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.

Disaster Averted

At the
           b
             o
               t
                 t
                   o
                     m
                        of a very steep and full escalator at Holborn tube, a wheel on Jake's pushchair got stuck.  I said "Oh shit"
and quickly and quietly did a sideways
                                                                                s
                                                                               h
                                                                             u
                                                                            ff
                                                                           l
                                                                        e
                                                                     off the escalator, pulling Jake & pushchair with me.  While I was shuffling, there was a mini-pile up of bodies behind us, forcingpeopleevenclosertogetherthanbefore.  And yet, the only exclamation I heard was "Oh". 

As soon as we were out of the way, the bodies proceeded as before, a line of giant upright ants
                              rushing
                                     rushing
                                            rushing. 

I couldn't help myself and said out loud, "We're fine, thanks for asking."  Nobody even looked.  I suppose I should be grateful.  It could have been worse and we could have been flattened, or lynched. 

Some spare stones

7 July ~ Judy smiles and tells me to relax.  In two breaths, on pink graph paper, the silent tracing of my heart.

8 July ~ At Grandma & Grandad's - I kiss Jake good morning.  He smells of bacon though none's been cooked for days.

9 July ~ Donald visits with Dizzy the dog, her tail whacks Grandma on her bandaged knee, Jake takes one look at her and runs back outside.

10 July ~ at a bus stop, the folds of a man's carrier bag reads "together we'll beat er"

Today ~ Pink dahlias as large as Jake's head bloom by the side of Blackhorse Road

At the playground ~ five sparrows take a dust bath in the calm between children's footfalls

At the doctor's office ~ boxes of leaflets left opened on low tables, their titles peek out in red:

"Eating for your heart" and "How to live with heart failure"

~

Just wanted to say I'm sorry that my main stones blog doesn't have the capacity for people to leave comments.  I chose that layout for its prettiness and didn't realise till after. 

words...meh

Apart from the writing of small stones, words and I are not getting on at the moment.  They are getting on my nerves and I'd really like them to leave me for a while, give me some space.  So rather than write, here's what I've been doing lately...

A minute too long

smoke fills the air
as I pull a charred popcorn sculpture
from the microwave

On the train home

I remember how it came to be that the front pocket of my handbag is full of crushed daisies.

~

Read my other small stones here.

Stitch a Year

From 1st July 2011, I will be adding stitches to a piece of freeform embroidery every day for one year. The "rules" are that I will make all the stitches on one piece of cloth, use one colour of embroidery floss each day, make a minimum of 12 stitches each day and not undo or unravel the stitches made unless I absolutely have to. Apart from that, it will be completely instinctual.

This project is inspired by Jay Hudson's knit a year project.

I'm doing this because I taught myself some basic embroidery stitches last year and have done little with it since. I also have a fat stash of embroidery floss which I bought with some of my redundancy money.

I am also drawn to the discipline / practice aspect of it, like a mindfulness meditative practice but through the act of stitchery. I like the unplanned instinctiveness of it and the excitement of seeing what unfolds. I'm also hoping it will help me to focus on the present moment and on making peace with what is - as opposed to trying to control and get everything perfectly right.

I'll be documenting my progress here.

the pond of pea soup

a spare stone for the river

just after the cranky old cyclist

shouts at us to

“PLEASE MOVE THE CHILD FROM THE TRAFFIC SIDE”

on an otherwise empty lane

curving through marsh land

a pair of mute swan glide past above us

pure white and huge

against a greying sky

wings lilting in unison

black and orange beaks

vivid

solid

simple

gone in a breath

~

I'm still posting daily stones on my small stones blog, but I will post any "extra ones" here from time to time.

Red Suede

Beatrice had something to give me.

“I think you’ll like it,” she said, tapping fag ash onto the table.

“Mum! Ashtray!” Rafe said, blowing the cinders into his palm.

“Rafe, go fetch the jacket. You know the one. It will look good on her, no?”

Rafe rolled his eyes and mouthed an apology behind his mother’s back.

“Maybe another time Mum, Jin and I have plans.”

“Are you going to that party, at the school?”

“Yes Mum.”

“Well, she can wear the jacket. Why not? George – go fetch the jacket will you? The red suede one? It will be so nice, with your colouring and black hair.”

Rafe’s father sighed and left the room to fetch the jacket.

Red suede? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, I thought.

George returned, holding the jacket between his thumb and index finger like it was a dirty rag.

“Ah, here it is!” Beatrice crooned. “This used to be mine when I was younger. It’s a little dusty but…” She began slapping it and clouds of dust rolled off it. She held it up across my chest.

It wasn’t red but a brownish maroon. It reminded me of the squares of pig’s blood my father used to eat with his noodles.

“Try it on!” she croaked.

With my most practiced polite smile, I slipped my arms into the jacket. After tugging it over my shoulders, the sleeves slid halfway up my forearms. I tried pulling the two sides together to zip it up, but it was too small. How the Amazonian Beatrice ever fit into it I can’t imagine.

“Ach! Look at you! It’s perfect! Isn’t it Rafe? Doesn’t she look wonderful?”

Beatrice tapped her Gauloise and ash fell onto her shoe. George left the room coughing violently. Rafe had nothing to say.

(Prompt: Give ~ 300 words)

Jump in the river

The river of stones will be flowing again this July.  Take a moment each day to stop, pay attention to the world around you, and write about it.  If you fancy jumping in and posting your stones each day, you can have your blog or website added to the river of stones blogroll.  But more importantly, you might just catch more than you bargained for.

I have been & will be posting my stones here.  Hope to see you there!

Flashy things

Incase anyone had noticed, I didn't post one of my Fiction Project flashes this week.  It's basically because I've been rereading them and rather a lot of them are making me cringe.  Some of them are so bad I don't want to share them anymore and a few I'd like to work on some more.  Whatever mediocrity is left will get posted here. 

In other news, Jake is one month away from threenager-dom.  One month!!  How did that happen?

Also, last week was rather eventful.  After two (or was it three) tantrums that measured 11 on the Scale of Insanity, we decided to pull Jake out of nursery.  It was only after I made the decision that I realised just how stressed I'd been about the whole thing - how the dread of taking him there had been gnawing at me for months.  Then things started to fall into place.  How, even on the days he didn't go to nursery, one of the first things Jake would say when he woke up was, "Do I have to go to nursery today?" and the relief when he didn't.  How they always said he was fine there, but not happy.  How the howling and crying and clinging to me on nursery days wasn't really about Jake testing his boundaries.  Even now that we've already told Jake he doesn't have to go to nursery anymore, he still asks with worry in his eyes. 

As soon as we decided, I felt such relief.  And even though part of me was (and still is) worried about how I'd cope having him full-time at home without a break, letting go of how I thought things should be / how I thought they were going to be, brought with it a sense of possibility I hadn't expected.  It was like the future which had felt dreadfully set in stone was wiped clean.  It's given me a push to do more for myself - consider things I'd been anxiously avoiding - like joining a local writer's group and taking the initiative to visit friends who are available to me, even if they do live on the other side of London.  Doesn't seem like much does it, and yet, in my mind, they'd been built up into almost insurmountable difficulties.  Even getting up at 5:30am on a Wednesday to go to my now-rearranged 6:30am counselling session has brought with it new possibilities.  Getting up with the sunrise, walking around in that magical hour when everything, even here, is noticeably quiet and deeply peaceful.  (Though I'm sure I'll feel differently about it in the winter!)

And it occurred to me, that freedom is not what I thought it was.  Having almost limitless choice and great expanses of time isn't necessarily freeing.  At least it hasn't been for me.  I'm beginning to realise that being told you can do anything and have anything is possibly the least helpful thing you can be told.  Right alongside, "I don't mind what you do, as long as you're happy."  I don't know about you, but hearing these things has the effect of almost imperceptible paralysis on my psyche. 

We're human, we're limited in so many ways.  And yes, sometimes we feel limitations where there are none and we restrict ourselves harshly or unnecessarily.  But being told you can have it all?  It's a fallacy.  We can't have it all, no matter who we are.  We need to know our limits, feel them, like feeling the contours and boundaries of our skin, know them, be constantly aware of them, so we can be present, rooted in who we actually are and live our lives as they unfold.  Being grounded - it's more freeing than I expected it to be.

"Crash" at The Legendary

My flash fiction piece "Crash" has been published at The Legendary. 

At this moment the links to individual author pages are not working (the editors are swamped with moving and other things), but if you click here, you can read my story.  It does contain some swearing so if you're offended by that sort of thing you can either read on and then be offended anyway or you can pretend you never saw this.

If you like it, spread the word.  If not, feel free to hurl abuse at me - just make sure it's witty and well-crafted abuse or I will fart in your general direction.

Ta!

One breath

I've decided to create a separate blog just for my small stones.  It's here.  I've also posted a link to it in the sidebar of this blog. 

Lately I've been struggling with the idea of making space.  Maybe I always have.  Then today I wrote a small stone for Fiona & Kaspa's wedding and out of it came the idea for the separate blog for daily small stones.  At first I thought this would needlessly complicate life.  I mean, why not just continue posting my small stones here, just as I've always done? 

Well, because I’ve been realising that the act of making space is more than just wishing for it.  There is the wish or need for it, and then the intention to create it and then the act of making it, then claiming it and inhabiting it.  And because this act of paying attention, of taking a breath, of connecting to the world, is very much a ritual, a practice, even a prayer, I wanted to make a particular place for it, a sacred space if you like, both virtual and real. 

Two months ago I decided to stop writing small stones.  I can't even remember exactly why.  I was doing too much and it was starting to feel like a chore, something to tick off the daily list of things to be done.  But I've missed it.  And I find I need that connection to the world.  I've been too cut off lately, living too much inside my own head.  It's a dangerous habit.  Always has been.  When I get stressed, I tend to withdraw, lose perspective, give up doing the things that nurture me.  This is one of the ways I hope to break that habit.  I hope you'll join me over there, from time to time. 

Vacation

,not to another galaxy!”

“Oh really? Is that why you’ve packed this monster freaking BLANKET?”

“It is not a BLANKET. It’s a hypoallergenic, mulberry silk, summer comforter. It hardly weighs a thing.”

“Uh huh. So I’m paying through the nose for us to stay in a four-star hotel so you can bring your own blanket? I know it’s been awhile since we’ve had a vacation but it’s the 21st Century. These days, hotels have their own blankets.”

“Yeah, and do you know how many people will have used those blankets? Gloria used to work in a hotel and she told me that they never wash the blankets. All that dead skin and God knows what else.”

“But it’s going to be 100 zillion degrees. You won’t even need a blanket.”

“Yes I will, because the room will be air-conditioned. And don’t even think about switching it off and leaving the windows open at night. We’ll bake AND be eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

“What’s a zozigo Mommy?”

“Mosquito darling. It’s a flying insect that bites people.”

“Will it bite me Mommy?”

“It bites everyone with sweet blood, so yes, it will probably bite you and me both kiddo. But not Mommy.”

“Ha ha.”

“But I don’t want zigo to bite me…..”

“It won’t bite you darling. We have special medicine to chase the zigos away. And we’ll keep the windows closed so they can’t get in. Okay?”

“Kay…”

“Wait a minute, what are these doing here? Where are the boots I told you to pack?”

“Right. With your frigging monster feet your stupid frigging boots take up half the frigging case! We’re going to the Maldives,

~
 
(275 words ~ Prompt: galaxy)

How to...hold the sea in your palm

The latest prompt is now up at 26n.  Go take a gander! 
(This post will make more sense too...)

(Photo taken at The Turner Centre in Margate)

Tears, ghosts and morning glory

Jake shrieked with abandonment when I left him at nursery today. Asking repeatedly for one more cuddle, one more kiss and then clutching my neck, “I want to go with you Mummy!” As I walk away to catch my bus to the hospital, I see myself throwing his shoes across the room, the ones he decided he didn’t want to wear as soon as I’d fastened them on. I see myself shouting at him, telling him I’m going to be late for my appointment and that the Doctor will shout at me. I hear myself asking him, “Is that what you want?”

I see myself walk away in impatience as he wails, on the pavement now, for me to fix the wheels of his bus or he won’t go to nursery. I see myself thinking I should stop, that it’s mean to let him run after me, crying like that. And yet, I don’t stop, my head mired in fury about how sick I am of having to go through this every week. Then I see him fall, flat on his front, palms slapping the concrete, screams up a decibel or three. I’m a cow, a cow, a total fucking cow. No wonder he cried the way he did, when I said goodbye. And there goes my bus.

I get the next one and it is only on the bus that I realise I cannot just nip to the Museum of Childhood on the way home to pick up a present for Jake. And I marvel at how my brain had been holding onto this twisted logic for days, absolutely disregarding the fact that Whipps Cross hospital is nowhere near Bethnal Green and that the only reason I believed it so easily was because my last dental appointment was at the Royal London. I ponder whether this is due to age or stress. And yet, even knowing, there is still a part of my brain that traces a route from the Royal London to the Museum of Childhood, following it as if I was reading a map of my day, as if my mind had the ability to tear up roads, uproot hospitals, relocate inconveniences.

At Whipps, I just make it for my appointment, only to be told they are running 45 minutes late. So I settle into Michael Cunningham’s A Home at The End of The World. The first few chapters are set in childhood. Unhappy parents unable to overcome their humanity, seen through the eyes of 5 year olds. My old friend guilt rises to the surface and I pick at it like a scab. As I read I decide Michael Cunningham is my new favourite writer, resolve to read everything he’s ever written.

His writing has me in goose bumps, inspiring me as I read, releasing images for stories I want to write, like ghosts that want to be seen. I scour the depths of my bag for a pen. There isn’t one. I close my eyes instead, choose to memorise the contours of one ghost, imprint it onto a flickering screen to look at later.

An hour and 20 minutes later, my name is called. A nurse asks me if I’ve had the scan they sent me for, at the Royal London. I say yes. They ask me when. I can’t remember. I am told to sit down again. Another 10 minutes and I am finally seen by the oral surgery consultant. The impacted wisdom tooth they want to take out is not only awkward in that it has three roots instead of two, but it is also sitting very close to a nerve. Although they will try their best not to nick it, there is a risk that I may lose some sensation to my bottom lip. It’s so complicated the consultant says he wants to do the surgery himself. I take it as a good sign. I’ve heard wisdom teeth extractions can be brutal. Maybe they’ll be more careful this way, more gentle. I’m told that I will need someone to look after me for 24 hours after the procedure and I wonder what would happen if I didn’t have Paul. I’d have no one, I keep saying to myself. I’d have no one. I want to feel angry about this, or at the very least, a little bit sad, but the thought of it suddenly bores me and I don’t have the time.

They tell me I need to have an x-ray done but I have to leave to pick up Jake. The bus I need doesn’t arrive. It’s threatening to rain and of course I’d decided not to bring a coat. I take the next bus that comes which gets me halfway. The rest of the way I walk, stopping at Greggs to buy some food. Just as I’m debating the pro’s and con’s of eating while walking, it rains. I stuff the food in my bag and start London-walking. It’s nearly one o’clock and I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast. All of this makes me angry but all I can do is swear at weather.

Jake runs to me when I arrive, stumbling onto a sleeping child in his eagerness. Zanab tells me that it took him 15 minutes of crying that he wanted his mummy before calming down and then helping her set up the garden and the room upstairs. She tells me how he polished off his lunch, forking each bean on his plate and eating them one by one.  Before she finishes talking, Jake starts waving at her and saying goodbye.  She quickly tells me Jake told her he likes her and it makes her face light up.  After we leave the nursery Jake asks if the Doctor shouted at me. “No darling, I made it on time,” I say, wondering if he’ll remember this, brood on it, write about it someday.

On the walk home, Jake sees a morning glory bloom that’s wound its way through someone’s hedge. He asks me to pick it. “I want it,” he says “it’s beautiful!” Then he sees his shadow holding the flower and he stops. “Oh, look it’s my shadow and the flower shadow!” It’s a photo moment. Just as I press the button, a butterfly lands on the flower. “Ohhhhhh, a butterfly!” Jake says, still smiling as he watches it flutter away.

Jake says, “I can plant this can’t I? I can grow it Mummy.” And I hate having to tell him that he can’t, hate realising that all I’ve done today is disappoint him. I think how wrong it is, having to tell a child he can’t plant a flower he’s just plucked, that it’s a Universal flaw, along with cancer and homelessness.

At home, I devour my egg sandwich while cbeebies entertains him. Then he wants to read. He picks “Uh Oh, Gotta Go ~ Potty Tales from Toddlers” and after I read to him, my potty resistant toddler wants to put on pants and sit on the potty. Later, as we’re tidying, I pick up the bag from Greggs which I thought was empty but contains a lemon cupcake. I show Jake and his grin is as big as mine. I slice the cupcake in half, revealing a gooey yellow centre.

I don't like morality tales that try to teach people a lesson and this isn't a tale or a lesson but sometimes in the midst of a crappy day, something simple and beautiful and perfect happens and everything shifts and for a moment, you forget the past and all you can't undo and the future and all you can't make certain and you see life, just as it is, new and unfolding.

A do-it-yourself guide to getting lost in your own mind

If you have a minute or ten, try having a go at one of these...

Yes, it is a bit of shameless promotion. And why not? treeshadowmoon and I have been posting weekly prompts to 26n for months now and haven't had much response. We're starting to wonder if we're talking to ourselves out here in cyberspace.

So I thought a reminder wouldn't hurt. And a nice dreamy photo to attract your attention.  (It was taken at the Turner Centre in Margate and yes, the little chap in it is Jake.)

Masks

Everyone wore their masks except me. I pretended I’d forgotten it at home. No one would check my bag, and if they did, I’d pretend I’d forgotten to look there. “Remember to wear the mask Junie, the strength of the costume is in the mask. Otherwise, what are you?”

I was a kid in a sheet. It covered my whole body except my feet, which were shoved into old sneakers. I’d never felt so many people looking at my idiot face.

I knew Elsie would tell on me. I’d seen her face when we were parading through the quadrant. She’d furrowed her brows, mouthed, “Where’s the mask?” I pretended not to understand.

They’d spent hours on it. Elsie’s Dad and my Mom. Hours planning it. Hours making it. Hours. On a stupid skeleton face. I could’ve drawn it in 10 minutes, 20 tops, even to make the holes and tie the elastic. All he’d used was black marker on white card. Hours laughing, drinking ‘lemonade’, eating cookies.

“Mr Connors did such a good job on this Junie, wear it and be proud!”

The morning of the parade, I went to the toilet and ripped the mask into pieces. I would have flushed it, but I was sure the pieces would float. So I stuffed them between the pages of my science book.

Mom would be livid, but I knew what to do. I’d spent hours in front of the mirror, perfecting my sorry face. I’d wear it and be proud. (250 words)

~

(Prompt: strength from oneword.com)