"Dear C" published at The Dirty Napkin

A fictional letter I wrote, "Dear C" is now up at The Dirty Napkin.  You can also listen to a recording of me reading it! 

You'll only be able to read or listen to it while the current issue is current.  Once it gets archived, you have to be a subscriber to read the full piece, so read / listen while you can :-)

Shopping for clouds, 'tache removal for dolls & Moomin anatomy

After over a week of rain, we finally had some sunshine.  Glorious, hot September sunshine.  So Jake and I headed out to the marshes again.  Today we ended up in Springfield Park via the Caff on the river, where Jake lost the top half of his Cornetto, bawled (even though I told him I'd get him another one, he picked the fallen half up of the floor and wanted to eat it) and then proceeded to have a nosebleed. 

In the midst of all this, three Dads and their toddlers were at the Caff and the little ones decided to rearrange all the chairs.  They were obviously not familiar with the angry woman who runs the place, whose special method of anger mis-management is to take it out on children who decide to play with the chairs.  I'm not joking either.  Last time I took Jake there, he was playing with a chair and even though we were the ONLY people in the place, she kept glaring at him, then roughly pushed the chair back to its place even though he was still on it and said to him rather than to me, "You can't move the chairs, it's a health and safety hazard."

Today, the little ones had lined the chairs up for a show.  Chair-rage woman saw it and stomped into their midst without actually looking at them and then proceeded to noisily drag all the metal chairs back into place.  One of the Dads noticed and said, "Oh dear kids, this lady is not happy!" and she muttered, "I've got enough work to do as it is without messing about with chairs," then stomped off inside.

I was sure she was going to have a go at Jake for daring to have a nosebleed outside the door of her establishment (health & safety hazard obviously) but she didn't.

Later, we went to the park and were entertained by watching the Dads who'd been at the Caff.  One Dad in particular kept getting into intense conversations (from holistic health practices to the cut-throat world of publishing to teenage rebellion) and not quite keeping an eye on his wandering son.  Three times the young man got away.  The first two times he didn't quite manage to get out of the gates of the park.  But the third time, he managed not only to get out of the park but also up the nearby bridge crossing over the river.  That one took us all by surprise, me included.  The other two Dads with him were in hysterics when chatty-Dad brought his kid back.  "That wouldn't be good would it," one of them said, "not on your watch."  And the other said, "Oh yes darling, he just went for a little swim."

Watching all this, Jake said to me, "Did he go for a little swim?  That's bad isn't it Mummy?" and shook his head.

Later, when they had to go, Jake said, "Oh, they have to go now.  That means there won't be any more funny things to see here."

So we went to play in the playground, where I learned that Moomins don't have bellybuttons (a pronouncement Jake made completely out of the blue), and that Spongebob (or Sponboj as Jake still calls him) likes popcorn and watermelon icecream.  I also had a moment of wondering if he was in fact my child when he suddenly asked me, "Would you like to come jogging?"

Then we threw dried grass at each other and into the pretend swamp and ran up and down a hill.  We also played shops.  We took it in turns to be shopkeeper and pretend customers. 

When I was being shopkeeper, Jake came in as "Dolly" and asked for clouds.  I said, "Oh, I don't think I can get clouds today."  Jake paused, left the shop, pretended to go to the shop next door and completed his transaction without any problems.  Then he came back to me and said, "You just have to pretend Mummy."  That told me!  He also came in as a slide (with eyes) asking for a spanner and a tree asking for bricks.

Then, when he was being shopkeeper, I came in as "Dolly" and asked for hair removal cream for my mustache.  (Since we acquired her, Dolly has mysteriously gained a scribbled on comb over and a 'tache).  Jake perused his shelves and said he didn't have any cream but handed me something else.  "Here's a tissue," he said.  "Are you sure this will work on a mustache?" I asked.  "Yes," he said very firmly.  Then asked me for £40.

Finally, I came in as a ladybird. 
"What would you like?" Jake asked.
"I'm very lonely and I'd like a friend," I said.
"Hmmm, what kind would you like?" he asked.
"A funny one, and someone who understands me," I said.
"Stands you?"
"Yes."
He thought about it and then said, "Sorry, I only have one that can sit."

Perhaps it's because these little friends are so nicely designed for sitting:

South Tottenham with his new friend Gospel Oak (or Ospel Goak)

Napping Ninja

This afternoon, Jake lay on the sofa watching Iconicles.  When it finished, we were due to go to the official opening of The Mill, the reclaimed and refurbished old St James St library where I will be volunteering.  But this is how I found him. 

I believe that in Yogic Toddler this is known as Napping Ninja.  If it isn't, it should be.

Perhaps this will be the beginning of a series of Jake Sleeps photos.  I have one somewhere of him asleep standing up.  Must dig that out. 

Life with Jake

One evening last week, while lying on the floor playing with his toy truck, Jake went very still.


“Jake, are you falling asleep?” I asked.  It was 6pm.  Not the ideal time for him to be having a nap.


The back of his head nodded twice, then I heard snoring.  He was still holding his truck.  He stayed in that position for an hour.


~


On Friday last week we had a glorious September day – sunny, warm, HOT even.  So we went to the Marshes.  I couldn't believe how long it'd been since we were last there.  It's been such a crappy summer weather-wise.


While walking past some bramble thickets, Jake flung his sunglasses into the thorny mass, stopped and said, "Uh oh!"


I stopped and asked him why he would do such a thing.  He shrugged, looking as surprised as I was that he'd done it.  I looked but I couldn’t see a sign of them anywhere.  I then launched into a mini lecture about why that was a naughty thing to do and how it isn't easy to find sunglasses like that (they were bendy and indestructible and he liked them and actually wore them AND they were fairly cheap and from Decathlon in South London - South London for goodness sake!!). 


We walked on and a few moments later I found a pair of children's sunglasses on the path, hot pink and heart shaped, but still. 


"Well how about that!  They're pink and heart shaped but they'll probably fit you.  What do you think Jake?"   I put them on him.


"I don't like them."  He said, but didn't try to remove them. 


I took them off him but kept them anyway, tickled by the whimsical notion of a magical bramble thicket that taketh and then giveth away. 


Later, I apologised to Jake for ranting at him about throwing his sunglasses.  I'm sure he didn't mean to lose them on purpose.  I said, "And don't worry, we can get you some new ones."


"We got some new ones already," he replied. 


He hasn't worn them yet, but he's allowed me to keep them as if he might.  We shall see.


~


On the same sunny day, sitting by the river outside the greasy spoon caff with Jake, watching people drink tea and ride by on their bikes, he says,


“I’ve got things in my mouth.”


“Really, what have you got?”


“I have a cuppa tea!”


“Wow, a whole cup of tea!”


“Yes, and bicycles!!”


“Wow, that’s a big mouth you’ve got there.”


“Yes.  But not as big as Daddy’s.”

~


While reading Mog the Forgetful Cat the other night, a story we’ve been reading at bedtime for a number of months now, Jake suddenly interjected, “He needs to be shot.”


Being the morally corrupt parent that I am, I guffawed.  So naturally he kept doing it.  I could kind of understand.  The dog was chasing Mog, so yeah, maybe he needed to be shot.  And Mr & Mrs Thomas for sure, with their irritating middle-class-English pronouncements of “Bother that cat!” when Mog crushed their precious geraniums or slept on a hat that THEY'D left on a chair or her tail blocked the boxing on TV.  Honestly!  She's a CAT.  Get OVER it.  So yeah, they needed to be shot.


But when Jake said Mog should be shot I had to disagree.  He thought about it for a moment then said, “OK, just his tail needs to be shot then.” Naturally I guffawed some more.


I was convinced this had something to do with Daddy’s version of Mog, but Daddy swears it wasn’t him.  Hmmm.  I didn’t realize Jake was quite so imaginative.


Inspired by his inventiveness, I decided to rename the Thomases "Shingenshengen".  Jake found this infinitely amusing.  And it makes Mr & Mrs Thomas a teeny bit more bearable.


~

In the playground the other day, Jake asked for a wipe for his face.  When finished with the wipe, he held it under his chin and said, "Look I've got a beard!"

Then he pointed at various people in the playground and pronounced whether they had a beard or not.  Some of those that did were women.

Must be all those trips to Stoke Newington.

~

Jake: I can hear the recycling truck very far away.
Me (not hearing it): Wow, you have really good ears.
Jake: Yes I do. (Pause) WHAT? (giggles hysterically)


And apparently he’s a comedian too.


~

Of course it isn't all laughs and free sunglasses.  Most days he feels the need to disagree with me about everything, from where I'm allowed to touch in and out with my Oyster card or whether the sink is in fact full of washing up to telling me I am not hungry and am therefore not allowed to cook or eat. 

And I can't even begin to talk about the hell challenge of feeding him at the moment.  Some things just can't be spoken of in company.  But, since I read the other day that children generally become assholes when they turn 3, I think we're doing alright.  :-)

And finally...following the creation of South Tottenham, Jake has suggested two more characters for me to get busy with: Hackney Downs and Gospel Oak (and yes, they are train stations).

Watch this space!

(Apologies for the weird spacing in this post.  I don't know why it's happening and I don't know how to fix it.)

Today we painted

This is Jake's painting.  I have so much to learn from him.

The story of South Tottenham

This isn't a post about the riots or anything to do with London or its history.  It's really about my son's love of all things train and train station.  So much so that when I made him a sock monster (at his request), he decided to name him South Tottenham.  This is his story...

Jake picked out the socks from which to make his monster. 
Incidentally, they are the exact same pair I would have picked.
While I am sewing up his arms, Jake puts him in the doll pram.

Have you ever seen such an itty bitty limb?

Finally I get to use the buttons I bought in Italy years ago.

Not done yet but he's already got attitude.

Couldn't resist!

The genius of using socks means he gets a bum to sit on.

Ta da!  All done!
And yes, those green threads are meant to be there.
They are armpit hairs and got Jake's approval.

Taking South Tottenham and Penguin for a walk ~ or,
How to get weird looks from your neighbours

And from strangers in the playground

I think we did get a few smiles though.
Interestingly enough, the smiles were from men.
The women looked at us like we were wearing meat for clothes
and not in an appreciation for Lady Gaga sort of way.
Little girls smiled and wanted to play but their judgmental mothers
kept them from approaching us.
I still don't know if it was because I was allowing
my boy to play with a doll pram or because
of the wonderful uniqueness of South Tottenham.

 ~

Jake colours in a drawing of South Tottenham that I made for him

I know I'm biased, but I think it's fab and unwittingly
captures what South Tottenham's all about.



A story about South Tottenham being worked out in my sketchbook / journal



The "finished" story ~ or at least a draft of one,
including a few contributions from Jake.

~


I read something the other day about how we have a choice about what thoughts we can hold about any situation, and how that choice leads to inner freedom.  I’m sure I’ve heard this many times before but this time it stuck with me, felt real, felt good real.

Lately I’ve been living with this thought in my head – “hey, this is my reality, so why should I try to live someone else’s?”  It came out of realising that the guilt I was feeling, about only having one child and yet still struggling to cope with one child while many others I know have two or more, was a ridiculous waste of my life.  Whose reality was I trying to live out and why?  Where did that voice come from that was telling me that my struggles were unimportant compared to that of others’, that I didn’t have a right to feel what I feel unless I “qualified” for it by at least having one more child?  I’ve been living with that voice my whole life – that mean, punitive, uncaring voice.  And all this time I’ve automatically listened to it like it was the Truth, reflexively changing the ends of my own inner thoughts so that they sounded acceptable, quietly buried all troublesome feelings and covered them over with a clean and pretty cloth.
What burdens we labour under – and for what?

So yeah, this is my reality.  I have one kid and he is awesome.  Because I don't have to run around after a second, younger baby or toddler, it means we get to spend a lot of time together and we are close.  We talk all the time, and I'm either on the floor playing with him or we're deep in some project or outing together.  Yeah, he's sensitive and yeah, even though he's 3, he's still clingy so that if I try to cook or wash up he'll follow me into the kitchen, wedge himself between me and the kitchen counter and say, "Mummy I need a cuddle."  Sometimes I can't pick him up and cuddle him, sometimes I can.  When I can, his arms go around my neck and he usually says, "I like you Mummy" or "I love you."  Why on earth should I feel guilty about that??

It rained almost all day today.  Jake and I did manage a little trip out, a walk to the shop and back to buy eggs.  But the rest of the day was spent indoors, both of us feeling restless, bored, irritable - but we also had some great moments.

When I started feeling guilty that I wasn’t thinking of riveting or ultra-wonderful things to do with Jake like the perfect Mum should, I reminded myself that I’m human, that this is my reality now and that everyone has days like this – bored, restless rainy days.  And as soon as I accepted it, didn’t fight with myself about it, magic happened.  While Jake was playing with trains and eating raisins, I started drawing in my sketchbook / journal.  He got interested and wanted to join me.  We had a good hour or more of drawing together and it came about spontaneously and organically.  I even let go of the need for my sketchbook / journal to remain in "pristine" condition and let Jake scribble in it like he wanted to.  And of course his touch only added to it.  What happens when we let go of “shoulds”.

Patagonia

Saw this last night ~ a beautiful beautiful story set in Wales and Argentina.  Amidst all the crap out there that is scaring and upsetting me, sitting down to watch this film was like being taken to a safe and magical place.  Apart from being gorgeously filmed and filled with wonderful music, it restores my faith in life. 

The one where I vomit all over the page

There has been so much that I've been wanting to say.  About the riots, and especially about how people have reacted to the riots and all the finger pointing that's going on post-riot, the assumptions people have, mostly unexamined, and how ANGRY and dismayed it's making me feel.  But that's a whole other post. 

About how worried and stressed I feel about having to claim benefits and how much I HATE being asked why I'm not working like I'm some sort of criminal.  And don't even get me started on David Cameron's farcical speeches about Broken Britain and having a go at single parents especially in the wake of the parenting tips that were released by the Govt recently, one of which was the clever idea to spend at least 20 minutes a day talking to your child with the TV off - SERIOUSLY?? I mean, I know Jake's not at school yet but surely it shouldn't be such an effort to find 20 minutes in a day in which to TALK to your child? Acccchhhhh!  A whole other post!

About how, in the middle of our housing benefit interview yesterday, Jake, after having stamped his feet, thrown his trains on the floor, thrown papers on the floor, run his trains angrily across the unsmiling woman's desk, stood on the chair and said, "I want to go NOW!" followed by, "Look Mummy, she's got no eyebrowns!" and how right he was cos when I sneaked a peek, I saw that they were drawn on.  To make it up to him for having to go to such a horrid place for such a long time, we later sat on the platform of Walthamstow Central overground station for half an hour where we shared some cake and he could watch the trains go by.

About how alone I felt while recovering from my wisdom tooth operation and how guilty I felt about feeling alone because I ought to be grateful that there is someone to help look after Jake at all so I can look after myself.  It's pointless feeling guilty about feelings but I did anyway, so guilty I even deleted a post I put on a forum that I normally find very supportive because I suddenly realised how many of the people who use the forum have 2 children or more (or are at least expecting their 2nd child) and how churlish it is of me with my mere one child to complain at all. So I kept my feelings to myself and posted cheery status updates on Facebook so I can pretend, along with the rest of the virtual world who partake in it, that I don't have any threatening or scary feelings but that I am acceptable and likeable, so as not to be ostracised and feel friendless. 

And then, the woman from the housing benefit office rang and told me my National Insurance number is invalid (even though the tax office has been using it for years) and I wanted to cry.  Then I heard on the news that six people had been stabbed to death in Jersey, including three children.  And I wanted to cry.  Then I heard that Fiona Robyn's cat died after being knocked over by a car and I wanted to cry.  Then I get hungry and Jake needs a cuddle and life goes on and all the tears get buried somewhere.  Also, I haven't written anything for over a week.  It's taking its toll.  So here I am, vomiting on the page.

Today Jake and I made an impromptu spider and three rainbows out of pipe cleaners, tried on lip gloss (Jake's idea, I have no idea where he found the lip gloss, I haven't worn any for years), drew a mini-train station complete with train tracks and level crossings and received lovely cards from a dear friend - all before 10am.  Later we stopped by Oxfam and found three fantastic children's books (Milo & The Magical Stones by Marcus Pfister which has two possible endings to choose from - a happy one and a sad one, Animal Stories by Dick King-Smith, and The Used-Up Bear by Clay Carmichael) and paid only £2.97 for the lot.  Jake didn't quite appreciate The Used-Up Bear as much as I did.  I really bought that book for me, because I identify so much with that bear, except I haven't had my red suit made for me yet.  I also took Jake to a newly opened local community centre where I am hoping to start volunteering soon. 

And yet, much of the day felt like a struggle.  There was a lot of stress and cajoling to get anything done (getting Jake changed, getting him from A to B, trying to cook) and when that didn't work, shouting and making Jake cry.  There was the moment an old woman standing outside a church with her respectably dressed fellow church go-ers said about me after we'd passed them and she thought I was out of earshot, "Oh I'd never let a child run free like that" because I didn't have Jake strapped into his buggy but was letting him walk (and run) by himself on the pavement (shock horror).  Well, I heard her and I stopped and glared and said, "Oh you wouldn't, would you?" and then walked on muttering to myself about how I KNOW my own kid and hey, how about the novel idea that I might actually TRUST Jake because I KNOW he is capable of being careful even if he is running on a pavement beside a busy road.  How about the fact that whenever I ask Jake to stop when we're out and about, he always stops?  How about cutting someone you don't even know some slack instead of judging them? 

Then there was the moment just after I dragged Jake away from looking at some flowers cos we were on our way to somewhere else and I was so god-damned DETERMINED to get there that he ran and tripped and skinned his knee and cried and cried and cried.  And there was the moment I opened the tub of taramasalata I'd just bought and had been looking forward to devouring and found a spot of mould on it.  And the moment I accidentally knocked a glass of juice all over the carpet and it spilled across part of our newly drawn train station and I totally lost it and started swearing at the stain like I was Lady Macbeth.  Worst of all was the threatening and pushing involved to get Jake into the tub to have his bath.  When I was out of it last week, I found out Jake hadn't had a bath in a week.  He can't have a bath at his Daddy's place cos there's no bathplug.  And he's due to go over there the next two nights, so it suddenly seemed IMPERATIVE that he have a bath TONIGHT.  Except Jake wanted to look out the window at his friend Vlad who was in his garden with his grandma.  So there was more shouting and Jake ended up crying, "Mummy I just need a cuddle!"

He's such a sensitive kid.  He takes shouting hard.  I ought to know this by now.  It may sometimes "work" in that it gets him to do what I want him to do but more often than not he refuses and it hurts him.  I know these things happens sometimes.  We're all human.  There's just been far too much of it in one day.  He finally did agree to get in the bath but he cried the whole time he was in it (which wasn't very long).  I felt so awful.  I asked him he if was crying because he was upset because I shouted at him and he nodded and cried even harder.  After a while I asked him what I could do.  He said he wanted to get out of the bath.  And what did I do?  I said, "I'll just give you a little wash" because he was in the bath and I thought, why not, might as well.  But of course it upset him.  And I said, "But Jake that's the whole point of being in the bath" but then I stopped myself from going any further.  He was already hurt because I'd been coercing him, he cried to show he was hurt and he also told me.  But I'd been doing something like this all day and basically not hearing him.  So I took him out and held him till he stopped crying. 

Then, while I was reading him stories at bedtime, I did it again.  Yes, he was messing around and bouncing on the bed and interrupting my reading and making silly noises and laughing by tickling himself with "Sponboj" and part of me found it cute but most of me got annoyed so I kept asking him if he really wanted me to read him a story because he wasn't listening.  He kept saying he did want a story but he carried on being silly and I carried on being annoyed.  Arrrrgggghhhh!!  I could hear myself and I hated it, but I couldn't stop!!  I kept on at him for not listening and yet, I hadn't been listening to him all day.  And even so, even while I was being a shrill cow, Jake was stroking my arm and saying, "I still love you Mummy."  Oh that child of mine sure knows how to squeeze my heart.

There was other stuff too.  Stuff I've forgotten now.  Stuff about vulnerability and poetry and shit.  But I still have a flash to write tonight.  And this is probably enough vomit for one post.  And because so much vomit should at least be accompanied by a photo, here's one of Jake from yesterday.  He'd had daisies in his hat then put the hat on and just had some daisies in his hair but he took them out just before I managed to get this snap...if you've read this far, remind me to send you a medal in the post. :-)

smoke

still, the sound of slicing blades
the fast-fast wail of sirens

and in the night air
the smell of smoke
real or imagined

~

Tottenham riots

stones in my stomach

Lately my blogging has been cryptic and not entirely honest.  There are things I haven't been saying.  Things I am still stunned to find myself living through.  I've been wanting to hang on to some semblance of normality, so I've continued to write small stones (or tried to), but I've been finding it hard to notice things, to really see them. It’s because I’ve been finding it hard to stop and be. There is upheaval, turbulence. There are stones in my stomach.

The last few stones I’ve written haven’t felt quite like small stones. They’ve felt like I’ve been viewing the world through a filter, one I’ve deliberately placed over my eyes, to keep me from the force of the way things are. Maybe it’s because it’s necessary. But it makes the writing of small stones…wrenching. Because it makes me aware of this filter, this deliberate keeping of the world at bay, and yet, I don’t want to not try.  The same could be said of my blog posts here.

If you've been reading my small stones blog, you may have noticed that I didn’t write a stone for Thursday night. I told myself it was because it had been a busy day (it had), because I’d been out all day and then in the evening (I had), because so much had happened (it had) and it was hard to put it into words (it is) and that I was still too stunned to articulate everything that had happened (perhaps I still am).

I did notice something though, after coming out of the theatre on Thursday night. After my very first Chekhov experience (The Cherry Orchard), against the night sky, a tree with vivid red-orange berries, so bright against evening green leaves they seemed to throb. And yet, I didn’t write it as a stone. I still don’t know the name of those berries, I thought. And isn't the image a little cliched?

Then, on the tube home, I watched a boy with brown skin ask a girl with brown curls who was rolling a cigarette if she’d ever used a rolling machine. She smiled, lit up, a spark in her eyes. Her fingers rolling effortlessly on the rocking train, she said, “Here’s a tip. Don’t use so much baccy.” Then licked the edge, smoothed it down and tucked it under a curl behind her ear, the boy with the brown skin smiling, shaking his head in admiration. Then they both stood and left the train through different doors. But I didn’t write it as a stone.

I had a squished California Hand Roll from Wasabi in my handbag. I was worried it was going to stain my programme of The Cherry Orchard. I was wondering whether I should eat the roll first then wash my hair when I got home. And I remembered I still had to do my embroidery. Maybe that’s why I didn’t write a stone. Then I remembered I'm going into hospital on Monday to have a wisdom tooth out and that I haven't yet checked what they mean by "nil by mouth" from Sunday night.  Can I still drink water?  Maybe that's why I didn't write a stone.  And yet, I went to bed at 1am with Chekhov’s stories. (And I can’t even begin to articulate the effect his writing is having on me.) And then, the next morning, I got up, lived another day as if stepping on tremors, then wrote that ”stone” about Abney Park Cemetary, the one that was trying to be picturesque and ”poetic” but left so much unsaid.

So I tried again, even though I can't even begin to say it all.  I've been dreading putting it into words, but life moves on regardless of how we feel. 

I've written this on my small stones blog, but I need to say it here too. ~

Last night was Jake’s first night at “Daddy’s house”. Paul picked him up, we waved goodbye through the open window, blew kisses at each other, pulled funny faces. I watched his back, astride Paul’s shoulders, in his Thomas blue t-shirt, twist round for one last wave. Then I closed the window, ate noodle soup, went to the theatre.

This morning was my first for picking my son up from his Dad’s. I woke up alone, drank half a cup of tea, didn’t check train times, but arrived, stepping over rubble, trying to find the right door. How ordinary things can be, how quiet the whirr of our failures, how invisible the rips and tears, how relentless the workings of the physical world. We still have to eat, sleep, get up in the morning, get trains on time, wait for buses, cross busy roads, knock on unfamiliar doors, deal with our bowels and walk on, occasionally remembering to unfurl the fist in our stomachs, to keep the palms soft, to breathe, stay awake, alive, open.

Conversations with my three year old

Jake: Mummy, did you just say 'fuck', like yesterday?
Me: Yes darling, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it.
Jake: Please don't say it again, okay?
Me: I'll try darling, I'm really sorry.
(Pause)
Jake: Do you want a cuddle and a kiss?
Me: (tearing up) Yes please.

Jake clambers off his chair to give me the best hug and kiss in the world.

~

Leafing through the A - Z, Jake instructs me to sit down with him to "read the maps".
He points to a green bit which is Hyde Park and says, "We can ride horses there."
"Yes, we probably can," I say.
"And tigers too.  And cows.  And sheeps.  Are sheeps friendly?"
"Yes, I think they are."
"Yeah, sheeps.  We can ride sheeps.  I think they'd like that."

~
Jake, holding his toy motorbike and running it up and down the back of the sofa:
Mummy, do you remember that place we went to with Ben-Alex, there was a monkey (he mimics an animal playing a drum), two, no, three really tall mans and there was a motorbike going up and down and up and down and there were some greedy people getting on it?  Do you remember?  Were you there?

Me: Er....I think so?

Jake: Yeah, let's go there again.  Okay?

Me: Mmmmm, sure.

~

How long til he twigs I don't really know what I'm doing?

Pussycat Dreams

I discovered this cut-out-and-make cat at The Museum of Childhood shop.

It comes in the form of a card which I'd bought for my 13 year old niece but Jake refused to let it go!

It's designed by Alice Melvin who has a whole load of other wonderful goodies in her shop.

This is the sort of thing I'd like to have a go at making one day - 3D paper shapes and "sculptures".

So many projects, so little time...sigh.

Lapses

‘Kiss her on the cheek, tell her who you are, but be prepared to keep doing it, over and over.’

I hadn’t been ‘home’ in years. Since then, my 94 year old Grandma has been having memory lapses. Not many and not severely. But my father would visit her and she’d keep asking him, “Where are your children? How many do you have? Why don’t they live with you?” and my Dad would keep answering.

Every now and then he’d say “I don’t know, you ask me so often I forget!” Then they’d laugh and five minutes later, she’d start up again. Then one of my aunts would fetch the photo, the one where Grandma’s holding my Johnny, her great grandson, and she’d say, “Oh! Yes, I remember now. Show that picture to your sister.” And they’d laugh again.

“She’s already seen it Mum.”

Apart from that, she’s as strong as a water buffalo. Even when the freak cold front hit Bangkok recently, Dad got influenza, Mom got strange rashes and everyone was bundling up in jackets and scarves, but Grandma just wore a shawl around her shoulders.

While we’re eating lunch, Grandma starts up again. “Where are your children, why don’t they live with you?” Even as I’m sitting there.

Everyone points but Johnny and I look different now. Grandma squints, then smiles, then repeats the questions. She only asks them of my father. I look around the room at my uncles, aunts, cousins and realise why. They all live with her or within a few miles of her.

I think of my London flat, all the days I spend alone with Johnny, trips to the playground just the two of us, going to play groups to be with strangers.

I used to be relieved living so far away. I didn’t want all the noise and scrutiny, the crush of such familiarity.

I look at my Grandma as she waits for an answer.

“It’s a good question Grandma, a very good question.”

~
(333 words ~ prompt: "remembered" – from one of my books)

what is there to do here?

the boys who’d asked
what is there to do here
huddle in close
pick snails off leaves
disappear with cups
to pick “blueberries” off Brambles
return with chins and fingers
stained wine red

as we walk
comfrey leaves are stuck
to arms, chests
badges peeled and reapplied

birds become more than ducks and swans
trees acquire names like Ash and Hazel
unripe apples are picked and bitten
then kicked about
pale-green pebble-hard footballs

we progress like a higgledy-piggledy train
adults orbited by
running boys and quiet, feisty Maddie
a passerby smiles
“This is a very large family!”

I stop for a moment to hold it all
a floating lotus and lily-pad island
geese climbing the banks to join us
a glimpse of red and black and white
on a chaffinch

and beyond
the sound of a gong
a Buddhist temple bell
no one else hears

The magic of now

It's Jake's birthday tomorrow. A couple of weeks ago, I started getting stressed about not having planned the quintessential fantastic child's birthday party for him, even though what we do have planned is much more authentic for the child he is now (going to Lea Valley Regional Park in Cheshunt with a group of close friends & his cousins).

But I'd seen photos of a friend's son's absolutely fantastic professionally made-to-order birthday cake and I thought - shit - I haven't even thought of the cake and I went into a panic about it which led to me buying a claydough train cake topper and having grandiose ideas about making an amazing cake with train track icing piped across it (never mind that I have never done such a thing before).

Well, life is what happens when you're busy making plans. And today, I had to surrender to working with who I am and what resources I have right now. And remind myself that Jake himself would be happy with any cake at all.

At bedtime, when Jake found out I was staying up to make his cake, he decided he wanted to stay up and help me. By that point it was already past 9 o'clock. Ordinarily I would've put my foot down and insisted he go to bed or go to bed with him then come down to make the cake later, but I thought, what the heck, why not. And help me he did, with such focus and absorption and fascination (and skill too!). I got a chair for him to stand on and he helped me sift the flour and the sugar and cocoa powder together, he helped me pour the milk and the vanilla essence into the mix, he stirred the batter, he helped me break up pieces of chocolate to be melted and added to the mix, all the time giving me a running commentary with sentences that began with, "And what we're going to do now is...." (I soooo wish someone had been filming it all!)

When I got the melted chocolate out of the microwave, he asked me what we were going to do with it. I told him we were going to pour it into the cake batter and as I did so, he watched and said, "Oh wow! That's gonna be tasty! That's brilliant!!" and then a few moments later, "Aw, thanks!"

Then we went to bed and he fell asleep with fingers smelling of chocolate and vanilla.

The cake is cooling now and we're going to decorate it in the morning. I'm going to use a star-shaped bubble wand as a stencil to sprinkle icing sugar stars on it. And then the claydough train is going on the top, along with three candles. Jake, of course, insists on decorating the cake with me in the morning.

And you know what, that beats a fancy bakery-ordered cake any day of the week.

~

Fearlessness

Watching the skater boys under the Royal Festival Hall
the rrrrrroooollllllll rrrrrrrrrrroooooolllllllllllllllll rrrrrrrrrooooooollllllllllllll of their wheels
the THWACK THWACK as they defy gravity then land
most of the time followed by FUCK or faces twisted with disgust
but every now and then WHOA!
and they go again and again and again and again ~

Fearlessness takes practice
has to be birthed with each breath
whether you fall or soar.

~

(Often we hear about a desire to live without fear.  But I see by watching them that fearlessness is not an absence of fear but continuing despite it).

Covent Garden (a stone for the river)

On her break, the silver statue of a Victorian woman sips from a bottle of iced tea while watching a Big Issue vendor throw a tennis ball for her dog to catch.

when things fall apart ~ expanded

"When things are shaky and nothing is working, we might realise that we are on the verge of something.  We might realise that this is a very vulnerable and tender place, and that tenderness can go either way.  We can shut down and feel resentful or we can touch in on that throbbing quality.  There is definitely something tender and throbbing about groundlessness." - Pema Chodron

(And before you start sniggering - she's a Buddhist nun).

when things fall apart

"When things are shaky, we are on the verge of something." - Pema Chodron

Let's hope it's not an abyss.

Who likes short shorts?

If you do, my short short "Stain" is now up at Metazen.  I'm particularly proud of this as I adore Metazen.

So - enjoy!  Or not.  Whatever.