keeping my eye on the ball

Two things have stuck in my mind since my Samaritans training on Saturday.

The first is a comment one of the trainers made. She said 'if you're one of those people who bottle things up or can't ask for help, or take it when it's offered, you might as well leave now because you'll have left 6 months down the line.'

The second was the bullet point announcing a whole module on the importance of good eye contact - for face to face callers, the 'phones aren't snazzy ones with eyes.

There's no inherent problem with these statements beyond the fact that I do find it quite unbelievably hard to ask for help and sometimes can't look someone in the eye at all..... however, I'm looking at this as a new start.

That might be naive. It might, at worst, be a dangerous path to go down but I believe it will be fine and I think I need to prove to myself that it can be.

Feeling the fear, and doing it anyway

Yesterday I did my first day's training to become a Samaritan*. Like most other things in my life - along with many things in the lives of other people - it caused quite ridiculous levels of analysis and panic.

In reality, like most other things, it was perfectly fine - no, enjoyable infact.

I realised how much I need to do something for me that is about me as an individual, not me as a mother. I love my children to bits but I cannot surround myself with only children and their mothers for the rest of my life.

I realised (not for the first time) what a curious mix of arrogance and insecurity I am. Arrogant because I didn't worry at all that I wouldn't be good enough to do it. Insecure because I did have a last minute panic, quite a spectacular one, about whether I can logistically commit to Samaritans shifts whilst maintaining the 24 hour on call service I provide so that Husband can be 'flexible' for work.

In reality, the logistics will be fine. My mother in law is around the corner, Husband is supportive - if a little chaotic in his approach to weekly schedules - and the commitment is not, anyway, even that onerous. i think it's just my excuse of choice to get out of pushing myself to do anything. It somehow seems more noble to be a martyr and not do something because of other people's needs rather than simply being slack / scared / all of the above.

I realised that my biggest fear in the world is about what will happen if it all falls apart - my life, that is. I realised, too, that not doing things in case it does is not a very good way of making sure it doesn't.

It felt good to do something new. It felt good to know I will make a difference, and it felt good to be pushing onwards and upwards.




*The Samaritans is a confidential service, and I just wanted to say straight out that of course I won't be writing anything on here about the actual calls, or even how I feel about them. My observations will be confined to learning points about my own inadequacy and that's about it.

Design for living

Since deciding my life must feature more external gratification - shallow, I know, but there is something to be said for self-awareness - I have realised that, really, my objectives are thus:

1. Be a wonderful mother and wife. Mainly to allow for the rest of this list being about me, me, me.

2. Get paid to write stuff. For this one, the stuff doesn't really matter. The money doesn't really matter that much either, it's mostly just about getting pats on the back.

3. Get free books. Getting books for free would, in itself, go a long way towards replacing my substantial lost salary. I have always spent profligately where books are concerned and this has only been exacerbated by my stay at home mum status - I've found if you're willing to tolerate early rises and fractious bedtimes you can get a surprising number of books read during afternoon nap time.

4. Do something to help others. (This one is actually in the bag, I hope, since I am just about to start training to be a Samaritan)

5. Think about whether one day I could actually write something that did matter. Notice I say think, I don't want to set myself up for failure here.

6. Do all of the above with an air of efficient ease such that people literally stop in the street and stare, wondering, HOW DOES SHE DO IT.

7. Do all of the above without having to speak to anyone, move outside of my comfort zone, cut down on reading time or in any other way put myself out.

I've reviewed the list and think everything is eminently achievable. They're certainly more achievable than most of the tasks I was asked to do when I actually had a job... and I seemed to excel at those.

Hiding bodies and bearing gifts

First, a quick update for regular readers. Son is not a hailstone. He will play the role of a gift bearer in this year's Christmas production and we have been quick to alert him to the responsibility this entails (mainly because he was sobbing like a madman on account of not being an actual wise man. The gift bearer gets to walk behind the wise man. Bearing the gift. Obviously.)

Anyway, the play is no longer Son's primary concern. Husband's nan - Son's great nan for anyone a bit slow - has been in town this week. Son (and Daughter) adore her. In a touching, yet bittersweet twist of fate she seems to get more and more appealing to them as her mind, and in particular, her memory begin to fail.

She is 90 and so, in Son's eyes at least, but a few hours away from hitting the grand old milestone of 100. This is of special excitement because Son is desperate to see a telegram from the Queen, and therefore, desperate that Nanny doesn't die.

Usually, I'd welcome such enthusiastic concern for another's welfare. I'd even probably welcome such an especially keen interest in our monarch, despite the fact that I am not a Royalist myself. I just don't especially welcome the fact that Son is now going around telling anyone who'll listen that his nan is going to get a telegram from the Queen.

Why? Because occasionally, the people he tells are kind enough to try to soften expectations, prepare the little mite for the sorrow that might strike before, not after, her next decade has passed.... and that's when the trouble starts, because Son has a plan.

His plan, should nanny die prematurely is to hide her body, keeping the death secret until the telegram has arrived safely.

Some congratulate his imaginative approach to problem solving. In truth he is a great advert for the new skills based learning approach our education system swears by... it's just he will actually try to do this.

My mother in law (who we moved hundreds of miles to live round the corner from) will announce the death of her mother and whilst overwhelmed with uncontrollable grief will have to listen to Son going on, and on, and on about how we should hide the body.

Is it too late to move away again?

The ego has landed (down the toilet)

This time last year I collected my last pay packet. I hadn't done any actual work since sloping off to have Daughter over a year before but up until then I still, technically, had a career. A career I had no shame in mentioning if pushed to describe 'what I do'.

In the year that's passed I've adjusted to having less money, I've adjusted to being at home all day with the children (just). I've welcomed the reduction in time spent talking to half-wit colleagues and bosses and jumped at the chance of reducing my guilt at leaving the children. What I haven't quite adjusted to is the loss of my ego, or at least the loss of anyone stroking it.

There was a time when I was bitter about stay at home mum's getting no thanks... but then I considered how many times I 'thank' Husband for going to work and got over it.

What I really miss is being good at something. I don't really ever get to feel like a great mum because there's always something more, better, bigger I could do and unlike the workplace, where I could shine up against all those inferior half-wits, everyone else's mum always seems better than I am.

It would probably help if I fell really strongly into the 'stay at home' camp. I don't though. I worked when Son was little and don't believe it did him any harm. It is plain for all to see that nature (in the form of my mutant genes) and not nurture will be his undoing! I've always been at home with Daughter and she's gorgeous... but I don't think I've done any better than a good nanny could have done, and at many times I've probably been a whole lot worse.

So, when I look back on the year that's passed I think it's been the right decision to stay at home. I think it was right to let go of the money before I got too trapped - I worked in a bank! I just think I probably need to put some work into doing something for a little bit of external recognition. Some pocket money wouldn't go amiss too, I've got a serious book buying habit to support.

Creation theories from my 5 year old son

So Mummy, there was a really, really, really big bomb and then it exploded and do you know what popped out when it exploded? Earth. Earth popped out. But do you know who threw that bomb? Do you? God threw it. Yeah, that's right a god threw it. No. No, no, no, actually Mummy a god didn't throw it. Cheryl Cole threw it. Cheryl Cole started the earth. I'm only kidding about that last bit.

Let it hailstone!

The Christmas play is upon us once more. Unlike the mother of one of Son's classmates, I did not decide to christen Son 'Joseph' in a shallow - but surprisingly effective - attempt to propel him to dramatic stardom. As a result, we must endure another year of angst re. Son's faltering stage career.

This year, Years 1 and 2 will be performing a lesser known interpretation of the nativity in which 3 robins have the lead roles. Cynical parents realise there are 3 robins because by Christmas robin 1 will be bed-ridden with flu and robin 2 will throw up en route to the school hall, leaving just robin 3 to valiantly stagger on. Son, on the other hand, sees this as divine assurance that he will be one of them. 'If there are 3 robins mummy then of course one of them must be me!'.

The remaining cast list has the usual suspects - Mary, Joseph, a donkey - plus 9 stars, 9 big clouds (because who'd want to be a small one?), 5 feathered friends, 8 dancing trees and - my personal favourite - 10 hailstones!

As soon as I read about the hailstones, 3 questions sprang to mind:

1. How have I missed the prominent role of hailstones in the nativity all these years? (and me, the child of religious zealots!)

2. How does one coach one's child into the role of a hailstone... let along produce a costume?

3. What will I say to Son when he turns out to be one?

My dear old fish, go boil your head!

I've read the articles about how mindless cartoons numb the brains of small children, how early exposure to violence or agressive language will render them socio-paths...

I'm not saying they're wrong, just that whatever you do, you can't win.

Yesterday, Son was playing around with his friend's bike (who was still in school) under the watchful gaze of another friend and his mother.

'Careful, you don't want to break K's bike, do you?' I ventured politely.

'Stop nagging, you miserable miser!' said Son.

'Excuse me, that's not very nice', I countered, slightly embarrassed by now.

'My dear old fish, go boil your head!'

So there's proof that however wholesome and cultured your home life might be (Son was quoting Willy Wonka in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!) your children will still manage to horrify you regularly, usually in front of a crowd. Often to the point where you'd quite like some mindless TV to numb their brain... just a little bit, of course.

Holidays then and now

As a child, going on holiday meant 3 things would happen.

1. My mother would stage an emotional meltdown and announce she wouldn’t be joining us. This usually happened after my dad, the suitcases and I had been sat in the car for ten minutes, leaving my mother to ‘do everything’. ‘Everything’ consisted of ‘trying for toilet’ and locking, unlocking and double locking the front door long enough for the whole street to clock the fact that we were going away and house would be empty.

2. My dad would crash the car. To be honest, this did not happen every time, but enough times that my dad actually drew out replacement number plates on cardboard to take on holiday. Two years running he crashed on our way to Norfolk and so keen was he to ensure our hat-trick that on the third year he crashed on the way there and the way back.

3. Someone would die. It was never anyone really close but plenty of relatives tried with enough abandon to render our entire trip just one long walk up and down the lane to the payphone for progress reports. At the last minute, having ruined our holiday with false alarms and panic, they’d pull through... and someone else would die. Usually, it was some old lady from the church, requiring my father to ‘phone c.100 relatives to offer support and sympathy. One year it didn’t happen. That was the year Princess Diana died. The robust health of our friends and family compelled God to sacrifice the People’s Princess – it’s a burden I’ve born ever since.

Early on in life, I vowed these habits would not accompany me into adult hood. Numbers one and two are easy. I spend 70% of each day ensuring that I do not become my mother and anyway, holidays don’t stress me out. On the occasions we drive to our destination both husband and I utilise a handy driving trick (which never occurred to my dad) of breaking before your bumper is touching the car in front, and it’s worked wonders for our holiday/accident ratio. No.3 is harder to control.

My father once curtailed a holiday before it had even begun with threats of death but, since he did actually die the week after, I forgave him. My mother, however, employs far more ingenuity. Faced last week with us on the way to Spain and no pressing health worries to report she did what every normal 77 year old does late on a Friday night and decided to shave her legs. The fact that she has shaved her legs c.3 times in the last 30 years appeared to be no barrier to her plans. Neither, unfortunately, was the fact that her lower legs are covered with surface veins just waiting to pop open and spill blood. You can see where this is going. She, apparently, could not. It was only after the first scrape had sent blood spurting across her dining room (She was shaving her legs in a bowl at the dining room table!) and onto the kitchen cupboards that she realised her mistake.

Luckily, she is no longer reliant on a pay phone down a lane and she managed to grab her mobile in time to summon my brother, who is in medical emergencies roughly like pig in s*** . Pressure was applied, paramedics were called and in the end no-one died... although if my mum gets her hands on the ambulance man who ‘threw away her razor, which was a good one as well that she had paid a lot of money for and could have given away to someone....’ who knows what might happen.

The fattest boy in the whole world comes to tea

It would be fair to say that the arrival of the fattest boy in the whole world was preceded by not inconsequential levels of anxiety.

When the day dawned, it was with a slightly quickened pulse that I walked home from the morning school run, a satchel of M's medical supplies weighing me down like a pack horse. I spent the day feverishly researching anaphylactic shock and CPR and before I could say nuts it was time to pick up the boys.

Unfortunately, someone in the class had provided biscuits for their birthday so my first experience of M at close quarters involved being doused with the saliva that jumped out of his mouth at the very mention of biscuits. I am, however, nothing if not a stoic and I forced back the nausea and pressed on like a trooper.

We rounded the school gates and I merrily suggested Son skipped ahead to show M the way. "It's OK" M said, "I know the way".
"Oh, you mean you know where our road is", I replied. (For reference, our road is a cul de sac, there is no reason to go down it unless you live there, and M lives miles in the opposite direction)

"No", he said, "I mean I know where you live"
"Oh", I said, "You mean Son has explained the way already"
"No (you moron - implied, not actually spoken) I mean I've been there. My dad got my uncle who's really, really, really big (and will hit you hard if I say I don't like you - implied, not actually spoken) to drive us over last night to check out your house (because, unlike you, they are psychos - not even implied, but understood)"
"Oh" I said.


Postscript: To be honest, the rest of the afternoon was ridiculously uneventful. I managed to keep M alive, managed not to be sick as he stuffed his face and managed to drop him off safe and sound at home without being accosted by a big uncle in an even bigger car.

In which M's mother worries I'm a psycho

So, to recap briefly, Son has fallen in love with the fattest boy in the whole world and I have been forced to approach an unknown person and strike up conversation. Furthermore, I have invited said fattest boy in the whole world for tea.

The initial exchange went well. M, it seems, is an amiable chap who gets along swimmingly with everyone. He would positively love to come to tea. It would be delightful. Again, I am writing metaphorically since such phrases didn't enter the conversation at all, but I'm convinced they might have if only M's mother had stopped smiling and nodding her head in a fashion not unlike the dog in the Churchill advert. We set the date for the following week and that, as they say, was that.

Until the next day, when M's mother asked me if I was a psycho.

You may never have been asked that question. It may, infact, be a question you've given no thought to whatsoever. I have been asked it before, but to be honest, the context then was so far removed from this one that any preparation that went into answering last time around had to be ditched. Instead, I fumbled the very depths of my brain for a clue as to how to respond to such a query.

I opted, in the end (quickly, for I feared any long delay might see suspicion mount), for a short speech on my role as upstanding parent and school helper. I'd like to think there is nothing desperate at all about mentioning that I've had a CRB check. Granted, the benefit of that accolade dimished slightly once I'd disclosed (as any upstanding citizen would) that actually such checks are only valid on the day, hour, minute, second they're issued so actually by now there was every chance that I was indeed a psycho. Anyway, it seemed enough and M's mum left placated.

Until the next day.

Her initial fears had been dispelled. She'd checked me out with the school family worker and luckily I passed with flying colours. (This is mainly because Husband's family is a bit like a good version of the mafia round here and I've been trading off their past exploits ever since Son started school.) Today's concern was the fact that she didn't drive so wouldn't be able to pick M up. No problem, I gushed, I'll bring him home. And all was fine again.

Until the next day.

It would be wrong to say that this day brought a problem to the table. It was more a list of potential problems, all of which could happen while M was at my house, all of which would involve medical intervention and possibly my arrest. M, it turns out, is allergic to nuts, doesn't have asthma exactly but carries an inhaler (for fun??), takes Piriton when he fancies it and just to top it off sometimes enjoys a quick slather of moisturising cream of an afternoon. It would be fair to say that receipt of this knowledge took some of the initial shine off my sense of anticipation, but I put my best foot forward.

Until the next day.

When M's mother demonstrated an attention to detail I'm frankly in awe of. She had, displaying prodigious levels of planning, checked the weather forecast for our allotted play date and discovered - to her abject horror - the possibility of thunder. She didn't know, she said, how my children would be around thunder, would it be OK did I think, should we cancel?

Obviously by now it should have been clear that yes, we should cancel but instead I summoned a smile and breezed, "no, of course not. Everything will be fine...."

The fattest boy in the whole world

One day last year Son came home in a state of frenzied excitement because a boy called M had spoken to him.

M was in Year 1 and they were confined to separate playgrounds but their love had flourished against the odds, across the barricades.

'Who's M?' I said. 'Well,' said Son, before a not so much pregnant but 3 months overdue pause for dramatic effect. 'He has black skin, he's in Year 1 and he's the fattest boy in the whole world'. All of these were terms of endearment you understand. In Son's world being the fattest boy in, like, the whole entire world is something very cool, rather than something very likely to kill you.

Fast forward to this year and Son himself has been catapulted into the heady world of Year 1. He has cast boyish things aside and become a man, and there by his side, by dint of his school's dual year teaching style, is none other than M.

I worked out a while ago who M was. He is not - of course - the fattest boy in the whole world, but he was readily identifiable not by his black skin but by the fact that he had his whole mouth and nose inside a packet of sweets that seemed to be being sucked inexorably into him, like dust up a hoover. In a similar way to an over full hoover bag, there was just something about him that made you not want to stand too close.

Son was of course ecstatic to be thrust into the bosom of his idol. I write metaphorically of course, no-one would survive being thrust into M's actual bosom. I was pretty much ambivalent... until it became clear that a playdate was required and that I would be forced to 'make friends' with M's mother.

For a couple of weeks I feigned ignorance when faced with the question of M's parentage but then I could fob off no longer and the deed was done. 'I, um, don't know if, um M likes Son or not' I mumbled, 'but Son would really like him to come to tea'. And with that, the deed was done.

TBC