to earth just in time to celebrate Felix’s second
birthday. Well, almost in time, for in the pursuit of total honesty I have to confess that in the whirlwind of planning and booking that ensues when six busy women try to coordinate diaries, the date of
my boy’s birthday was forgotten. As our departure finally approached there was a
flurry of emails and whatsapps, <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">when </span>suddenly in a moment of cold horror I
</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6m-zjaiZNhwSqSv19BYNE50aSyfh-ZjZRhpLYnHA6lrvHAgAPtRcGraYCuFBc-QyePfJyYutfcWvYzlbHbP9rRityL1Vc1BjLXCYEPnRRedMsAhT1mq3a82ANtZceTxqioUM-Ac4mzda/s1600/bluemarlin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6m-zjaiZNhwSqSv19BYNE50aSyfh-ZjZRhpLYnHA6lrvHAgAPtRcGraYCuFBc-QyePfJyYutfcWvYzlbHbP9rRityL1Vc1BjLXCYEPnRRedMsAhT1mq3a82ANtZceTxqioUM-Ac4mzda/s320/bluemarlin.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">realised my error. Return date, 22<sup>nd</sup> September, the very day Felix
was to turn two. I spent <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">the day </span>in a fug of panic. What to do? Would I come back
early?! Not likely, flights having been booked in advance it would be
costly and I was loath to cut off my final day. In the end I
confessed, hoping for clemency, and after much soul searching decided to <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">r<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">eturn as planned</span></span>. It was the first and only time I could
get away with such a shocking display of bad mothering, and I was lucky that
his nana and auntie arrived with gifts and party food aplenty, spoiling him
rotten on the actual day. Whil<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">st</span> I lay on <span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">a secluded beach</span> in an incy wincy pink bikini, savouring
the sun and my final hours of selfish freedom, Felix ate a dinner composed
mainly of sweets and ice cream. Arriving home late that night, exhausted and
grainy with unwashed sand, I crept into his bedroom. A shock of blonde hair
fanned out on the pillow, one arm protruding from the covers like an antennae, his
sweet face even more angelic in sleep. I stroked his plump and velvety cheek and
tucked the covers more tightly around him, then fell into bed for a few
precious hours, knowing I had both had my cake and eaten it.</span>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-65302392245570078172015-08-23T14:10:00.000-07:002016-03-21T14:03:20.897-07:00ENTRY FORTY TWO - MIRROR MIRROR<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAQcjGq53F2_tIh6uh3x8xrYQlNNxrgbpt3-K11H7fEeClmt4Q3qUz8QhbFK31NjG8-q6wjT1YZZbS3Esa-rv-LIlHGdHUvH9GkArO0mIQm39N8oAUObhl2PIPoG22n7w59QpIQgrJ8ma/s1600/riverpoint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAQcjGq53F2_tIh6uh3x8xrYQlNNxrgbpt3-K11H7fEeClmt4Q3qUz8QhbFK31NjG8-q6wjT1YZZbS3Esa-rv-LIlHGdHUvH9GkArO0mIQm39N8oAUObhl2PIPoG22n7w59QpIQgrJ8ma/s320/riverpoint.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Children are a
mirror, they reflect back what they see, not what you wish they would see. Thus
if you show a child violence, it will reflect violence back on those around it.
Perhaps not immediately, but in time certainly. All forms of abuse; be it
neglect, sexual, emotional or physical, embed themselves so deeply in a child’s
psyche that in many cases they can never be uncoupled. New research shows that
children subjected to severe neglect before the age of two have abnormally shrunken
brains, up to a third smaller than their luckier counterparts. Significant
sections show up entirely black on scans, meaning they are empty. Voids where
love and care and kindness should have been poured in unconditionally and which
heartbreakingly can never later be filled. A tragedy visited upon the innocent
by the malignant, truly a thought to make loving parent weep, but also
something from which we can all learn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Even a well
meaning parent reveals their ugly and damaging traits without intending to do
so, and the child sees and absorbs it all. Think you are hiding your bad self
image from your little one? Think again. Negative comments and actions filter
down to your child like water through layers of rock and soil, leading them to
wonder ‘If mummy thinks she is fat and ugly, maybe I am too. If mummy doesn’t
love herself, then maybe I am not worth loving either.’ Or try this one for
size ‘Daddy shouts very loudly at his phone sometimes. He says bad things and he
hits the wall. Will he hit me if I do something wrong?’ Scary isn’t it? The
power and responsibility we wield as parents is both awesome and terrifying,
and it is part of what makes parenting the most demanding job ever. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As Felix zooms
towards two I am more conscious than ever that I can no longer talk or act in
ways that may affect him negatively. This has been complicated by the fact that
in the last couple of weeks he has started to have full blown tantrums. Always
an independent and opinionated baby, it should perhaps come as no surprise that
Felix has started to make his </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsq6wgW_sFkHtAHLeVQi3EZJhzTO-9NGdo8Pksm2MpbXILxiLdZQBKFeQdmAw_SvM0GRbJSyqD2TkePvuswZ2DsqYoJ-GV3WR2zbef9-51JwooItQcSTjJzgnfO-v3Oqeh5OZuDj5whye/s1600/stonechoices.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsq6wgW_sFkHtAHLeVQi3EZJhzTO-9NGdo8Pksm2MpbXILxiLdZQBKFeQdmAw_SvM0GRbJSyqD2TkePvuswZ2DsqYoJ-GV3WR2zbef9-51JwooItQcSTjJzgnfO-v3Oqeh5OZuDj5whye/s320/stonechoices.jpg" width="239" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">feelings known sooner rather than later, but
nevertheless the first took me entirely off guard. I assumed it was nothing
more than a normal complaint, but as he grew red with rage and wrestled himself
from my grip, sinking to the floor like a popped balloon whilst uttering blood
curdling shrieks I realised this was something more complex. The issue at hand
was the choice of shoe; it being a warm day I had picked up the sandals.
Normally he likes them but on this occasion the thought of these going on his
feet was tantamount to torture. As he sat on the floor of the hallway, shaking
his head frantically no no no and weeping fat tears of woe, I backtracked
mentally. Did it really matter what shoes he wore? Yes, his feet may get hot in
trainers but as we were only heading to the local playpark any discomfort would
hardly be life-threatening. ‘What shoes do you want to wear then?’ I asked him,
and instantly he got up and went over to his wardrobe, pulling out his high top
trainers. Whatever, I thought, pulling them on, but wondering what I would do in other situations. The choice of shoe is one thing, but food, sleep and
behaviour are another entirely…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">True to form, a
day or so later while daddy bear was away he pulled an epic tantrum over
dinner. One minute we were sat at the table, a bowl of his favourite pasta before
him, the next he was thrashing in the chair like someone being electrocuted. I
looked on in disbelief as he tugged at the straps; face contorted with anger, body
arched away from the table and the bowl as it were poison. ‘Felix’ I cajoled, thinking
back to the months previous when he had refused to eat, ‘You love this pasta’. Shake
shake shake went his head, tears rolling down his swollen cheeks, his face a
picture of desolation. His water beaker was sent flying, the bowl almost flung
over the room in his efforts to get it away from him. Suddenly I lost my cool.
‘Eat the bloody food’ I snarled, heart pounding, the sour taste of anger in my
mouth. I was tired, I was alone with him, and all I wanted was for him to eat
his dinner and go to bed so I could relax. My mind whirled. Still he contorted and
flailed and screamed blue murder and I felt my frustration spill over into
rage. Leaving him strapped safely in the chair I left the room and stood
shaking in the hallway, scene of his earlier meltdown, wanting for all the
world to pick him up and shake him till he stopped screaming. His howls
increased in volume and urgency as I tried to get ahold of myself, and just as
quickly as it had come my rage burst and love flowed back into my heart. ‘What
was I doing? He needed me. I could handle this’.</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha26k79QGydtnB9rf4BHKAMor8hbOotqxWi_6cXZnSTLiie3yDB8am94CF7qa69l5M1greMx0BXFMmHFETOyp55mFgmpnYe10Ah2qeU55r1-0ZgHz2DWv2M5h2uIDRd1ub0kDV7RYljfwT/s1600/giantchess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha26k79QGydtnB9rf4BHKAMor8hbOotqxWi_6cXZnSTLiie3yDB8am94CF7qa69l5M1greMx0BXFMmHFETOyp55mFgmpnYe10Ah2qeU55r1-0ZgHz2DWv2M5h2uIDRd1ub0kDV7RYljfwT/s320/giantchess.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I went back in
and scooped him out of the chair, his body at first tense with wrath then
suddenly limp as his tears soaked my shoulder. ‘Mama’ he said through wracking
sobs and then I too was crying, feeling all my anger drain away like a tide,
replaced with the desire to care for him. This tiny person who had suddenly
realised there were choices to be made, who had glimpsed his own power and was
quite naturally exercising it. Who perhaps was not hungry, or did not fancy
pasta, or who had a sore throat or a bad tummy and could not explain. Deciding
we both needed a change of scene I took his high chair out into the garden
where he sat and ate the whole thing calmly, even following up with desert. After
he was safely in bed I pondered how close I had come to lashing out at him, to
showing him the wrong side of the mirror. I’m not saying that children have to
be treated with kid gloves - far from it - but watching me lose control just as
he has lost control, when he has none of the tools to fix the situation, is to
put him in a place he does not belong. It is my role to be the bringer of calm,
to show him how to come safely out of the shadows and into the light. I am his mother and I must always
rise above and set an example that he can follow. I have to reflect back love
when he shows hate, kindness when he shows anger, patience when he shows
confusion. I promise never to put him in the drivers seat, for who wants to be
in a car controlled by a toddler? Bring on the tantrums and the tears, mummy is
ready and willing. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-10811860350537902392015-07-23T13:21:00.000-07:002016-03-21T13:53:37.290-07:00ENTRY FORTY ONE - THE WITTERINGS<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3H40xm3UpOuBjOWc5Q_ldf64_LJTziWuIygcoSI7L612UacWycrbFEYudGvTKZoQex5TAWjkq1qL_711Und7m825UU2zY8Tzsf22tRexD0cHBg3t4l9cWpRbm9XyUlY5uf0l3gNPanas/s1600/lionchair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3H40xm3UpOuBjOWc5Q_ldf64_LJTziWuIygcoSI7L612UacWycrbFEYudGvTKZoQex5TAWjkq1qL_711Und7m825UU2zY8Tzsf22tRexD0cHBg3t4l9cWpRbm9XyUlY5uf0l3gNPanas/s320/lionchair.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You don’t want to
go camping with a toddler they said, not unless you've got a magic blackout tent that
lets in no light or noise or you’re prepared to drive all the way back home in
the middle of the night when they won’t go to sleep. Others offered more
pragmatic advice, ‘an endless supply of blueberries and a pair of earplugs
should do the trick’. The hippy crowd was more forthcoming with tidings of joy.
‘Oh you’ll love it, just take a washing up bowl and some plastic cutlery and
he’ll be happy for hours’.
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Never ones to
listen to predictions of doom we packed the car with every conceivable piece of gear, filled the hamper with food and the cooler with booze and off we
went. We have invested wisely over the years and are equipped with a
full set of glamping essentials, invaluable when travelling with
toddler, to which we added some extra Felix kit; his own camping chair in
the shape of a lion, his travel cot and warm bedding, and a quantity of
blankets and pegs for various uses. I also conducted some thorough research in
terms of location and after much deliberation plumped for West
Wittering, a two hour drive away and the location of a blue flag
award winning beach complete with dunes. Nearby Nunnington Farm campsite
offered a baby bath, in actuality a double butlers sink, for washing filthy
infants at the end of a long day, and a petting zoo, which sealed the deal.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7Gj5ZAaCxhzkanAUiECHCM6DGkzF6xcWwdyoaZGvpvdjYDVT6QJJv8EdaPQ6K-koOLdEO1ukpbX6k9jG-D9LFSrLz0wwLsQdxsvA8L-89L8jL1zBAM2Q5hQnubxU79MzyEf2it0LDA_k/s1600/tentbedroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7Gj5ZAaCxhzkanAUiECHCM6DGkzF6xcWwdyoaZGvpvdjYDVT6QJJv8EdaPQ6K-koOLdEO1ukpbX6k9jG-D9LFSrLz0wwLsQdxsvA8L-89L8jL1zBAM2Q5hQnubxU79MzyEf2it0LDA_k/s200/tentbedroom.jpg" width="149" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The campsite was
a wide green expanse of perfect flatness ringed by trees, and we pitched the bell
tent in dappled shade where we hoped we could be in shadow by bedtime. ‘Oooooh’
and ‘Aaaah’ said Felix as the tent took shape, his face lighting up with delight.
It was love at first sight; in and out he ran, touching the canvas and making
little squeaks of excitement. It was now time for the finishing touch. Two star
print blankets, some clothes pegs, and a little ingenuity later, and Felix had his
very own bedroom in which we placed his travel cot and favorite tiger toy. This addition, we hoped, would help him sleep well both day and
night, and would also give us a little privacy. After lunch, eaten with gusto
in the camp chairs, and a stroll over to see the donkeys and goats at the
petting zoo, and it was time to try out the bedroom. After some gentle
persuasion he zonked out, leaving us to relax. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_2xAcwQBVJjqbmldQ1f8k7KH7hHnXcr5nCKMOgg3xqzAotjxlHlBD4Kk_nR7kXJjz8BbWDiN-0FsWo__ShsIBgg826cjtyrfbZOZUNgzpGWGgvUVwzwYKLygYacFZUe5dE373ZnK39dqH/s1600/witteringpaddling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_2xAcwQBVJjqbmldQ1f8k7KH7hHnXcr5nCKMOgg3xqzAotjxlHlBD4Kk_nR7kXJjz8BbWDiN-0FsWo__ShsIBgg826cjtyrfbZOZUNgzpGWGgvUVwzwYKLygYacFZUe5dE373ZnK39dqH/s320/witteringpaddling.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That afternoon we
walked the fifteen minutes to the beach, a beautiful expanse of golden sand
backed by dunes. A strong wind buffeted the shore so we put on our hoodies and
huddled into the dunes, where Felix raced up and down the mini mountains and
caked himself in sand. 'Wittering means wind' an old lady said as </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">she caught sight of us. 'Next time bring a windbreak!' </span>We ate slightly gritty ham and cheese sandwiches and
paddled in the shallows, then took it in turns to have a proper swim. The tide
was coming in and the waves were crowned with ruffles of white foam. ‘Bubble’
said Felix, pointing at the surf and tugging my hand. Deeper and deeper we waded
as the waves pounded the beach, nearly knocking him over as he chortled with glee
and I clutched tight to his little hand. Later we walked back home, exhausted and windblown
but happy. ‘Thank goodness for the baby bath’ I thought as a startling quantity
of sand detached itself from Felix’s body and swirled down the plughole,
leaving him pink and smooth once more, and as the sun began to droop heavy and
the night milk was drunk, we laid Felix in his cot and stood listening. The
cawing of crows and cooing of doves were the only sound, lulling him to a deep sleep.
</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The elongated
shadows of sunset made tiger stripes on the grass as the sun took its final bow,
bathing the tent in a warm umber glow. As the barbeque filled the air with the
evocative smell of searing meat I cooked potatoes on the camp stove and sliced
the ingredients for a Greek salad, thick salty wedges of feta to complement the
spicy chicken and blackened sausages. Drinks in hand we toasted the success of
our inaugural venture and set about devouring our feast. The 'toddler quarters'
meant we could sit up in bed and read without worrying about waking Felix, and
as we prepared for sleep I peeped over to see him deliciously cozy and snug in
his blankets. Hours later I awoke to a terrifying sound, my heart hammering. As
consciousness flowed back I recognized it as the cawing of crows, those
intelligent corvids whose presence legend has it signifies impending doom. Glancing
at my phone I saw it was 4am, and for an hour between then and five I lay wide
awake, </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nE8IVegNj1kpMK4A5VOVCkk9vp6Z-OtN0S4pL5e_EBjH6JeHteWMFsIFzERrbIo1ehY7_ae-OhncmKqityxt_sDM2fBrqrboUg-6QWIJ2IPfP8ylw21HnSEb-YlXG0Aj46IB12BICAYi/s1600/belltent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nE8IVegNj1kpMK4A5VOVCkk9vp6Z-OtN0S4pL5e_EBjH6JeHteWMFsIFzERrbIo1ehY7_ae-OhncmKqityxt_sDM2fBrqrboUg-6QWIJ2IPfP8ylw21HnSEb-YlXG0Aj46IB12BICAYi/s320/belltent.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">convinced the sound would surely wake not only Felix but also the dead,
an army of whose rotting corpses would stumble over to where we slept and drag
us screaming to Hades. This not being the case I decided to pop out for a wee,
and the sight that greeted me was fairytale in its beauty. A crescent moon hovered
low above the sleeping campers, gilded with the coming dawn, a single star atip
the point like a beauty spot. On one side the sky was the colour of indigo ink,
on the other a deep powder blue. Dew silvered the grass and the air carried a
hint of salt from the nearby sea, and everything was still. I felt the special
magic of being awake when all others around were asleep, and for a moment I
stood and breathed deeply. Feet plastered in
wet grass, I crawled back in the tent and tumbled back to bed, smiling at the thought of us all safe and snug under the canvas. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-74691937799083044372015-07-08T15:13:00.000-07:002016-03-21T13:39:17.284-07:00ENTRY FORTY - SWALLOWS AND AMAZONS<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fMttJR0-t6F7XTe42xMFyDrP02tLIOc5E6Via2zGDuXFxZEQYmnCnKr9gapMrrmOOUYP2E5qvTw3do9Kr6iCZXtWMUhE3OzLa_vg3CqRyOqdoCqA07NmosTungpMM_jMQwC67pHl_vXt/s1600/twoapples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fMttJR0-t6F7XTe42xMFyDrP02tLIOc5E6Via2zGDuXFxZEQYmnCnKr9gapMrrmOOUYP2E5qvTw3do9Kr6iCZXtWMUhE3OzLa_vg3CqRyOqdoCqA07NmosTungpMM_jMQwC67pHl_vXt/s320/twoapples.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv6990573173">It
is midsummer and the season hangs full and heavy like the ripening fruit in the
orchards. The days are long and languorous, the nights mild. Solstice is only
just past and the birds start their serenades at four am when dawn peeps through
the shades of night and begins to bleed the black sky pale. Swathes of lawn
turned crisp and brown speak of the recent heat; while in the meadows wild
grasses wave golden fronds in the sunlight like a mermaid’s hair under the ocean.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv6990573173">Felix
too is ripening like a warm peach in the sun, golden skinned and mellow,
sweetness oozing from every pore as he embraces all the pleasures of summer.
Already Chiswick seems a distant memory, so at home are we in the wilds of
Teddington. I would swap a tube stop and proximity to central London for the abundant open spaces and
parkland that surround us without hesitation. It seems that every direction
culminates in a park or meadow, river or lido; across the grassy expanses of
Bushey Park to the tropical blue waters of Hampton Open Air Pool, down the tree
lined river path to our very own secret beach at Thames Ditton.The buggy sits
folded and forgotten as Felix travels almost exclusively by bike nowadays,
perched in his Co Pilot seat observing the world passing by and noting points
of interest. Bright red buses whizzing by on the high road, blue and white
boats on the river, flashes of lime green parrot in the trees. </span></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv6990573173">His
smattering of words has swelled to a babbling brook of nonsense chatter; </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigeHVbFbT5AUrvJLCj_x9B7-bSslFHrPvfDgPpl2zd7Bknjkl4BzPF8AiBHrSRCgfSKR6kvC6rP_WMVRgItWt4gFWaspvpozWnsbxKQIVGQostIIKvtEM31lS_F-kXpWmS0SZPS6TQIejp/s1600/thamesdittonbeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigeHVbFbT5AUrvJLCj_x9B7-bSslFHrPvfDgPpl2zd7Bknjkl4BzPF8AiBHrSRCgfSKR6kvC6rP_WMVRgItWt4gFWaspvpozWnsbxKQIVGQostIIKvtEM31lS_F-kXpWmS0SZPS6TQIejp/s320/thamesdittonbeach.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
wibble
wobble bibble babble he says, bubu baby and moomoo mama. He trills pleasantly
like a caged canary as he plays with his train set, and every now and then he
mimics a word or expression then refuses to repeat it, leaving you wondering if
it actually happened. 'Don't know' he echoed as I asked him where the lid of a
pen was the other morning. His words are like the whispering of the wind in the
willows, invisible and impossible to pin down yet strong enough to sway the
boughs. He seems to be at a zenith of happiness, and being able to communicate
his contentment adds to the joy. He loves having his own room and his assortment of toys; the train set, play tent and drawing table. He loves the deer of Bushey
Park, and has taken to collecting
fallen feathers, brushing their softness across his cheeks in an attitude of
rapture. He loves Hey Duggee and In The Night Garden on TV. He loves the garden
and his sand pit, loves watering the sunflowers I have grown from seed and the
tiny allotment I have cultivated in the neglected corner of the garden.
Potatoes have shot out their tall straight stalks from the bare earth with
unbridled enthusiasm, whilst the broccoli and carrots, hesitant at first, have
taken strength from the recent sun and settled in. The giant oaks whisper and
wave in the wind and Teddy sprawls sphinx like in his favourite spot by the
trunk, half covered by the fronds of last springs bluebells like the tiger in
Rousseaus painting.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGZAL6IiCObbEKsMxd1KFRA3AdzSTGz4cs-NiiPmSJIakQdpLXi7MR0hpewXXbuOO8Gm8qNlVwpLM4q73m8gUJlCeE3M74zY8veBFwh48945qpuDhqgfR16IuS1sUOb3jF674lIrS34kT/s1600/riverdip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGZAL6IiCObbEKsMxd1KFRA3AdzSTGz4cs-NiiPmSJIakQdpLXi7MR0hpewXXbuOO8Gm8qNlVwpLM4q73m8gUJlCeE3M74zY8veBFwh48945qpuDhqgfR16IuS1sUOb3jF674lIrS34kT/s320/riverdip.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv6990573173">We
have almost everything we need, and whilst the tectonic plates of work continue
to shift under our feet there us still cause for anxiety, yet the rightness of
our move here, the gains we have made in favour of the losses, means we live
literally and metaphorically in the sun. The simple pleasure of opening the
kitchen door into the garden gives me daily pleasure. Feeling the
honest earth under my fingernails as I work the soil and watch the green shoots
emerge like faithful flag bearers is a minor miracle. Al fresco meals every day
make not only us but also the birds and Teddy happy, as they feast on the
dropped scraps and crumbs post mealtime. We are closer to nature and further
from the city, and when needed the silver snake glides to Waterloo and the urban grime of Vauxhall in
no time at all. Teddington Lock is where the Thames
turns from tidal to a regular river, meaning the water past the locks is no
longer saline but fresh, a river you can swim in. Felix loves to watch the endless gush and gurgle of
water as it is squeezed through the metal barriers, a manmade waterfall marking
the end of the grubby brown river that flows through the great city and the
beginning of the green and silver stream that pootles through the suburban
landscapes of Teddington and beyond. We have crossed the barrier and somehow in the process entered a real life Swallows and Amazons; a place where where the river is blue and safe and welcoming, where on Sunday afternoons we can decamp with a picnic for a dip, where a cycle ride away is a sandy beach with children frolicking and sturdy boys and girls popping canoes and kayaks into the water, where likeminded people can escape to a place of childhood innocence and joy free of the worries and duties of city living. One foot in the country one in the town, and already I know which foot is the happier one...</span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2339">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2338"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2338"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2339">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2338"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2339">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2338"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2339">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2338"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2339">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2338"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2339">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv6990573173" id="yiv6990573173yui_3_16_0_1_1436022474191_2338"><br /></span></span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-54276946385676941062015-06-14T15:13:00.001-07:002016-06-08T13:44:46.447-07:00ENTRY THIRTY NINE - SAY NO MORE<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">At between twenty and twenty one months
Felix has only a handful of words. Despite my lack of interest in so-called
'developmental milestones' I have become aware that this is not quite where he
should be at his age. I hesitate to use the word delayed; children develop at
their own pace and in their own unique order, just as a row of seeds planted at
the same time will unfurl and grow differently.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span>His
lack of language was highlighted when a friend visited with her toddler who is
two months younger than Felix. Teddy had a word for everything; ball, cake,
train, and upon spying our cat - confusingly also called Teddy - his eyes lit
up with glee. The cat is now well versed in the ways of toddlers and after
allowing himself to be clumsily fondled for a few minutes made good his escape.
Teddy the toddler stood and pointed at his retreating form; 'Titty' he said. As
a hybrid of Teddy and Kitty it takes some beating and his unintentional gag
gave us a good laugh. I looked on in amazement as Teddy pointed at the items in
The Hungry Caterpillar and named each one 'cupcake, sausage, apple, cherry
pie'. Felix does not know a single word despite it being one of his favourite
books. His entire vocabulary consists of 'daddy' and 'mama' 'baba' (for his
Polish grandmother) 'nana' for his English, 'daffodil' 'bubble ‘bus’ and not a
lot else. He makes a variety of appreciative noises to express pleasure and
excitement, but no other concrete words have appeared for months. There is
however an explanation for this apparent delay in his development, for Felix is
trying to learn two languages. After Teddy's startling display I decided to
undertake a little research and found myself delving into the roiling broth of
myth and science surrounding language development in bilingual and multilingual
children</span></span></span><br />
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<![endif]--><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6H60Sxlqflj58rTR-FJJuIm0XxyqXAtQSFEpB5d7RQQ5tlmEJmV7fs3k-G5JTtMOugTMoogyEVzvTe2wcfpC1kbQd6uS219I6XjvzgEXLADuEZqDoMqKtZZ-3DqdQGV3cpfv0dQVCqafh/s1600/smiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6H60Sxlqflj58rTR-FJJuIm0XxyqXAtQSFEpB5d7RQQ5tlmEJmV7fs3k-G5JTtMOugTMoogyEVzvTe2wcfpC1kbQd6uS219I6XjvzgEXLADuEZqDoMqKtZZ-3DqdQGV3cpfv0dQVCqafh/s320/smiles.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span>Research
from the 1960' and 70's suggested that multilingual children acquire language
later and perform worse overall than monolingual children. There was thought to
be a detrimental effect on language and speech development, and these flawed
studies seemed to show that children raised with two languages struggle to
learn either properly. The research based conclusions on the fact that
multilingual children mix languages, sometimes in the middle of a sentence
(code switching) or pepper a sentence in one language with vocabulary from the
other (borrowing) Immigrant parents were encouraged to drop their natives
tongues and speak only in English, a disaster for their children as it
transpired that their children's language acquisition was harmed by being
taught in a language their parent were not confident in and thus struggled to
master the basic building blocks of speech. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NSmwbGiAFJd6rJEtvxau9fyyKXoGRIvFlGcix4MM35Zrecdxf6uM20NYgwqm4I0eFhC56YcNNf-fMuL4KTsqx1BJZ87V3gx2sTrfAAy0hw1CizkHpzvqleZjL0fgiDjNbi4GNzRk44Ub/s1600/thinkingbridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0NSmwbGiAFJd6rJEtvxau9fyyKXoGRIvFlGcix4MM35Zrecdxf6uM20NYgwqm4I0eFhC56YcNNf-fMuL4KTsqx1BJZ87V3gx2sTrfAAy0hw1CizkHpzvqleZjL0fgiDjNbi4GNzRk44Ub/s320/thinkingbridge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">More recent studies have shown that not
only is code switching and borrowing completely normal and resolves itself naturally
it also continues quite healthily into adulthood, and in fact bilingual
children develop within the same developmental timescales as their monolingual
counterparts. Having grown up bilingual in Polish I am fluent in both, although
English is dominant, but am also fluent in Ponglish, as are all my Polish
friends. We find it completely natural to rattle off a sentence in English and
add a flourish in Polish, either because the Polish word is more expressive, for
comic effect, or even without noticing. I find switching between languages
fantastically liberating, providing another level of verbal dexterity that adds
richness to communication. It is like knowing how to cook several cuisines,
once you have mastered them you can chop and change fluidly, taking something
from one to enhance and refresh the other. </span></span><br />
<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In recent years new research into speech
and language development has made some startling findings. Consider this;
within five days after birth all infants can tell the difference between two or
more languages. It may take them six months to be able to separate them,
especially if the two are similar, but they are immediately able to perceive
the difference. A top international infant lab has produced a study showing
that language acquisition begins in the womb, and that babies of mothers who
spoke two languages during pregnancy responded to hearing both in the days post
birth. Although opinion is now divided as to whether there is any delay in
speaking for bilingual children, there is an understanding that this may
sometimes happen as the child learns to distinguish and group words into each
language. All this is mighty reassuring for those of
us concerned that our haphazard approach to teaching two languages is confusing
the hell out of our child and that perhaps we should just desist. This becomes
ever more relevant as more and more people are raised with a dual heritage,
born of couples who may not share a native language or of parents who are not
both bilingual. This is the case in our household, where it is not as simple as
speaking only Polish at home and English in public. My attempts to speak to
Felix in Polish are sporadic as I tend to forget, but thank goodness his Polish
'babcia' speaks and sings to him primarily in Polish and has done since birth.
All those Polish songs and rhymes he so loves hearing are finding their mark,
and I am certain that in his own space and time he will order the confusion of
words in his head and speak with confidence.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span> <br />
<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1r8WoaJJj69PZflm0vskR607tSrcgbFAbFkPYSHOl_alRCTVkTeUR5GGIjKkmvbayvz2U7HIvituEQWgVajv4VN91o_2LjXB2ybwqBVj7P8y7dAxxU8gJWZIbnP5tdzOSAbanC28hiG2/s1600/dancingstar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr1r8WoaJJj69PZflm0vskR607tSrcgbFAbFkPYSHOl_alRCTVkTeUR5GGIjKkmvbayvz2U7HIvituEQWgVajv4VN91o_2LjXB2ybwqBVj7P8y7dAxxU8gJWZIbnP5tdzOSAbanC28hiG2/s320/dancingstar.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Just in case I needed an extra incentive,
there is solid evidence that bilingualism has a positive effect on cognitive
function outside of language. Bilinguals are better able to focus on tasks and
ignore distractions and irrelevant information, find understanding math’s
concepts and solving word problems easier, have enhanced reasoning and logic
skills and find learning other languages easier. Children raised in bilingual
households also have better self control, a key factor in school performance,
but the most fascinating and hopeful of all these benefits is that bilingualism
has been found to delay the onset of Alzeimers disease and dementia. The act of
switching between two different languages makes the brain active and flexible,
and just as older people are encouraged to exercise regularly to maintain bone
density and muscle strength so the aging brain needs its daily exercise to
remain supple. The knowledge that teaching Felix to speak my mother tongue may
benefit him from toddlerhood right through life, even to a liver spotted old
age that seems unimaginable in his unblemished baby skin, stopped me in my
tracks. So what if he has only a smattering of words? So what if he cannot name
the characters in his books or remember the word for cat? In his tiny and
endlessly agile baby brain an incredible double act is gearing up for
performance, one which can skip between tightrope and trapeze, tumble
effortlessly between any number of obstacles and fly with unerring precision
through all the hoops that life throws up. Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and
Girls, please take your seats, the Incredible Bilingual Baby Brain Circus is
about to confound your expectations. </span><br />
<br /><br />
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<br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-75776609783617926042015-05-16T06:45:00.000-07:002016-03-21T09:14:58.423-07:00ENTRY THIRTY EIGHT - THE TOWN MOUSE AND THE COUNTRY MOUSE<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Does
having a communal garden make neighbours friendlier? This question has occupied
my thoughts since moving to our new place in Teddington which has a lovely shared
garden. From the outset we have been bowled over by the friendliness of the
other residents of our ‘Court’, a seventies block that houses eight separate flats.
On moving day we made the acquaintance of Fred and Joan, a spritely older
couple who immediately introduced themselves and went out of their way to offer
assistance. Several cups of tea later we are already at the stage of borrowing
hoovers and taking in each others washing from the line when rain threatens.
They cast an indulgent eye over Felix who plays happily in the garden while I prepare
lunch, offering welcome advice on local playgrounds, schools and cycle routes. All
in under a week<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8Wvgz0OKHkm2Zk2Bmf2wQn_4s8kKyzse4vLzAJCXni9fz00vK3aXLu6PKShHpbszJBhpZQjkMcxGU_TN-fT2A5YRnObgjpHTPL4GVAUmUPwqLLLF6JL1h2_uPsTCdmMMd4LhxI_lEWar/s1600/bbq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8Wvgz0OKHkm2Zk2Bmf2wQn_4s8kKyzse4vLzAJCXni9fz00vK3aXLu6PKShHpbszJBhpZQjkMcxGU_TN-fT2A5YRnObgjpHTPL4GVAUmUPwqLLLF6JL1h2_uPsTCdmMMd4LhxI_lEWar/s320/bbq.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As
a Londoner born and bred I have found such openness startling. Imagine my surprise
when the lady who lives above us appeared wielding a garden table and
chairs when we were sat out on a balmy evening having a humble barbeque. ‘Thought
you might like to use these’, she said, noting our camp chairs and
distinct lack of table; ‘They’re
communal’. The Oxford English Dictionary defines communal as something ‘<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">shared by all members of a community; for
common use</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">’. What fascinates me is the implication that the act of sharing
something fosters a sense of community between those who use it, and in my
short and very pleasant experience I have found this to be very true. The
garden is a space for all; even the bins and washing lines are shared, forcing
us together for the acts that make up daily life, and I love it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the garden are two wonderful old oak trees which offer a
delightfully dappled light all day long. Bluebells cluster at the base of the
trunks and around the perimeters of the lawn, while blackbirds, blue tits, sparrows,
starlings, magpies and squirrels skip from branch to branch, making me feel
like I’m living in an episode of Springwatch.
One night I listened as a nightingale gave voice to its song, transfixed by the
bewitching beauty of the melody. On fine days I sit Felix at the communal table
for lunch, an </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVgPt03uJiI20K9O0yg0lQCfMURSPxOILotpgJB5q5_0FSKxKvs9H0JknfvcAeKFIyYm2h6pA1qfVe_johHcn4vOJwoh2uUOBFXK69SyOmMRGtjWSaaML63NBIvtarcBQ2qsyNc_MA6RO/s1600/alfresco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVgPt03uJiI20K9O0yg0lQCfMURSPxOILotpgJB5q5_0FSKxKvs9H0JknfvcAeKFIyYm2h6pA1qfVe_johHcn4vOJwoh2uUOBFXK69SyOmMRGtjWSaaML63NBIvtarcBQ2qsyNc_MA6RO/s320/alfresco.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">experience that I can only describe as sublime. No worrying about
dropped crumbs, no wiping and no mess, only the pleasant rustling of leaves and
the certainty that eating al fresco must be close to heaven. And oh, the
evenings! No longer are we trapped indoors whilst others enjoy summer nights;
as soon as Felix goes to bed out comes the barbeque and the camp chairs and we
appoint ourselves in our favourite spot with a beer or cider to hand while our
dinner chargrills over the coals, the fragrant smoke wafting over our clothes
and into our hair so that as I drift off to sleep I am surrounded by the
evocative scents of a campfire. I have started to feel like I am on a permanent
holiday, what with Felix happily installed in his own room and space aplenty to
roam, not to mention the much longed for delights of lying in bed and reading before
sleeping more soundly than I have in a long time. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-OZko45s2wP0Pm6c1WGQxazG4orshmHLJUaNgCb0TY0z_eLL09SgvXV9WRf4aA13qBjFB09W_XT-g6_ojOPSu6HBPedZH-M3qPP1jERzaCUs7Mqkhg5VVMQatd6PtJvXwdKs9CALFkVy/s1600/woodland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-OZko45s2wP0Pm6c1WGQxazG4orshmHLJUaNgCb0TY0z_eLL09SgvXV9WRf4aA13qBjFB09W_XT-g6_ojOPSu6HBPedZH-M3qPP1jERzaCUs7Mqkhg5VVMQatd6PtJvXwdKs9CALFkVy/s320/woodland.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I board the train at Teddington train bound for Waterloo on
my way to work we pass through what feels like miles of woodland. Trees and greens are everywhere, at the delightfully
named Strawberry Hill, Twickenham, St Margaret’s and Richmond, then the two stations
at Barnes, all abound with nature, and it is only as we pass through Putney
into the markedly more urban environs of Wandsworth Town that I even feel I am
in London. It is like going from the village to the town, and when it is time
to retrace the route it is with a deep sense of satisfaction that I roll back
into Teddington; a (nearly) country mouse come home to roost. </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-91877097584758202472015-05-07T15:45:00.000-07:002016-04-27T07:20:29.141-07:00ENTRY THIRTY SEVEN - APRIL SHOWERS AND MAY FLOWERS<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Hs-9iTe0PzL-j9d_JgF8FU4qRUPj4cCzJasRljrN3YMB3iPUiViVa2QcoUTqmZhz5PCFtshtKalZxrhwy1ky6E21DbrE6T7Rp5pfAaeWdVZZI4HRSf7zPxl6UTI-4Icw22DxWIT37jVq/s1600/cowparsley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Hs-9iTe0PzL-j9d_JgF8FU4qRUPj4cCzJasRljrN3YMB3iPUiViVa2QcoUTqmZhz5PCFtshtKalZxrhwy1ky6E21DbrE6T7Rp5pfAaeWdVZZI4HRSf7zPxl6UTI-4Icw22DxWIT37jVq/s320/cowparsley.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span>May
is surely the sweetest month of all, the gateway to summer and the promise of
long sultry days and balmy nights. The first flowers of spring have put on
their display and faded, leaving the stage set for the main act. Summer hovers
in the wings, making the final adjustments to her costume, warming her breath
and stretching her limbs ready to leap out and dazzle the waiting audience.
Frothy bursts of cow parsley line every path; trees and shrubs are gilded
with the brilliance of new leaves. There is no green as vivid, as achingly
alive, as those first leaves, and as the spring sun shines through the
delicate new canopy the world below is painted with peridot radiance</span></span></span><br />
<br />
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<![endif]--><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Felix, now somewhere between nineteen and
twenty months, is in thrall to this spectacular transformation. Trees that had
been bare and skeletal throughout the long winter are changing before his very
eyes, and our daily walks and cycles are a kaleidoscopic trip through an ever
changing picture. 'Wow' is his new favourite word, uttered with a long drawn
out inflection which somehow perfectly sums up his feelings about the pleasant
bombardment of stimulation on his eager senses, and how like a sponge he
absorbs it all and is immediately thirsty for more. I am more aware than ever
of the incredible importance of a positive and stimulating environment for a
toddlers tender spirit. No more a baby, this tiny person notices and absorbs
everything that you do. They are like a searchlight, shining remorselessly into
every nook and cranny - ready or no - and you better believe they see it
all. </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Aw_qtrm7x1BVn9wF72qAvmjsQ9BwF1fWhDqR5iqiuLcdLH3VcxVGOabF1vQQ_6Ku3DNpfVUwWO9oB901oY-uvIngAs3RPmn-H4WxwLWxUYMD_6fpD1YfpOo65_Wm5g5JK_4qZeaHBWyX/s1600/blossombaby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Aw_qtrm7x1BVn9wF72qAvmjsQ9BwF1fWhDqR5iqiuLcdLH3VcxVGOabF1vQQ_6Ku3DNpfVUwWO9oB901oY-uvIngAs3RPmn-H4WxwLWxUYMD_6fpD1YfpOo65_Wm5g5JK_4qZeaHBWyX/s320/blossombaby.jpg" width="320" /></a>Just in the nick of time we are moving to
the leafy environs of Teddington, to a flat with a second bedroom and a shared
garden. It is time at last for Felix to have his own bedroom and for us to
reclaim the privacy of our own bedroom, yet a part of me is sad to bid farewell
to this period of extended intimacy, all three of us sleeping soundly within a
single chamber. Of course the larger part is clamouring for escape, for the
unimaginable luxury of space and privacy our new home will offer. It is a time
of farewell, and I have been busy not only with the endless packing and sorting
but also with doing my round of farewells. Being an incurable sentimentalist I
have visited each and every favourite spot in order to give thanks for the
pleasures it has brought me, knowing I will see them all again but in the
awareness that it will be as a visitor. No longer will we cycle down the river
path to Dukes Meadows, for a new bend of river will be ours to explore. New
pastures beckon, but old pastures hold a place in the heart that can never be
erased, and sometimes it seems that every blade of grass holds a memory; that
spot is where I lay while Felix napped, that tree where I first took him from
the pram to see last springs apple blossom. Layer upon layer of memory colours
my vision of places so familiar they have become stitched into the very fabric
of my soul. </span></span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLNxaoW_qFjqs2oSjhA6W2QWEwex-WiIsucV8QAZF_LJJUU6xvesO0KbWxm6LBgZKeS9HlG64nKis-UxU-Wuoj1YNyrcvgX3Jrp4lT70cSVp7u2MRWestfbWDwMhyphenhyphenKClqxzidZlr47zaa/s1600/captain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLNxaoW_qFjqs2oSjhA6W2QWEwex-WiIsucV8QAZF_LJJUU6xvesO0KbWxm6LBgZKeS9HlG64nKis-UxU-Wuoj1YNyrcvgX3Jrp4lT70cSVp7u2MRWestfbWDwMhyphenhyphenKClqxzidZlr47zaa/s320/captain.jpg" width="239" /></a>The final day of April was composed of two
halves. That morning the rain came down heavy and enveloping, and we had to
content ourselves with a quick trip to the sodden playground where Felix could
stamp his frustrations out in the freshly formed puddles. By afternoon the sun had found his hat
and was shining with renewed vigour, and off we went for a cycle. As we passed
the Chiswick Pier Felix started making sounds of excitement. The pontoon is one
of his favourite places, and he never seems to bore of walking along the wooden
boards, stopping to study the river rushing directly below his feet. As he went
about his examinations I noticed an elderly, spritely figure watching us in
amusement from aboard a house boat. Complete with grizzled beard and deeply sun
lined face he looked the spit of an old sea dog, and imagine my surprise and delight
when the pier master - for it was he - invited us aboard his boat for a little
look. Well such chances don't come every day so I seized Felix by the hand and
stepped on deck. 'Woooow' came the little voice as he contemplated the view
from aboard. 'Loves the river your little feller' the river dog stated and I
nodded. 'Like mother like son' I replied with a smile, and my heart could have
burst for love of my little feller, his blonde hair blowing about in the lively
breeze. 'Thank you very much' I said to the pier master as we disembarked and waved
to him from the pontoon. 'My pleasure' he replied 'Mind how you go'. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-5678389619789905922015-04-25T15:00:00.000-07:002016-04-27T07:12:37.229-07:00ENTRY THIRTY SIX - FISH OUT OF WATER<table class="Ma My-0 W-100" id="yui_3_16_0_2_1429994877498_59" role="presentation"><tbody id="yui_3_16_0_2_1429994877498_58">
<tr id="yui_3_16_0_2_1429994877498_57" role="presentation"><td id="yui_3_16_0_2_1429994877498_56" role="presentation"><br /></td><td class="W-1" id="uhNavWrapper" role="presentation"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3252">After spending most
of last summer in water of all kinds, Felix has suddenly </span></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3252"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlzLz89ysYB4Yl1ahNVe-zJgpT3diKPcbmYPMi_IzPVb9p1dyn-JuWzgYbKxU8AQiqHUzu305AAWnrp65_18MaAAlOgnfkStu2MKZgNiBH13rlW2NGKK10_Z7n-lx0_lu_sheK9cOk1rx/s1600/felixswim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlzLz89ysYB4Yl1ahNVe-zJgpT3diKPcbmYPMi_IzPVb9p1dyn-JuWzgYbKxU8AQiqHUzu305AAWnrp65_18MaAAlOgnfkStu2MKZgNiBH13rlW2NGKK10_Z7n-lx0_lu_sheK9cOk1rx/s1600/felixswim.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3252">
decided that he
loathes the paddling pool and is none too keen on his bath either. Clinging,
crying and hiding his face from the sparkling fountain, I stood bewildered by
his sudden fear of the water. Whilst other children frolicked merrily my former
water baby wept bitterly as I carried him towards the pool, refusing to dip
even a toe into the shallows. Deciding that the best policy was a slow re-integration
I left him alone to play happily on the grass, wondering if perhaps curiosity
might get the better of him. The next visit was the same, and whilst the
children of friends splashed happily Felix
continued to cling and cry at the merest suggestion of a paddle. What on earth
has happened to my fish?</span></span></span><br />
<div class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3250" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv8017101929"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq46HqIUBY9M6wuZX-YbJ_HxhOElItHGJyB_y0Xira3fTJhJU3vGwtHfEzVeByxvSDsYsbGJ3EKAVa-0n0J3r9SE1Zq7u5doiBZF63AfMGjYKTrf-G1968vyKjtaA5f7J0DsnTq0arb7fN/s1600/felixdive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq46HqIUBY9M6wuZX-YbJ_HxhOElItHGJyB_y0Xira3fTJhJU3vGwtHfEzVeByxvSDsYsbGJ3EKAVa-0n0J3r9SE1Zq7u5doiBZF63AfMGjYKTrf-G1968vyKjtaA5f7J0DsnTq0arb7fN/s1600/felixdive.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3241" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3240">This behaviour is
part of larger emerging pattern. It is as if Felix has suddenly discovered fear
as a concept. Previously he was a mustang; throwing himself into new
experiences without a second thought. Nowadays he is more of a thoroughbred, volatile
and easily startled. It is anyone’s guess how he might react to familiar
experiences and people, burying his face in my shoulder at the sight of a
smiling face or howling as we arrive at his favourite playground. Deciding it
was time to seek some advice I googled 'toddler fear of water' and lo and
behold a multitude of entries popped up. It turns out that a sudden
fear of water is common in toddlerhood and is part of a new awareness of the environment.
The brain of a toddler is a complex affair, able to conjure up terrifying
scenarios based on assumptions that adults can find impossible to comprehend,
and as yet unable to rationalise these fears into real and imaginary. One
article suggested that the fear of bathing may relate to him realising that
water swirls down the plughole and concluding that he too may be swept away.
Seen through these eyes the paddling pool is petrifying indeed; packed with shrieking children firing water pistols and running madly through the
water, a veritable battleground for a newly aware Felix.</span> </span></span></div>
<div class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3222" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3227"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3182" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnyBplgqnuar2qZv5dt2XozzaepLn40EGb8xKG_4r1WFPpgDhUC0o6BSxOXTwjwrTCIlxfEJIHl6M_lNqpmOeInpicRSRsD0aG9372aYd1AA8BHdisQI9IVQziuGJH4G_ORghvQT5owk8/s1600/paddle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCnyBplgqnuar2qZv5dt2XozzaepLn40EGb8xKG_4r1WFPpgDhUC0o6BSxOXTwjwrTCIlxfEJIHl6M_lNqpmOeInpicRSRsD0aG9372aYd1AA8BHdisQI9IVQziuGJH4G_ORghvQT5owk8/s1600/paddle.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3181">With this in mind and
armed with advice to treat these fears as valid and proceed with patience and
understanding we continued with the softly softly approach. Thankfully after a
few nights of fun filled baths the fear of the tub seemed
to ebb. The paddling fear was harder to tackle, but after several attempts I
am delighted to say that Felix has been successfully re-christened. Amphibious
once more we have surged into the swimming season with daily trips to the paddling pool on
Dukes Meadows to soak up the glorious spring sunshine, united once again in our
love of water. </span></span></span></div>
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</div>
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</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3181"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">We too are about to find
ourselves in a strange pond, for we have finally succeeded in finding a flat
with a garden and a second bedroom that doesn't cost the earth, but it does
mean a move away from our beloved environs of W4. Teddington beckons! I feel somewhat
as Felix may have done, full of trepidation yet also curious and elated. Change
hovers in the air like the Northern Lights, a flickering spectral light show
that surges and glows and is swiftly gone. After nearly a decade in our current
abode there is a curiosity shops worth of junk and treasure to sort through,
and the size of the task is </span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3181">
</span></span></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3181"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEYGD5Oor9G_HBZ4x613zvz9BCaqhKO2DyWltOvfVYE9A3Pkit5EX1Sgg333RKiE2qu40VnR1aF0l5kjVRMv6-Gq3ncgZMz4RFpugZfbDwM2jklCLIFrCLoFfZ5RpK0dzYazPSvfgx6LB/s1600/lidoblossom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiEYGD5Oor9G_HBZ4x613zvz9BCaqhKO2DyWltOvfVYE9A3Pkit5EX1Sgg333RKiE2qu40VnR1aF0l5kjVRMv6-Gq3ncgZMz4RFpugZfbDwM2jklCLIFrCLoFfZ5RpK0dzYazPSvfgx6LB/s1600/lidoblossom.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3181">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">daunting. Every day while
Felix naps I sort through drawers and cupboards, pullling bags of old magazines
from under the bed and finding myself engrossed by ten year old articles on
home decor. Our flat has slowly but surely been filled up with mementos;
handpainted shakers from Greece, novelty kettles and enough frames, canvases
and photographs to fill the Tate Modern. It has become clear that we are both
avid collectors of curios or curators of clutter, depending on your viewpoint.
Sorting through this mountain of stuff is exhausting but therapeutic, and
deciding what to keep, what to give away and what to bin is my current
preoccupation. A life laundry is underway, and as I riffle through old
university essays and photographs of holidays long past I feel like a snake
shedding several layers of skin. A delineation between the past and the future
marks the present as a time of limbo; and whilst I long for the day Felix has
his own bedroom and I can retire to bed of an evening with a book and a cup of
tea, not to mention open the door of the kitchen and release my darling boy
into a grassy haven, I also mourn the time that is gone forever. A butterfly
emerges triumphant from the cocoon, but the caterpillar it once was can
sometimes miss the safe, dark seclusion of the home it has painstakingly built.</span></div>
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3182" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
</div>
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</div>
<div class="yiv8017101929" id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3234" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="yiv8017101929"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3281" style="font-size: 12.5pt;"></span><span id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3281" style="font-size: 12.5pt;"></span></span><span id="yiv8017101929yui_3_16_0_1_1429959130108_3281" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.5pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-28799586742779240632015-04-09T06:41:00.001-07:002016-04-27T07:12:10.554-07:00ENTRY THIRTY FIVE - SWINGS AND ROUNDABOUTS<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Standing
in the endless drizzle on an unreasonably dreary Good Friday, </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQwiUEBn7htT48qBAeFVxGOJctG44rnJs3C6DiX4wKL8B2t4KR0GRSlzv3suvT5Zp94VDW2Bs0k8MAWg0mTJ2yNcEERtIBKrV0vG1go49-Hn_hEusk4V5OsJi7eB6h3vfCuUg9iu6pHwL/s1600/merrygoround.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQwiUEBn7htT48qBAeFVxGOJctG44rnJs3C6DiX4wKL8B2t4KR0GRSlzv3suvT5Zp94VDW2Bs0k8MAWg0mTJ2yNcEERtIBKrV0vG1go49-Hn_hEusk4V5OsJi7eB6h3vfCuUg9iu6pHwL/s320/merrygoround.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">
watching Felix
play a repetitive game on the merry-go-round, I got to thinking about the
meaning of parenting and life in general. The park was practically deserted;
just a few damp dog walkers and our little group braving the elements. It
seemed the whole world was shut up inside enjoying a lazy afternoon while we
watched our energetic toddler play on the roundabout, as intent as a marathon
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Faced with such repetition the mind tends
to wander, delving into darkened passages of thought where cobwebs hang thick
and laden with dust. What is the point of it all? Is it just a way to kill
a tedious afternoon, a few hours closer to nightfall and ultimately to death?
Such morbid thoughts sidled across my mind as I felt my jeans go from mildly to
moderately damp. Things have been somewhat up and down recently. I have
suffered an unforeseen professional setback, upsetting my pleasantly trundling
cart and sending my apples rolling in all directions. Out they tumbled, rosy
spheres winking merrily as I scrambled to retrieve them, knowing it was
fundamentally futile. I am suddenly confronted with a crossroads, one side falling
away to a gaping chasm lined with slippery indecision and the nagging sense of
urgency coupled with confusion. Which way to turn? Leap or stay put and hope
for a miracle? And if not leap then stand transfixed while the ground crumbles
away beneath, revealing a sheer drop to oblivion. Resilience - according
to the experts - is the primary quality that unites successful people. The
ability to take bad news and setbacks and turn them into fuel to the fight is
of critical importance. Normally I am rather robust but this time I
have felt crushed, wishing fervently that things would right themselves without
my having to make the mammoth effort to pick myself up, dust myself off and
launch myself back out into the unknown.</span><br />
<br />
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Meanwhile
Felix continues to grow and develop, picking up an occasional new word and
slowly but surely becoming more independent, more delightful, more able to play
alone. This comes as a welcome relief as in his exuberant excitement at
everything around him he has often been unable to focus on the toy or game in
front of him, a toddler with the attention span of a fish and the energy levels
of a puppy. His latest verbal acquisition is daffodil, pronounced daf-a-doh,
revealing his ardent love for the bright yellow flowers that have sprung forth
all around. On the edges of Dukes Meadows, our favorite haunt on sunny days,
clusters of yellow heads nod invitingly, whilst every entry and exit to our
home is accompanied by my blooming tete-a-tetes, the miniature daffodils that
are so perfectly on Felix’s scale. Over Easter we managed a brief and much
needed escape from the Big Smoke to the wide open spaces of rural Wiltshire,
and Felix was in Seventh Heaven. ‘Daf-a-doh’ he exclaimed as we pulled up to
our lodgings, pointing at a row of splendid sunshine yellow trumpets. Lambs
gamboled merrily in the pasture while their milk-swollen mothers bleated
aggressively, cherry trees puffed up pink with blossom and birds singing their
hearts out in the sudden sunshine. </span><br />
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">It was all a picture of bucolic perfection, </span>yet a nagging sense of anxiety stalked
me like an abandoned cat, tearing me from the present into a purgatory of
worry. ‘It’s swings and roundabouts’ - the phrase echoed </span>annoyingly through my
mind all day long as I tried to sort the clamouring thoughts into order. I have
never been entirely sure of the exact meaning of the saying, and for the
purposes of accuracy I looked it up, discovering a succinct explanation that
encapsulated my present dilemma. ‘Gains and losses that offset each other’.
Perhaps my recent setback is actually the dawn of a new era, one that leads to
a future of emancipation via the gathering of new skills; as the dictionary
says ‘What you lose on the swings you gain on the roundabout’. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></div>
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<![endif]--><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeGYCKRLvfMs0zMbnbqH7WMSrcGOliQIDnxyDATZfhLKHnQUsSDuGmnHfMcogxXADtKDiaOUynDQ3daJW4WBSba9wUrz7h8-qUbgpDIl8qD58BvqPyaD_a10QWr43hUHxlmVZn3Q6DLB7H/s1600/sheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeGYCKRLvfMs0zMbnbqH7WMSrcGOliQIDnxyDATZfhLKHnQUsSDuGmnHfMcogxXADtKDiaOUynDQ3daJW4WBSba9wUrz7h8-qUbgpDIl8qD58BvqPyaD_a10QWr43hUHxlmVZn3Q6DLB7H/s200/sheep.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Easter
Monday dawned blue and crisp as a freshly laundered sheet, sky high and arching
and dew steaming off the grass in the morning sun. As Felix wriggled from my
grasp and ran over to a patch of custard and cream coloured daffodils, the
cheerful friends who pave the way from early spring to early summer, he babbled
and chirruped as cheery as a canary. 'Dafadoh' he said, smiling at me, and I
took a deep breath and inhaled the joy of his new word, realizing it was a
small yet vital step towards self expression, to communication. Thank Goodness
for words, these magical squiggles that represent our thoughts and dreams, that
convey sadness and heartbreak, that express delight and wonder and awe, and
that allow us to share with one another the joy and pain of living. Language,
how I love thee! Sending forth my missives to the world, lighter in heart and
mind once they are freed from the tangle of my mind to the clarity of the page.
And so I ask you; what does it all mean, where are we all headed, what should
we be doing? It’s swings and roundabouts my dears.</span></span></div>
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<![endif]-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-21275055105572277442015-03-11T16:52:00.001-07:002016-03-25T09:08:23.456-07:00ENTRY THIRTY FOUR - HARBINGERS OF SPRING<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">At
long last the seasons are on the turn, winters spell is loosening and the green
shoots and sap of spring are rising. The sun is high and proud in the sky by
7am, a sweet relief for every parent with young children. The cruel midwinter
days of dark mornings and early sunsets are behind us, and each day seems to
stretch and lengthen like one who has been long asleep. As the sun comes out of
its winter hibernation so the dozing bulbs nestled in the damp earth respond in
kind, poking green shoots curiously above ground. Already snowdrops have
appeared, white skirts fluttering in the February gusts, harbingers of the
coming spring. Each year when I see those clusters of white, delicate petals
defiant of winter’s still steady influence, I feel myself on the verge of happy
tears, wanting to kiss the sacred earth and all that lives within her. They are
the messengers, the outriders, the ones to test the waters, and once spotted it
is not long before others come to join the party. All of a sudden crocuses
gleam like purple velvet amongst the greening grass whilst the sunny faces of
daffodils wave a cheerful salute, all the colours of sunshine in their open
smiles. It won't be long before the glory of bluebells spreads through woodland
glade and shady copse like blue fire and the branches of cherry and apple
explode in a cloud of blossom. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span>
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<span class="yiv1528430302"><span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana";">In our home too spring is making its
presence felt. After a long season of neglect I have finally </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">seized a naptime to plant out the
window <span style="color: black;">boxes, and each time we leave the house we are
waved off by a host of cheerful tete a tetes, whilst blue and white hyacinths
crouch within their deep green sleeves, poised to emerge and bless anyone that
passes with their divine scent. I love that hyacinths are actually cultivated
bluebells, and as I peer into the tightly furled center of the flower I feel
their connection to the woodland that spawned them, a hint of bark and the
unmistakable scent of leaf mould, that fertile and self replenishing compost
that is the envy of every gardener. Perhaps we really are creatures of spring,
for in the past week or so Felix has morphed from angry bear to delightful
faun, his face alive once again with smiles and laughs, the horrors of sickness
and tooth pain and tantrums past, for the time being at least. He wakes as the
morning sun floods our bedroom with its welcome rays, like an echo of sunrise. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH76p6PBExJs2DQUh7oxMrAJjPQ1ZdJB8fxmtjWIo4Bi-WDLkbAkS1xle6CIE6JlbK-2zC-r27xYhu4rdBgAQd-CXKwE1Dvn1nFlX3_Xl8II-I0_LZ-saUl7wi8T4f3MlZsZeWkXu-GDpI/s1600/treegoblin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH76p6PBExJs2DQUh7oxMrAJjPQ1ZdJB8fxmtjWIo4Bi-WDLkbAkS1xle6CIE6JlbK-2zC-r27xYhu4rdBgAQd-CXKwE1Dvn1nFlX3_Xl8II-I0_LZ-saUl7wi8T4f3MlZsZeWkXu-GDpI/s1600/treegoblin.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<![endif]--><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Donald Winnicots child development classic ‘The Child, the Family
and the Outside World’ suggests that babies are like bulbs, complete with all
the information and materials they need to grow and develop. Originally
published in 1964 his words still ring true, and thanks to the gigantic strides
since in genetics and unraveling the mystery of the genetic code, we now know
that in fact each human is pre-programmed to develop in their own unique way,
that even pre birth mother nature is busy putting the finishing touches on the
tiny person that will emerge, red and wrinkled and screaming into the world.
Winnicott makes the comparison to a spring bulb in order to highlight both the
incredible sophistication of the embryo but also the importance of nurture in
order to facilitate and encourage its proper development. No flower - however
hardy - can survive without light and water. Even a cactus in the driest desert
must receive a tiny amount of annual rainfall, which it collects and stores in
its perfectly adapted body. So too is the infant child a bulb of infinite
potential, all it’s future contained neatly in the velveteen shell of baby
skin. We as parents must ensure that it receives all it needs as it grows
steadily upwards from a prone pupae to a plump and crawling infant, and up
again to sitting then standing then walking toddler, child and adult. </span><br />
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<div style="background: white;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkOspZRvDjjCWfeiUquPNt8aLFmCGREgYwsyXu6ye1215FP2DfGxksTTmtZdHbmIR3c2s3qMyXyAsRUoJhsT6Mu-rMWJX7uTgXKC05xvLqVcxSHyiSvILFf-svGB-EJ7wWX6fY_TZ2HTh/s1600/glances.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkOspZRvDjjCWfeiUquPNt8aLFmCGREgYwsyXu6ye1215FP2DfGxksTTmtZdHbmIR3c2s3qMyXyAsRUoJhsT6Mu-rMWJX7uTgXKC05xvLqVcxSHyiSvILFf-svGB-EJ7wWX6fY_TZ2HTh/s1600/glances.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Even
on the coldest, darkest, meanest days of winter, Felix and I have headed out
into the weak grey light like worms crawling up through the earth. One
blustery, miserable day when any excuse would have sufficed to stay safely
indoors we emerged defiant and wrapped in waterproofs from head to toe, and
damned if we didn’t have the time of our lives. Felix bellowed with laughter as
the wind snatched the hood from my head, wrapping strands of wet hair over my
face like thin blonde snakes, watching wide eyed as the wind swirled leaves and
litter high into the air and whipped the river into an angry grey soup. It was
the kind of day that would blow even the sturdiest umbrella inside out; with a
sly and viscous rain that crept into sleeves and down collars. As we struggled
home along the river path, wellies gleaming with water, I felt I must be mad.
Why take a child out into such weather? And then he looked at me with eyes
shining, plump cheeks reddened with cold and nose streaming, and I knew why.
That night he slept as soundly as a mouse in its winter nest, dreams scudding
with petrol blue storm clouds, thrilling with whipping winds, and racing with
swollen rivers of beaten grey water. Now that spring stands poised like a
ballerina in the wings, tracing green onto the brown, sprinkling tiny buds on
stark winter branches, and dusting off her palette of pastels and jewel shades
ready to sweep them over the battered landscape, we vibrate with the memory of
harsh winter days and welcome her arrival with joy and excitement. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-46413343825645789082015-02-20T15:31:00.001-08:002016-03-25T09:00:02.835-07:00ENTRY THIRTY THREE - TAMING TIGERS<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">This may have been the
most difficult entry I have yet written. Not because I’m particularly
struggling to express myself but because things are changing so fast I feel I’m
sprinting just to stand still. </span>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">With the new year came a
new working pattern. I now work Mondays at one gallery and Friday and Saturday at another in, thus for the middle days of
the week I am with Felix. On gallery days I flick
gleefully through my wardrobe and construct an outfit that falls into my invented category of ‘art smart’, a butterly revelling in its own glorious colours. Oh the joy of skirts, of dresses, of bright
silk scarves and actual jewellery, none of which get a look in on mummy days.
I have learnt to
apply makeup whilst feeding Felix his breakfast, performing a reverse striptease of getting dressed item by item whilst checking Felix is not
causing irreparable damage. It is a pleasant ratio; three
days at work, four at home, but it does come at a cost. Despite my newfound
earnings the rental market in London
is such that we are still cooped up in a one bed flat that seems smaller by the
day, and at times the weight of the four walls seems to press in on me. Less a
butterfly, more a hermit crab in desperate need of a more commodious shell. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2Di6M_2bMobKCFXxy3DAlNxU_m1z8ZTu3jqMPmbcTZRhKLeFm5RTxjvbYHxP9bz2sBOM1984ggS1fhbPDJdCxq17C0opnijCRC2g52Ttq7zpoDJfHMXYs4cy5cmMo_CsOphRypk0pW-R/s1600/playgroundhey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq2Di6M_2bMobKCFXxy3DAlNxU_m1z8ZTu3jqMPmbcTZRhKLeFm5RTxjvbYHxP9bz2sBOM1984ggS1fhbPDJdCxq17C0opnijCRC2g52Ttq7zpoDJfHMXYs4cy5cmMo_CsOphRypk0pW-R/s1600/playgroundhey.jpg" width="239" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";">The other tectonic shift
is with Felix, whose mercurial spirit makes him impossible to predict and
tricky to manage. His development is as swift and his about turns as agile as a
hares; going from purring delight to wailing banshee in the blink of an eye. An
illicit item wrestled from his ardent grip results in screams of fury, whilst
removal from the playground means a sit down protest. Forget the scorned woman;
hell hath no fury like a toddler denied, and some days it seems like every word
is a negative entreaty; no, stop, let it go, come back. He has entered a phase
that is as complex as it is confusing, and I would be lying if I did not admit
that it can be a struggle to stay in control. There are extenuating
circumstances, for example the appearance of several new teeth, many of them
molars. For anyone blissfully unaware of tooth pain, google an image of a
teething toddlers skull. Combined with this has been a nasty bout of gastric
virus that spread like wildfire. Looking after a sickly child whilst feeling like
death yourself demands the kind of selflessness I associate with nurses in war zones,
and the Florence Nightingale act does not come naturally to me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">That aside, Felix is doing
what is very natural and normal for a child of almost 17 months, testing
boundaries. If you consider that for the first year of life you do absolutely
everything for your baby; feed them, clothe them, carry them around, choose
their toys, put them to bed. Suddenly they are learning to do things for
themselves and the fascination of trying new things, of exploring a wider
world, blinds them to all the dangers around them. Left to their own devices a
toddler wouldn’t last a day; stairs, roads, knives, even more innocuous things
like heavy books, doors, harmless small objects to put in your mouth and choke
on…sometimes it seems like death is but a whisker away. The battles come when
their natural curiosity meets your protective instincts, resulting in a fierce
and sometimes frightening reaction called a tantrum. It seems the so called
‘terrible twos’ can rear their gargoyle head a lot sooner than the name
suggests, leaving you speechless as your cherubic (looking) boy leaves a trail
of destruction in his wake; picking up every stick and piece of litter,
refusing to get into the buggy, pulling books from shelves and hurling his
previously favoured food all over the kitchen. Someone once said that owning a
horse is like digging a pit and throwing all your money inside; if so then owning a
toddler is like throwing everything you own into a pit and having to excavate
it from the mud, several times a day. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhbU1m0ANZ47QPMlcKrSJ0u9UEkZU-yT-YGx0rYDqKWEJaNiSbUrDAO54mzaZLO-4sjW68tkNsccGRm4WhSXwiGcgkfLh48x5mdo3Gz72Bfe3IR5Uy54dRDjGa0M5nSm5Nwy5-ftJ-yEd/s1600/lookingouttosea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhbU1m0ANZ47QPMlcKrSJ0u9UEkZU-yT-YGx0rYDqKWEJaNiSbUrDAO54mzaZLO-4sjW68tkNsccGRm4WhSXwiGcgkfLh48x5mdo3Gz72Bfe3IR5Uy54dRDjGa0M5nSm5Nwy5-ftJ-yEd/s1600/lookingouttosea.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";">In many ways this is
probably the most challenging time with Felix to date, yet I feel we are poised
on the brink of a breakthrough. A comet poised to streak through the sky,
dulling everything around with its brightness. His vocabulary is developing and
bona fide communication is around the corner. He is like a fabulous and untamed
wild beast, eating placidly from your hand one day, trying to bite it off the
next. And yet there is a gleam in his eye that speaks of real understanding,</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"> and a
wicked sense of humour is making its presence increasingly felt. He has
started to invent his own games and jokes in which he takes immense and
contagious pleasure, including a kind of prototype hide and seek that we call
‘Where’s Felix?’ He is what people call a spirited child, and with that
comes both pleasure and pain. At times I have wished for a quieter, more patient
child, one who could sit and play with a toy for more than two minutes without
wanting to zoom off in pursuit of the cat or to steal a boot from the hall or
start trying to swing the door back and forth on its hinges. But then as I
watch him jigging frantically to Buddy Holly, his current obsession, taking
sneaky sips of water from the bathtub, or crying out with
heartfelt love ‘baaaa’ as a big red bus whizzes by, I realize that he is
already a person of fervent passions. No meek and mild child for us, I’ll take
the tiger any day. </span>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-41773308009481512072015-01-21T05:22:00.000-08:002016-03-21T08:23:15.923-07:00ENTRY THIRTY TWO - NO MANS LAND<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiStd85YWuaNPk01EvLBhYlRMq3RZTxsnTuNu3J7efKkPRCkejtrk817UHK5sEq5-PmbuB4g5R2WVvBax3ubgppUS1tPLUqLoUjH8u-TjbUB93hLg5EXhL3Ey05Uc275zeYtNN3Ai2FjLou/s1600/hamper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiStd85YWuaNPk01EvLBhYlRMq3RZTxsnTuNu3J7efKkPRCkejtrk817UHK5sEq5-PmbuB4g5R2WVvBax3ubgppUS1tPLUqLoUjH8u-TjbUB93hLg5EXhL3Ey05Uc275zeYtNN3Ai2FjLou/s1600/hamper.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";">I used to think of the period between
Christmas and New Years Eve as a kind of no mans land, a barren valley between two soaring mountains. Surely it was pointless; why all that time off in midwinter when it would be
better spent in summer, lolling in meadows and lazing over picnics? Oftentimes
I would have to work in the intervening period, as the gallery would open the
day after Boxing Day. Secretly I didn't mind, finding work a
tonic from all the so called relaxing. </span><br />
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<span class="yiv5731290676"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">People
would drift in drowsily, distended Christmas
bellies ponderous before them, ears ringing with jollity, nose chafing with three day old Brussels sprouts. Their relief
at getting away from their nearest and dearest was so obvious as to be
laughable, and as our eyes met a flash of understanding would pass between us.
'Shame you having to work at this time of year' they would exclaim, meaning instead
'you lucky sod, you've managed to get away from the madding crowd under this
thin veneer of work</span></span>'. <span class="yiv5731290676"><span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span id="yiv5731290676yui_3_16_0_1_1421666981967_23241">'Oh yes indeed' I would
reply, arranging my features into an appropriately mournful expression, 'No
rest for the wicked'. Thus having satisfied social convention we could resume
our respective reveries. Eventually an exasperated spouse or familial troop
would arrive, exclaiming in maddened tones 'We didn't know where on earth you
had gotten to</span></span>!'</span><span class="yiv5731290676"><span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span id="yiv5731290676yui_3_16_0_1_1421666981967_23242"> Thus the recaptured prisoner
would follow their clan back out into the cold, casting a wistful glance back at
me propped behind the desk, resplendent and solitary. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="yiv5731290676">Felix
has changed all that, bringing the barren valley to life with a swathe of glorious vitality. We were lucky enough to have two full weeks off work, and
thus an almost unbelievable period of time stretched before us. We met up with old friends, taking a leisurely
walk in a wintery Hyde Park, babies in tow. We
made long overdue social calls, staying later than intended and luxuriating in
the knowledge that there was nothing to rush back for. During Felix's naps we
lazed about, drinking tea and watching TV. For a while it seemed like the sand
in the hourglass had slowed to a trickle, and life occurred at a more
manageable, natural pace, more suited to the care and nurture of a toddler.
Felix reveled in having us both around, playing with his Christmas
gifts and toddling about the house in search of mischief. As baby proofing our
flat is impossible, we have instead had to teach him what he can and
cannot touch and which areas are no go. This leads to endless tantrums, for
what a toddler wants to do most is open and close the doors of the heavy wooden
sideboard, playing Russian finger roulette. Products left around the bathtub
are another bone of contention, all those colourful bottles, surely all toys? </span> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The only
time I felt the weight of listlessness and ennui I associate with the Christmas
holidays was on the final weekend of the fortnight. After a rollicking time
over New Year, spent with great friends in a sleepy Essex
village, eating, drinking, and making merry, we returned to a cold and sad
flat, feeling deflated. No more fun plans left to fulfill, no more escapism,
just piles of washing that had been left undone and work to prepare for. It was
classic Sunday night apathy but spread over a whole weekend. Somehow we made it
through the tedium and on Monday morning it was Hi Ho off to work we go, Felix
safe in the care of Baba Lila. Cycling along the river, sky as heavy and leaden
as only January can muster, I nevertheless felt the weight of lethargy slip
away, as free and light as a helium balloon even as the damp cold tried to slip into my
bones and steal my nose right off my face. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This sudden change in mood set me to reflecting on the nature of energy flow, and the role that this plays in achieving equilibrium and harmony. Perhaps
what we need as humans is a change of pace every now and then, a slowing
down in order to focus on family, on friends, and most importantly on ourselves.
Time to stop and stare; time to share with loved ones, to break bread and stay
up late and take wandering walks and sit gossiping in cafes. Perhaps this is
why, when I really think about it, the Christmas holidays are in fact
perfectly timed, coming - in the Northern Hemisphere anyway - during the very
coldest, darkest time of year, just a few days after the Winter Solstice. If
they came in mid summer, all we would want to do is lie about in the sunshine
or take ourselves off to the coast, all the better to enjoy some carefree
lolling and lazing. And that is all well and good, but what Christmas does is
the very opposite. It is a time of hibernation, a time to reflect on the past
year and the coming one, a time to rub along with family in whatever shape or
form it comes and pay homage to the ties of blood and marriage. In years past
I have found this a struggle, resenting the intrusion of familial duty on my largely
carefree, self structured lifestyle, but Felix gives the whole thing a new
focus, and I have been overjoyed by how much more meaningful and memorable Christmas
has been with him by our sides. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yes,
there has been a sad lack of lie ins, and in fact a distinct lack of the kind
of wonderful self-indulgent laziness you can only have pre-children, but I
wouldn’t swap all the lie ins in the world for the bright eyed boy that woke us on Christmas day just just like any other. I have come to
appreciate that Christmas really is all about children. To
behold Christmas through their eyes, to see them intent on the little
train set that goes round the bottom of the tree, hypnotized by the Christmas
lights, to guide their little hands while they fumble to open their presents,
as likely as not more interested in the wrappings as what’s inside,
truly it is magic. And then, when it’s all over and it’s time to get back to normal,
to the ordinary everyday routine of work, or childcare, or whatever it is we do
between Monday and Friday, that too is a relief, for no one can sustain Christmas
cheer all year round. Lo and behold, just when the traditional holiday apathy reared
its ugly grey head, the sand in the hourglass started to speed up once more;
going from a trickle to a flow, and the time came for normal life to resume. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"Christmas is a togethery sort of holiday" said Pooh</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">"That's my favourite kind" said Piglet, "Togethery and Remembery"</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A.A Milne </span></span></div>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-75632895553799121712014-12-28T15:42:00.000-08:002016-03-21T08:05:51.361-07:00ENTRY THIRTY ONE - ONE TWO BUCKLE MY SHOE<div class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17968">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6VF4U_E_eydkRGsETJ-2uCr0bFv6KO-r8RrWfT6L1H5B8ZwgAfq3cg7FJ1LG6txk3diL_xEixGyEc0QHUNmwOIuNKaulJDPwRCYCxCg4KooN30xjaL9mIEaY8jcwm3svyiOcSyqC_nEfN/s1600/walking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6VF4U_E_eydkRGsETJ-2uCr0bFv6KO-r8RrWfT6L1H5B8ZwgAfq3cg7FJ1LG6txk3diL_xEixGyEc0QHUNmwOIuNKaulJDPwRCYCxCg4KooN30xjaL9mIEaY8jcwm3svyiOcSyqC_nEfN/s1600/walking.jpg" width="239" /></a><span class="yiv4119305122" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17984" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";">On Wednesday 3<sup class="yiv4119305122">rd</sup>
December 2014, Felix walked for the first time. In the drained paddling pool at
Ravenscourt Park, codenamed Big Blue, he dropped the helping hand and took off.
Freedom at last!</span><br />
<span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17984" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";"> </span>
</div>
<div class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17983">
</div>
<div class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17973">
<span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17972" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";">One small step
for Felix, one giant leap into toddlerhood. Although I was
not there to see it – oh perils of working motherhood – I was sent a
video of him galloping across Big Blue chasing dried leaves, glancing up at a
passing train with all the insouciance of one who had been walking for years.
Sat in a café in Chelsea, clutching my phone like a talisman, I wept sudden hot tears of happiness and pride. The robust and kindly Italian proprietor brought me my lunch and a few
tissues to mop up my tears. ‘You OK?’ she inquired sympathetically. ‘‘My baby just walked for the first time!’ I replied, voice tremulous
with emotion ‘Is beautiful!’ she exclaimed, bosom heaving with empathy, and
promptly went to the kitchen, returning with a hunk of bread to dip in my
soup. ‘Eat’ she instructed, watching as I replayed the video endlessly, ‘He
still walk when you come home’. </span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17971">
</div>
<div class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17970">
<span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17969" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";">In reality
Felix has been walking for weeks, since before his first birthday, but only
with the aid of a walker. The purchase of Barker, his beloved black and white walking frame, was a pivotal moment. From the first instant Felix saw him
they were inseparable. In their weeks together Barker visited an ancient stone
circle in Avebury, became a veteran of TFL – once attempting a bid for freedom on the
Overground and careening into a sleeping commuter - clocked up countless rounds of the park and nearly fell in the River Thames. It was a sweet and useful friendship </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17969" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwLouws1m9YtULJG07HIohDGKPvG5WK1m-XkTBb1-Ba-_SaHvT0_XzWP-ss0kjNlJU7tHhdFZ4XpqnOMcb58BrpkWwZfmDYZD1eu8pYaU_fAWlRGOY8ssJ8rFtzxA66U2kFfyYtpDHLfC/s1600/pushingbarker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwLouws1m9YtULJG07HIohDGKPvG5WK1m-XkTBb1-Ba-_SaHvT0_XzWP-ss0kjNlJU7tHhdFZ4XpqnOMcb58BrpkWwZfmDYZD1eu8pYaU_fAWlRGOY8ssJ8rFtzxA66U2kFfyYtpDHLfC/s1600/pushingbarker.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17969" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";">but after
weeks of Felix refusing to walk a single step unaided we
began to worry that the dog was impeding his development. Thus, the
major step of confiscating Barker was taken, but Felix just replaced the handle
of his walker with the hand of parent or grandparent. This went on for several
more weeks, becoming an exercise in frustration for all parties. After attempting to
limbo under playground equipment and being dragged under low
hanging branches I started to lose patience. ‘Walk, damn you!’ I would shout,
letting go of his hand, whereupon he would stand as rooted to the spot as a
child playing musical statues, howling with indignation. </span></div>
<div class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17974">
<br /></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxr2mHL2QgpYX7E5XIEl0B_LsbGfBL9ZWyg3gwz_AJDfhVIjkC1mpEnl3bg5SlpTpdxOCDlUQ7FtMlyRsCqFo-C0UZC2Ydd_m__xSoZC69SPBejmy_1xzv0jjulvtP9qrYIcTnYQqRyMkK/s1600/playgroundwalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxr2mHL2QgpYX7E5XIEl0B_LsbGfBL9ZWyg3gwz_AJDfhVIjkC1mpEnl3bg5SlpTpdxOCDlUQ7FtMlyRsCqFo-C0UZC2Ydd_m__xSoZC69SPBejmy_1xzv0jjulvtP9qrYIcTnYQqRyMkK/s1600/playgroundwalk.jpg" width="239" /></a><span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17975" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";">I would love to know what finally gave him the confidence to simply walk off, but it is and will remain a mystery. Since that afternoon
however, we have not looked back. Far from making things more difficult I have found the ambulant Felix an utter delight. His glee at his own motion is contagious. His ardent, occasionally wobbly steps
are as beautiful to me as the most graceful ballet, but it is the look in his eye that melts my heart. A mix of
concentration, pride and joy lights up his little face as he adds new moves to
his repertoire; 180 degree turns, ascending and descending the curb, overcoming
obstacles such as cushions and toys</span><span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17975" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";">. One of our local playgrounds </span><span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17975" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";">boasts what could be described as a tiny maze, basically just an area of box hedge that has been cut into. Into to this disappears Felix, giggling uncontrollably, and I follow suit, creeping up on him and shouting BOO at the top of my voice, eliciting bellows of helpless laughter. </span><br />
<span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17975" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThq6HjXkx6m9havna-OPodyJlaE0YFrGMCeO9R9WvrlY3PRLCNbc7kpqLv2A8yM8mlY3DHm6kfmc38sQLks-P-e0gjqpP3Cfm0Gmd4ZnG8at3cHWrjTkaDEIm_27Ql3IUbOIOQXhW-Z9s/s1600/runningrichmondpark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThq6HjXkx6m9havna-OPodyJlaE0YFrGMCeO9R9WvrlY3PRLCNbc7kpqLv2A8yM8mlY3DHm6kfmc38sQLks-P-e0gjqpP3Cfm0Gmd4ZnG8at3cHWrjTkaDEIm_27Ql3IUbOIOQXhW-Z9s/s1600/runningrichmondpark.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17975" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";">A new chapter has begun, and reading back older entries I realise I have been waiting for this moment with bated breath. We are poised on the brink of great adventures. On a brilliant day in early December Felix and I took the bus to Richmond Park, a mission that involves a steep slog up Richmond Hill. As we arrived at the park gates I was somewhat out of sorts, Felix demanding release from the buggy, me sweating heavily despite the cold. 'Why am I doing this?' I thought to myself, yanking the buggy over grassy hummocks that seemed determined to impede our progress. The afternoon sun slanted low over the parklands, golden rays glowing against</span><span class="yiv4119305122" id="yiv4119305122yui_3_16_0_1_1419247145268_17975" lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "verdana";"> the vivid blue of the winter sky, and as I pulled Felix from the buggy a lone stag stood silhouetted against the lowering orb. The morning's frost lay undisturbed in secluded corners, and we found ourselves crunching over a carpet of crisply frozen leaves. 'Oh' said Felix, lifting his boots higher in surprise at the unexpected texture. I picked up a frosted leaf and held it in the sun, where it glittered icily like a cluster of diamonds. We explored paths and wooded glades where the frost lay blue and treacherous underfoot, stopping at a bench that stood aglow in the saffron rays of the setting sun. Side by side we sat, crunching on breadsticks and crackers, watching as the molten gold bled into the horizon. Almost immediately the chill of night descended, the fragile warmth of a winter's day ebbing with amazing speed, and we hurried back to the buggy. Birds were settling in their roosts, calling out in twilight song, and as we approached the gate an owl hooted nearby. A strange light waxed in the distance and then, as if on cue, a gigantic orange moon rose solemnly in the west. 'Moon' I said to Felix. 'Look!' 'Oooooh' he said in reverential tones, eyes fixed on the yellow cheese that climbed steadily over the trees. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><q>Don't tell me the sky is the limit, there are footprints on the moon!</q></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Dorothy Parker</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-69434826106183382082014-12-02T15:10:00.000-08:002016-03-19T16:21:01.415-07:00ENTRY THIRTY - COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="bqquotelink"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/drseuss102623.html?src=t_christmas" title="view quote"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn't come from a
store.</span></a></span>
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/d/dr_seuss.html" title="view author"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Dr. Seuss</span></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I have recently been re-reading Tom
Hodginson's 'How to be Free'. This little book is essentially a manifesto on
how to combat the evils of modern life and to live a freer, simpler, more
authentic life with much less money and much less work. It is probably the
perfect book for me to read right now, seeing as we are living on less money
than ever before and I am working fewer hours than at any point in my adult
life. And yet, I am on route to being happier than I have ever been, albeit in
a different kind of way to years past. I am glimpsing the beginning of a new
dawn, a way of life that involves less work but work of a higher caliber. I am rejoicing
in my gallery Mondays and rediscovering all the skills I used to take such
pride in whilst adding to them. It is a very busy place, very demanding, and at
times I feel pushed to my limits. It feels good to be tested professionally. </span><br />
<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">What gives the day its clarity, its extra
dimension, is rushing back to put Felix to bed. My route takes me right along
the river path from work to home, and as I race alongside the jet black Thames, the cold winter air bringing roses to my cheeks
and tears to my eyes, my legs pump the pedals with determination knowing that
each push brings me closer to home. There is no feeling like racing back to
your baby, fulfilled by an honest day’s work, arms aching to hold the solid
warmth of your child, to cradle them and bathe them and read to them, to lay
them in the cot and sing the bedtime song, to stroke their hair while they
surrender to sleep. I love knowing that the next day I am just mummy again; all
the glamour and excitement of work replaced by a very different kind of
challenge; raising my son. Tights and dresses are replaced by grubby mummy
jeans and wellies and waterproofs, and honestly I would rather be in the damp
wintery playground than anywhere else. I would give it all up if I had to but
to have both feels very close to Heaven. Truly my cup of contentment runneth
over.</span>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">We have endured hard times; the road has
not only been rocky but at times nearly fallen away. We have clung tenaciously
to our dreams, to our love, to what we value, tightening our belts repeatedly
and to the point of pain, all for the love of Felix, and at last I feel a shift
in the flow of energies. Things are becoming easier; the weight of worry that
has dogged me since pregnancy is starting to lift. I'm a hot air balloon, as
ballast is cast off I feel myself floating ever higher, soaring into the clearness
of the cerulean sky where I know I belong. Felix is absolutely full of love,
his wish to hug and kiss everything around him, the cat, his books, his
favourite tree, even a strangers dog, proves that a lack of cash means nothing.
He has no inkling that we have skated over some very thin financial ice, he has
not suffered or been deprived and is exceedingly joyful. Of course you need
enough money to buy food, to provide shelter and toys and warmth. I am not
proposing that genuine poverty is anything other than dehumanising, but all the
other stuff is just window dressing, baubles that glitter enticingly but
deliver little added value. We are all three of us still in one small bedroom,
but now that he sleeps solidly through the night those tortures are over. Yes,
I miss reading in bed. In fact, I miss doing anything in bed other than
sleeping. We creep into the bedroom at night and in the morning are greeting by
a hybrid of the Cheshire Cat and Tigger, an ecstatic, bouncing grin. There is
no escape, we are as tightly penned as the Three Men in a Boat, but there is a
special intimacy to still sharing a bedchamber, a closeness I have learnt to
treasure. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The living room has become just that; our
space for living. It is Felix's playroom and our lounge, it is where we read,
where I write, where we play music, watch films, talk and entertain friends.
Thank goodness we inherited two massive sofas from friends moving abroad. These
double as daybeds and guest beds, the cat uses one to sprawl on after a night
on the tiles while Felix commandeers the other as a platform from which to
observe the outside world. The cross-species love affair between Teddy and
Felix continues apace; Teddy placidly accepting Felix's rapturous hugs and
drool-heavy kisses. He has surrendered his space and dignity to the force of
the baby, showing incredible restraint as Felix bashes him playfully with a toy
hammer ands yanks his tail.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">With less than a month to go before
Christmas I am more excited, more joyful, and more content than I have been for
a long time. I have started squirreling gifts in drawers and behind furniture, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">clearing the decks in preparation for the purchase of a small but fragrant
Christmas tree. I am in thrall to the alchemy of Christmas, to the twinkling
fairy lights and glowing candles, the warm reds and golds, the cool blues
and silvers, the feeling of anticipation and of coming together. With Felix's
passion for colours and lights I know that this Christmas will be an explosion
of sensory delight like no other, and the best part is I can indulge myself in
creating a festive wonderland all the while claiming it is for him. Haha! But
even if all that were to be stripped away, if there was not a single gift under
the tree, even if there was no tree, this would be a magical Christmas, </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMfGotemq44IWdOYwVF4FCpawZuDbcBD48SWkphMTCgSdlf6LEjTtKaq04g42Gw8nNr0gegKFEMWVL5uiLZHaFRTiwNyngvJa4sMnFAcIFx4VkHHizUb74AC7vPu0IpXX2XJWpaOToHza/s1600/christmasrobot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMfGotemq44IWdOYwVF4FCpawZuDbcBD48SWkphMTCgSdlf6LEjTtKaq04g42Gw8nNr0gegKFEMWVL5uiLZHaFRTiwNyngvJa4sMnFAcIFx4VkHHizUb74AC7vPu0IpXX2XJWpaOToHza/s320/christmasrobot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
because
Christmas with a young child is Christmas reborn. You can - you must - once again
believe in Father Christmas. Oh the joy of Christmas morning, Felix awakening
with no idea what awaits him, eyes widening as he opens his gifts. If I could
ask for one wish to be granted this Christmas there is no doubt what it would
be...Oh Yea Gods of Weather the sledge awaits! Truly we are dreaming of a white
Christmas! Bring on the blizzard, or even a dusting of frosty flakes with which
to make a snowball. I want to see Felix's face as whirling white flakes fall
from the sky, watch his nose wrinkle as one melts on the very tip, to hear the
crunch and squeak of fresh snow under foot. To experience afresh the wonder of
winter, suspend all disbelief and believe wholeheartedly in the magic of
Christmas once again. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/r/roylsmith105772.html?src=t_christmas"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">He who has
not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.</span></a> <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/r/roy_l_smith.html"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Roy L. Smith</span></a></span><br />
<br />
<br /><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/r/roy_l_smith.html" title="view author"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;"></span></a></span><br />
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<![endif]-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-86810188722264149382014-11-20T04:07:00.001-08:002016-03-19T15:51:36.277-07:00ENTRY TWENTY NINE - NURSERY RHYMES<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">This morning we pulled on our wellies and
went for a walk in the sparkling dew laden grass. Autumn has finally arrived;
though it is still mild there is a sharpness in the air that feels fresh and
vital. The trees, confused by the unseasonable warmth that has stretched from
summer right into November, have finally received the clear signal to turn and
treated us to a belated shower of gold. As we trudged through sodden leaves
Felix pointed and made an exclamation of pleasure. ‘Oooh’ he cried, pointing at
the shimmering grass. A sole summer daisy raised its white and yellow head to
the morning sun, petals trembling with the weight of water. As we went over to
examine it he carefully knelt down and picked it very gently, kissed it and
held it out for me. I couldn’t help but wipe a tear from my eye as I held the
daisy safely in one hand and his little hand in the other. It is moments like
these that make motherhood what it is, a patchwork of wonder and struggle and
elation and frustration, and it is for this that I am prepared to sacrifice
almost anything, even a dream job….</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">The return to work is a huge fork in the
road for a mother. When to return and for how many days, perhaps whether to
return at all. For me the decision was rather different as there was no job to
return to after the birth of Felix. My career in art was impaled by an
unexpected arrow in the same week as discovering my pregnancy, bringing my
professional life to a distressing halt. Post birth I found myself on an
indefinite maternity leave, leaving me free to absorb the asteroid impact that
is new motherhood. I quickly learned two things; firstly that no job, apart
except from perhaps rebuilding the pyramids with your bare hands, is as
relentless and exhausting as being a new mum, and secondly that after a while
you start to crave a return to work. The professional part of your brain, the
one that has gone walkabout while you cope with night feeds, colic and god
knows what else, suddenly pipes up. 'Hey, remember me? I'm your work brain. You
might have forgotten me but I've not forgotten you. One of these day, sunshine,
we're gonna have to have a chat'. As you stumble from sore nipples to shitty
nappies it grins at you inanely, a distant reminder of who you once were. And
then all of a sudden six or nine months have passed and for many it is
abruptly, shockingly, time to go back to work. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDTRqp26OWqjliCb3SLAGeYNcS_Jck3e7BFEUBQYqCJ3ujOzCi4ZZvLvcrIvdJdcGlwl_dLiLnHfW5ifjhyMofJWHod7yPy0s4tc2_gxStwfI0bct2B5HIAQmdnOTMDMW9YeXbBaJCqlw/s1600/teainbed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyDTRqp26OWqjliCb3SLAGeYNcS_Jck3e7BFEUBQYqCJ3ujOzCi4ZZvLvcrIvdJdcGlwl_dLiLnHfW5ifjhyMofJWHod7yPy0s4tc2_gxStwfI0bct2B5HIAQmdnOTMDMW9YeXbBaJCqlw/s1600/teainbed.jpg" width="238" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";"> </span></span></span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Motherhood is transformative; it takes a
woman and changes her permanently and in ways that may be unexpected. From what
I have seen it generally makes people better; kinder, more resilient and
patient, less selfish, which is all well when it comes to baby but perhaps not
so good when it comes time to return to the hard edged world of work. I have
seen stoical and determined women brought to their knees by the process of
settling their baby into nursery, unprepared for the crying and the heartache
and the guilt. Is this OK, should I be doing this, is this the right thing for
me/my family/my baby? All questions to keep even the most resolute mother awake
at night. Happily the babies in question have settled in to their new routines
in time, but it has brought up a lot of questions in my own mind about
childcare. We are very lucky in that my mother and doting grandmother of Felix
lives a stones throw away, providing endless hours of grandmotherly care from
day one. This however does not negate my wish to return to some form of work,
to immerse myself in the cloistered, idiosyncratic world of art. Not to mention
the urgent need to get some extra income into our cash strapped household.
Early on I had a kind of false start, an opportunity so perfect it was like a
wish being granted. In the event in turned out to be more of a soap bubble, an
iridescent mirage that burst as soon as soon as I grasped it, leaving me with a
sticky residue and not much else. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana";">And then an offer came along that made me
question exactly what I value and forced me into a decision. A very fine
gallery that I had been temping for had a permanent opening, was I interested?
My heart leapt with joy but as the proposition was outlined a blot smudged my
ardour. The role was full time, five days a week, no weekend days in lieu
possible. The gallery is fabulous, centrally but discretely located, well
established and successful, the kind of place I dream of working. But how could
I even consider accepting, what would happen to Felix? Full time nursery was
out of the question financially and my mother was already hard pressed to
manage two days while I worked part time at a dull showroom. I arranged to go
in for an interview anyway, formulating my proposition with fervent hope. A job
share, three days a week, flexibl<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">e working….but in my heart of hearts I already
knew. As I left the gallery I was heartbroken, knowing that the job would go to
someone who could commit to the role in a way I couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t.
I was like a sailboat steaming along on full sail suddenly finding every breath
of wind had dropped, now drifting helplessly on a dead calm sea, no land in
sight. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">But
I had realised something in the process, something beautiful and vital. No job
would ever be worth giving up Felix for. A week has only seven days; would I
really want to be apart from him for four of those, let alone five? The answer,
for me, is no. The soul searching had defined my own thoughts as clearly as the
sun striking a sun dial, had made me appreciate my time with him in a way that
only sacrifice can. In the week or so between being offered the job and
realising I would have to turn it down I realised just how much I value the
everyday interaction with Felix. I want to be there on his daily journey, to
help him make the tricky leap from walking aided to running free, to teach him
the colours of the rainbow and the words for happy and sad and cat and dog. I
want to be the hand that steadies his as he learns to draw, tie his shoelace,
to eat his own lunch with a spoon. Every day a tiny piece of the mosaic that is
his forming personality is forged, and I have realised I care more about the
emerging picture than about my career. You only have one chance to raise your
child and my job, the most important I will ever have, is to be his mother,
whatever sacrifices that may entail. Any work would have to fit around that,
not the other way around. Three days a week maximum or bust.</span> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: x-small;">And so I found myself back at square one,
hammering the phone while Felix had his morning nap, sending CV’s and
speculative emails aplenty. For some time I was convinced I had turned down the
ideal opportunity but I continued nevertheless, as dogged as a gambler
ploughing coins into a fruit machine. And then one afternoon a perfect
conversation happened and I allowed myself to dream again, buoyed by hope and
renewed determination. Weeks passed and nothing materialized but I dug in,
biding my time and issuing gentle but persistent reminders. In the meantime I
made the most of every day with Felix and strove to appreciate the work I was
doing, trying to find within myself the higher qualities of patience, faith and
gratitude. Just when I thought the soil was barren, that the seed I had planted
had rotted under an overenthusiastic torrent of water, a green shoot burst
through the brown mud. One day a week at a wonderful gallery, an opportunity to
prove myself and make myself indispensible. I was simultaneously cautious and
overjoyed, fortified with the knowledge that resilience had
triumphed over despondence. More so than this I am armed with the understanding
that the deepest river that flows through my life is motherhood, and the
realization that sacrifice is part of the bedrock on which great parents are
forged. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
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<![endif]-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-56213207141191164992014-11-07T16:05:00.000-08:002016-03-19T15:14:49.838-07:00ENTRY TWENTY EIGHT - STARGAZER<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8SunfE_eeRfbyXEqKumMvPHHXMlE8w7QaWSu1702oCodZ8ZSQndvcyF8rZQU1BPsO2ucHXOpZtT8OMEto5ilyWsvo8zPpQDHsB1GQK025JP1ypnn7KEv4gwGs9Mtg5ivhtDJKzugQc9Kg/s1600/polruanview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8SunfE_eeRfbyXEqKumMvPHHXMlE8w7QaWSu1702oCodZ8ZSQndvcyF8rZQU1BPsO2ucHXOpZtT8OMEto5ilyWsvo8zPpQDHsB1GQK025JP1ypnn7KEv4gwGs9Mtg5ivhtDJKzugQc9Kg/s1600/polruanview.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On
the South East coast of Cornwall, where the
River Fowey meets the sea, lies the tiny and unspoilt village of Polruan.
Artfully spilling over the steep hills that stand sentinel over the river,
Polruan faces its more famous cousin Fowey over the sparkling silver estuary.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "verdana";">Cornwall</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"> is a long way from London, both geographically and in spirit.
Crossing the bridge at Plymouth you enter
another world - the mysterious, piratical land of Kernow.
I love coming into Cornwall this way, over the
river Tamar that forms a natural barrier between Devon to the East and Cornwall to the West, the
bobbing boats and tiny houses so far beneath they look like a toy town. Cornwall is the jutting foot of Britain,
poking out precariously into the wide blue Atlantic, with only the Isles of
Scilly between it and America.
They say you can’t escape your troubles and you can’t outrun your feelings, but
a change of scene and a break from routine is just the tonic that the soul
needs every now and then. I had been craving the wide open spaces and bracing
air, the wild and rambunctious sea. I needed to let all the juggling balls drop
and roll away and just be me for one weekend, not the many women I am and have
to be. And thus it was that I found myself on the five hour drive to the land of Kernow, accompanied by my fellow
adventuress and lover of nature. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Our place of refuge was a converted loft,
a beautiful, minimal space that was the very embodiment of the simplicity we
were seeking. Stargazer, as it was called, quite rightly let the views do the
talking. To one side only a single house stood between us and the open sea, to
the other the panorama of Polruan tumbling down to the river with the lights of
Fowey sparkling on the other side. We arrived in darkness and rain, tired from
the drive and a busy week. We awoke to a brilliant morning with the clear
Cornish light streaming through our windows. The vista was breathtaking in the
morning sun; the river as blue as the arching sky above, boats already hard at
work on the water and in the distance the car ferry making its repeat journey
back and forth. Our mission that day was a long walk along the South West
coastal path, our destination the beautiful Lantic Bay.
After a hearty cooked breakfast we headed out, armed with doorstop sandwiches
and the fervent desire to see absolutely no people for a few hours. The rugged
coastline provided the perfect backdrop to our solitude, and we stopped every
now and then to let the vigorous wind buffet us. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5HgxLMW_UaxYvaerr15KSthqDbFpMpVdVgeDW5mZkwke0Z7SPn1XAOSPhO_HcKNdKPylOXt6jQrrm0JB_sKHIkUvnMeT9PEwyU1KigPhgVjs3lK_baUPyAptUnfVXodxuOTenney-xao/s1600/beatingthesea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5HgxLMW_UaxYvaerr15KSthqDbFpMpVdVgeDW5mZkwke0Z7SPn1XAOSPhO_HcKNdKPylOXt6jQrrm0JB_sKHIkUvnMeT9PEwyU1KigPhgVjs3lK_baUPyAptUnfVXodxuOTenney-xao/s1600/beatingthesea.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "verdana";">We reached Lantic Bay in record time and
decided to continue onwards, making our way down to a tiny rocky beach to eat
lunch and watch an intrepid boy of about ten risk his life on some rocks while
his parents looked on, seemingly unconcerned by his impending death. He was armed
with a long stick which he used to beat the waves from his vantage point on a
rocky outcrop, and as we watched he was soaked by the crashing surf. ‘Hiyaaaa’
he screamed lustily as he battered an oncoming wave and suddenly I was seized
by a fit of uncontrollable laughter. His mother finally made her way over to
her errant son. ‘Now he’s for it!’ we exclaimed but not a bit of it. After
scrambling over the jagged and slippery rocks to where her small son sat prone,
still locked in his fierce and futile battle with the ocean, she took a seat
beside him. I was seized by a fresh wave of laughter as I watched them doused
with briny spray, and as they huddled in together felt the tenderness and
understanding between them. ‘That will be Felix in a few years time’ I
remarked, wiping the tears from my cheeks ‘Jumping around trying to kill
himself’. ‘Yeah’ said my companion, ‘and you’ll be right there with him risking
life and limb’. My heart soared with the vision of my baby grown into a strong
ruddy cheeked boy, limbs covered with the bumps and bruises of adventure, and I
knew that the magic of Cornwall had seeped into my tired soul and revived what
had been flagging, restoring colour where it had faded. </span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLkw3dd0fE7nm8YTWeENYZ2Vz0TrGP4wzL8IgKLbG_Gf4gFwVSGo99aMsD2_NM4w7A1BVdoZgHNkqOx2IDKjD2GjWTswRWeXItIoc448IHqhcFp5e8QF7oDIaqwNI2H9DC3uqUxGHkrmjU/s1600/ferrytofowey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLkw3dd0fE7nm8YTWeENYZ2Vz0TrGP4wzL8IgKLbG_Gf4gFwVSGo99aMsD2_NM4w7A1BVdoZgHNkqOx2IDKjD2GjWTswRWeXItIoc448IHqhcFp5e8QF7oDIaqwNI2H9DC3uqUxGHkrmjU/s320/ferrytofowey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">‘Fancy a cream tea?’ my mate enquired as
we neared Polruan, legs quivering with tiredness. ‘God yes!’ I replied with the
hearty hunger of the walker. We had concocted a plan to hop over to Fowey and
find ourselves a tea shop over on the other side of the estuary, but as we
boarded the small boat that served as ferry the ferryman had other ideas. ‘You
wont get a cream tea over there at this time’ he intoned mournfully ‘Everything
be closed down now’. We glanced at each other in dismay. ‘But it’s only four
thirty’ we protested. He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of defeat, then
added ‘Best you can hope for is a pint of Rattler in the pub’. We exchanged
glances, ‘We’ll take the chance anyway’. ‘Your lookout’ he muttered curtly and
set off for Fowey. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Twilight was gathering and the brightness
of the day was ebbing, dark clouds roiled and gathered in the sky above,
promising rain and maybe a storm later. He glanced up at the sky and over at
us. ‘Might be the last one today at this rate’. ‘What do you mean?’ we
exclaimed in horror. ‘Storm coming in’ he said briefly as if that were all the
explanation required. ‘But we’re staying the night in Polruan, we have to get
back!’ I said, anxiety starting to wind its net around my heart, ‘The ferry is
supposed to run till seven’ ‘Times it do, times it don’t’ was his only answer and
we finished the crossing in silence. Suffice to say his pronouncements of doom
were unfounded and we found ourselves a very charming tea shop where we
devoured a delicious homemade cream tea washed down with a gallon of fine
Cornish tea. Racing back to the harbour we feared the worst; peering out into
the dark water it seemed certain the ferry would never come and we would be
stranded, but after a mercifully brief time its lights came into view. It was a
crossing I will never forget, the small boat cutting through the silky black
water like an eel, the ferryman guiding it amongst the moored boats with the
casual precision of experience. As the twinkling fairy lights of Polruan
harbour came into view I sighed with contentment, and as we struggled up the steep
hill home, legs aching with exertion, the first drops of rain struck our wind-burned
faces. ‘Storm coming in’ I muttered and we collapsed with laughter. </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: "verdana";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana";">Is there anything more relaxing that
soaking in a hot bath while a storm rages all around you? That evening as the
weather turned and the promised storm arrived we found ourselves cosy and
tucked up in our loft, the wind screaming past the windows and rain lashing at
the toughened glass. We drank wine and ate roast chicken and baked potatoes
with the gusto that only a day spent outside in the elements can provide,
luxuriating in the simple pleasures of being clean and dry and safe indoors.
Later, as we lay in our beds listening to the tempest I was reminded of being
on a boat, rocked to sleep by the rhythmic rise and fall of the waves.
‘Stargazer would make a great name for a boat’ I thought sleepily, the
satisfying tiredness of hard exercise making the bed seem the most comfortable
I had ever slept in. The prospect of a drive over to the other side of the
Cornish peninsula in the morning for a surf in </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCfGsP05mL75NUxEGbf44ypAOT-96EjF1PdPNsdhbHN4B6-Ol7lllOpI_p_8-hnSxEDSaHKjUjs_qvngOXdLidQE8YipzlA1C8LvJexNvUN8sXSPVMFelXXNMw4g_JKsR5Ejh27eHJwXP/s1600/watergatebay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCfGsP05mL75NUxEGbf44ypAOT-96EjF1PdPNsdhbHN4B6-Ol7lllOpI_p_8-hnSxEDSaHKjUjs_qvngOXdLidQE8YipzlA1C8LvJexNvUN8sXSPVMFelXXNMw4g_JKsR5Ejh27eHJwXP/s320/watergatebay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Watergate Bay
seemed almost too good to be true, and I smiled to myself in the darkness.
There were no stars that evening; the storm completely occluded the majesty of
the heavens, but when I awoke during the night and looked out I saw a
cornucopia of stars piercing the velvet blackness of the sky. Stargazer had
live up to its name, delivering everything we needed and more, and as I gazed
at the distant planets I gave thanks for all the good in my life. Sometimes all
that is needed is the perspective to see that in fact all is well, that life is
wonderful and that there is so much to look forward to. The spirit needs to be
restored, the batteries recharged, the heart gladdened. There are no short cuts
to healing, but at that moment I felt certain that eventually time, and at some
point down the line another child, would wipe the pain from my memory. All in
good time. </span><br />
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<![endif]--><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5725552569939971655.post-24432168134579108492014-10-30T15:45:00.000-07:002016-03-19T14:51:29.220-07:00ENTRY TWENTY SEVEN - DARK SIDE OF THE MOON<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
wanted this entry to be a happy one, full of joy for reaching the one year
milestone and excitement about the coming months. But it has come at a period
of darkness and struggle, in a tangle of negative energy and emotion that
threatens to overwhelm me. A persistent grey cloud hovers overhead, ominous and
dense with unspent rain, and so I am on a hunt for silver linings, because even
the most forbidding cloud has a flash of silver if you know where to look. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In part it is the change in the weather
that has prompted this depression, for our halcyon days are well and truly
over. September was a glorious extension of summer, spilling its golden light
and warmth well into autumn, while October has ridden in on a dull grey horse,
bringing with it the turn of the </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pbXsTFwECE_ItWHBdjtSG-7pwcWMZTVONUYgS3Nk0R1wFRr05i_IWuUVbetpkQXHMhvLWxJ3JD6B_814mbvOkf3kM4NDPo4lUIFFJjWhcT5FQqnfshQq-RO1tj9b-WPkDY0KAw1GWmV4/s1600/drizzly+yellow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pbXsTFwECE_ItWHBdjtSG-7pwcWMZTVONUYgS3Nk0R1wFRr05i_IWuUVbetpkQXHMhvLWxJ3JD6B_814mbvOkf3kM4NDPo4lUIFFJjWhcT5FQqnfshQq-RO1tj9b-WPkDY0KAw1GWmV4/s320/drizzly+yellow.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">seasons and days of endless drizzle. The
official end of British Summer time has prompted the early twilights of winter,
and already I find myself returning from walks with Felix in darkness. Yet it
is not merely the sudden quickening of the seasons that lies upon me like a
smothering blanket; Felix’s one year anniversary has provoked a flood of
memories of his birth and I realize I am far from healed. I am haunted by the
knowledge that I was let down; by the midwives, by the anesthetists, by the
whole damn system. My suffering was entirely preventable and this knowledge
fills me with a bitter, corrosive sadness, an acid that eats away at my ability
to move on. The only thing I can liken my experience of giving birth to is
having an operation without anesthetic, an idea so outrageous the mind shuts
down at the very thought. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFueUT4qNqBNDWCBJ_Sk9p_ik8seig4KYNlMMuFLBE3HNkEHLu9TEr9-nFom06186Wz1s3Ho3OyP-uFLiM5w5_s7f3g2NmRjfP3TV0YoJiwyOLxzyK9MqPV4WZACADz7ZOGZcwI1lQzAQE/s1600/dark+side+of+the+moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFueUT4qNqBNDWCBJ_Sk9p_ik8seig4KYNlMMuFLBE3HNkEHLu9TEr9-nFom06186Wz1s3Ho3OyP-uFLiM5w5_s7f3g2NmRjfP3TV0YoJiwyOLxzyK9MqPV4WZACADz7ZOGZcwI1lQzAQE/s320/dark+side+of+the+moon.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This has been underlined by the fact that
other friends who had babies after me are now trying for a second, whilst I
cannot contemplate giving birth again. Heavily pregnant women bring me out in a
cold sweat as I imagine the agony of labour, and I know this is not a healthy
reaction. Felix is a gift for which I am thankful every day but even he cannot
erase the fearful memories of his birth, and deep in my soul I know I could
never survive another experience like it. At the same time a part of me years
for another lovely baby, a new soul to nurture and treasure. Pregnancy
itself holds no demons for me and second time round I would be sure to marvel
at the miracle my body was casually constructing while I went about my daily
business. But I find myself unable to process the hideous fear and pain of
childbirth and complete the grieving I must do if I am ever to begin the cycle
again. I have an inkling that only a better experience will ever truly heal the
trauma of the first, but first I must find a way to release the black and
dreadful memories that weigh upon me in moments of contemplation. What I need
is a dark side of the moon and a rocket in which to blast away the reminisces
to where they are no longer sustained by the brilliance of the sun, and where
they can eventually drift off into space, distilled into tiny particles that
can dissipate harmlessly into the great vacuum of the universe. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span>
***</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The tragic death of a school friend, one I
had not seen for many years, has thrown into stark relief my own struggles and
cast a dark shadow where once was a light. Anna was on the first leg of a
charity cycle from John O Groats to Lands’ End when she was killed by a
collision with a lorry. Since leaving college, the last time we saw each other,
she had become an accomplished rower who had competed for Great Britain in the Commonwealth
Games. The paths of our lives ran concurrently for many years. We went to the
same primary school, secondary school and sixth form college. We were part of
the same friendship group, one that travelled intact from the final year of
school and into the first year of college, and thus shared many formative and
unforgettable experiences. Anna was that rare thing, a truly natural blonde,
with bright blue eyes and a winning smile. As a child I remember her vivacious
and yet serene, a person with an inbuilt moral compass that directed her
steadily through life. As we entered the tumultuous world of college I was
dizzy with newfound freedom, a rudderless ship that embraced every temptation.
As I become ever more estranged from my old friends I lost touch with Anna, and
it was not until her funeral that we all came together again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As I stood outside the overflowing church,
watching her flower laden coffin being shunted onto the shoulders of the pall
bearers, I was struck by the unspeakable sadness of her death. Anna was in the
prime of her life, not only an elite rower but also an avid supporter of
charity. She was innately a good and kind person who made her way purposefully
through the weirs and waterfalls of life, making thoughtful choices and
dedicating herself to the relentless training of the elite athlete. As people
wept openly around me I felt keenly the appalling sadness of losing a child. A
child should never die before their parents; it goes against the rightful order
of things. We hope and pray that old age takes us peacefully and in good time,
and even if not that we live long enough to fulfill at least some of our
dreams, some of our potential. Anna’s story ended so much sooner than it should
have done and in the very act of trying to help others, but she died a
beautiful person, someone to be admired and feted. I dedicate this entry and my
sincerest condolences to her family and friends and all those who loved her.
She will not be forgotten. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">n memoriam of Anna Roots (Townsend)
always remembered. </span><br />
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</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16999589507884080427noreply@blogger.com0