To the Cheshire girls in all their fake tanned glory
With streaked blond hair and make up awry
With “Daddy’s booked us supper at the Ivy!”
And champagne on ice you really should try me
To the men who ignored it and the boys who couldn’t help it
And the clitter and the clatter
Of the train full of chatter
As it rattled its way further and farther
Silence loomed and so died the laughter
To the back streets round Greenwich full of hope and ambition
Of the boasting and preening
Of the Vaseline and sun screening
For the shade of sweet Spanish Chestnut on the uphill walk
The hum of humanity and chastened talk
To the Conductors, the Guards, the Marshals and Scouts
For the banter and the cheers putting fear to rout
Of the queues for the loo and all that endless waiting
Last minute stretches and anticipating
For the news on the tannoy of the official start
Then the waiting again ‘til its time to depart
Slapped in Pen 9 right at the back
“Move over Darling, cut us some slack!”
Squashed by a donkey, squeezed by a pear
Isn’t that Superman just over there?
Scuffling, shuffling, retying laces
Hoping to find some more familiar faces
Then the realisation that the crowd is thinning
There’s the start line and our marathon is beginning.
To the boys and the men and the girls in the bushes
Giggles and laughter cannot spare your blushes
Caught short at the start I couldn’t help grinning
An army of backsides saluting the beginning
Past the chapels and churches
And kids on their perches
A sprinkling Holy Water to make you run quicker
Blessings from the Fathers, the Rector and Vicar
Past trumpeters and cheerleaders
And transvestite speeders
Clapping and calling
Hallooing and caterwauling
On up past the Barracks and down the far side
Feeling quite good now and into my stride
To the Rhino, The Nurse and good old Tobermory
Paddington, Rupert in all their fine glory
Panting and puffing and pushing on through
Each plodding resolutely one of the few
High fives and low fives
Things to make us re-vive
Madness, Survivor and Don’t Stop Me Now
I start to sweat and to mop my brow
Past pubs and clubs and backyard parties
Handed out sweeties and half melted smarties
Over pingers and bleepers
Are we speeders or creepers?
Now under dark bridges with fantastical drummers
The sky, now so blue, like the height of full summer
To the ones who ran in the memory of others
Of the brothers and sisters, of fathers and mothers
“Running for Emily” “Running for Dad”
“I’ll never forget you – I’ll make you glad”
The amputee soldiers ran nevertheless
The roar of the crowd was unceasing ceaseless
Willing them, urging them, forcing them on,
Their rights to be a hero, a conclusion forgone
Running for the animals, running for the kids,
Running for the blind and those on the skids
Water Aid, Arc, Epilepsy Action too
Age Concern, Scope and Dreams come true
To celebrities and showmen, to Pete and to Jordan
For keeping your cool: “Respect for you. Yo Man!”
To the ones who sprayed water on a baking hot day
Our bodies sang relief what more can I say?
The sun was relentless beat down on our heads
Our legs felt like iron and our feet like lead
Pain now set in and joints they were creaking
Our throats so dry we didn’t feel like speaking
Over Tower Bridge now we come face to face
With those who are running a much faster race
Our thoughts they turn blacker we’re only half way
So what does it matter if we walk part o’ the way?
Walking or slogging
And limp start jogging
Now we face demons of all our own making
To run or to stop: it’s our choice for the taking.
To the girl in the pink dress who called out my name
How much you did help me to rekindle the flame
Exhausted in body I could hardly reply
I gave you a thumbs up as I struggled on by
I started to dig deep down deeper than ever
To find in myself a reason whatever
Though tired and lonely and aching and more
I picked myself up from down on the floor
Now my legs started pumping
And my heart it was thumping
From a walk to a jog
To a constant hard slog
Each yard it got better and better and better
The girl in the pink dress: I’ll never forget her.
To the drink station volunteers and gallant first aiders
The homeowners, the publicans and East End traders
To the woman who offered the cheese and ham sarnies
You pitied us all and thought us all barmy
You chattered and nattered and cheered us along
“Keep going there luv the end’s now not long!”
To the singers and bands, the DJs and jocks
For Up Town Girls, Sex Bomb and heavy metal rock
How you kept us all going
Even when we were slowing
Chanting and clapping
Singing and rapping
Calling our names shouting for more
The roar of the crowd is hard to ignore
To the last half mile of this very long run
It’s been quite exhausting and well…really great fun!
Now there here just ahead of us rises Big Ben
Towering over the multitudes and the policemen
Cordoned and guarded we’re funnelled on through
Tamils on the left of us calling for their due
Tourists on the right of us cheering us on
“Move your self girl - get a move on!”
A runner on one knee
Calls will you marry me
The woman in the yellow dress
We all hope she said yes!
Now up past the Palace in glorious sunshine
And there just ahead of us is the finish line.
To my sponsors and their generosity
Because they know me or out of curiosity
It was done in just five hours and thirty-six
No cheating I promise and no tricks
Each step, each yard, each mile
I will remember all and smile
Now to the best bit of the day
To Caroline what can I say?
A bath was drawn, champagne was served
It was far more than I deserved
And so to family
And so to friends
I’ll thank you now as I thanked you then
I’ll thank you all again and again and again.
Friday, 22 May 2009
Monday, 18 May 2009
The Wonderful World of Disney…
It has come to my notice that my boys are brand aware. I know, it is not something I should boast about nor is the fact that at a recent Birthday Party when the entertainer was doing guess the TV show tunes my eldest knew the lot within a heartbeat of each starting.
As The Boy got faster and faster at guessing, the party got quieter and quieter and all the other parents started to look around for the bad Mom in their midst. I admit I tried to disown him and pretend he wasn’t mine but when your eldest is doing so well and winning for once in his short life the battle between your chagrin at the fact that now the secret of your parenting technique is well and truly out and your pride and natural competitiveness in the fact that your son is winning, is short.
With everyone now glaring at me and condemning me for my obvious lack of parental control I held up my hand and admitted that yes my modus operandi on the Mummy front was to plonk him in front of the telly at every given opportunity. I will never forget the picture of my beaming son as he clutched his green balloon poodle – his prize for being the best. As for the looks I got from the other parents – I just put that down to envy. Not everyone’s child can be as gifted on the musical front as mine. Lionel Blair eat your heart out he’ll name that tune in one!
Now Bog Boy, my youngest, has also shown a marked proclivity to be able to do a similar trick, in that he is able to name the myriad of film and TV production companies based on the fleeting images at the beginning of the programmes and films he watches and with a disconcerting adroitness either sits down and gets comfy or dismisses the entire programme based on his experience of the production company in question.
So it was with great trepidation that I slid in a new DVD on a wet Sunday morning that had been sent for our family’s delectation as members of Think Parents.
I should not have worried for as soon as the credits came up and the familiar overuture started both boys cried out in unison: “Disney!”
For the next hour and a bit they were entranced by Adam Sandler as the story telling hero of Bedtime Stories while both parents blearily tried to keep up with the tale sipping strong coffee to ward off the effects of the night before and trying not to snort with laughter at the more adult digs and even the more puerile ones involving snot monsters.
And it got me thinking should I be concerned about my boys and the fact that they seem to watch way too much TV etc? Surely its not normal for them to be able to rattle off TV show tunes and production companies with such apparent ease I mean they are only six and three!
Then I thought about my own upbringing. I remembered all too clearly the excitement of watching The Wonderful World of Disney and of how I would be transfixed by the fairytale castle in the opening credits and shouting at my parents to come quick as it was starting. In those days it wasn’t cartoons or films on the show but natural history about the animals: the Grizzly bears and their cubs. I would be lost for the hour the show ran and even today some 35 years later whenever I hear the music a sort of warm comfy feeling washes over me.
And yes on Sunday morning we all of us tried to guess the movie from the clips at the beginning of the DVD. I’d like to say I won but I think I was pipped to the post by the Boys. And do I worry about it? Do I feel I have to apologise? To be honest not really. I like to think that when my boys watch TV/DVDs etc they are discerning and go for quality not quantity – it’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!
As The Boy got faster and faster at guessing, the party got quieter and quieter and all the other parents started to look around for the bad Mom in their midst. I admit I tried to disown him and pretend he wasn’t mine but when your eldest is doing so well and winning for once in his short life the battle between your chagrin at the fact that now the secret of your parenting technique is well and truly out and your pride and natural competitiveness in the fact that your son is winning, is short.
With everyone now glaring at me and condemning me for my obvious lack of parental control I held up my hand and admitted that yes my modus operandi on the Mummy front was to plonk him in front of the telly at every given opportunity. I will never forget the picture of my beaming son as he clutched his green balloon poodle – his prize for being the best. As for the looks I got from the other parents – I just put that down to envy. Not everyone’s child can be as gifted on the musical front as mine. Lionel Blair eat your heart out he’ll name that tune in one!
Now Bog Boy, my youngest, has also shown a marked proclivity to be able to do a similar trick, in that he is able to name the myriad of film and TV production companies based on the fleeting images at the beginning of the programmes and films he watches and with a disconcerting adroitness either sits down and gets comfy or dismisses the entire programme based on his experience of the production company in question.
So it was with great trepidation that I slid in a new DVD on a wet Sunday morning that had been sent for our family’s delectation as members of Think Parents.
I should not have worried for as soon as the credits came up and the familiar overuture started both boys cried out in unison: “Disney!”
For the next hour and a bit they were entranced by Adam Sandler as the story telling hero of Bedtime Stories while both parents blearily tried to keep up with the tale sipping strong coffee to ward off the effects of the night before and trying not to snort with laughter at the more adult digs and even the more puerile ones involving snot monsters.
And it got me thinking should I be concerned about my boys and the fact that they seem to watch way too much TV etc? Surely its not normal for them to be able to rattle off TV show tunes and production companies with such apparent ease I mean they are only six and three!
Then I thought about my own upbringing. I remembered all too clearly the excitement of watching The Wonderful World of Disney and of how I would be transfixed by the fairytale castle in the opening credits and shouting at my parents to come quick as it was starting. In those days it wasn’t cartoons or films on the show but natural history about the animals: the Grizzly bears and their cubs. I would be lost for the hour the show ran and even today some 35 years later whenever I hear the music a sort of warm comfy feeling washes over me.
And yes on Sunday morning we all of us tried to guess the movie from the clips at the beginning of the DVD. I’d like to say I won but I think I was pipped to the post by the Boys. And do I worry about it? Do I feel I have to apologise? To be honest not really. I like to think that when my boys watch TV/DVDs etc they are discerning and go for quality not quantity – it’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!
Saturday, 25 April 2009
The day before tomorrow...
Tomorrow I run 26.2 miles in the Flora London Marathon in aid of Epilepsy Action and I am scared. I am scared that I won't find the start. It all seems so horribly complicated and I am bound to be late. I am meant to meet up with some fellow Epilepsy Action runners by the Trucks at 9am but have a funny feeling there will be an awful lot of trucks and an awful lot of people. Hopefully in my gorgeous Epilepsy Action running vest, which is ever so slightly too tight for me and therefore strains over what I used to think as my not too full bosoms, I shouldn't be too hard to spot. I am also wearing The Boy's bright red baseball cap which sports the Red Dragon of Wales on it. I am sure I will look quite delightful. That is when I am not dashing off to the loo every five minutes.
Talking of loos I was given some instructions as to how to go to the loo when I registered. As a girl I have been advised to do this standing up using a Pee-Mate. The instructions are slightly awkward as they presume of course that all us girls will be wearing running pants/shorts etc with a zipper. I am sure we will all adapt but the idea that this will make it easier and the queues less long I fear will come to nothing. I also worry that I may land up running with a damp patch - joy!
I have done everything I can now to be fit enough and prepared so the rest they say is in the lap of the Gods - I do so hope they feel beneveloent!
Wish me luck!
Talking of loos I was given some instructions as to how to go to the loo when I registered. As a girl I have been advised to do this standing up using a Pee-Mate. The instructions are slightly awkward as they presume of course that all us girls will be wearing running pants/shorts etc with a zipper. I am sure we will all adapt but the idea that this will make it easier and the queues less long I fear will come to nothing. I also worry that I may land up running with a damp patch - joy!
I have done everything I can now to be fit enough and prepared so the rest they say is in the lap of the Gods - I do so hope they feel beneveloent!
Wish me luck!
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Could do better…
Can anything be crazier than giving an eight page report on a child who has yet to attain his sixth birthday? I mean what can you say? There aren’t that many subjects he’s taking and the majority of those are all taught by the same teacher.
However, I can tell you that those in charge seem to think there is plenty to say - the problem is I don’t understand any of it. I mean for heaven sakes what is a diagraph? And would you recognise it on a dark night?
I have a feeling that the reading of school reports is an Ancient and Dark Art for surely the writing of them seems to more akin to the readings taken by the haruspex in Ancient Rome – and just as messy.
I picture the teachers faced with a plethora of blank pages upon which they must chart the progress or lack thereof of a six year old’s mathematical development. I too might resort to the auspices for inspiration or at least something so chronically complicated in written form that scares the parent into submission or if not that, then utter confusion.
I mean I was thrilled to learn that the whole class covered addition with and without the use of concrete materials and that they continued to look at addition and subtraction operations – though why they needed to go to a building site to learn to add-up and take-away is still quite beyond me.
Suffice to say after several hours trying to decipher the meaning behind the extremely long sounding and technical words, I am far too frightened of showing my ignorance to my son’s form teacher to complain – a factor I am sure the school is relying upon.
It seems to me that the School regards reports as a necessary evil - a bit like the parents.
However, there is a growing attitude, I fear in these uncertain times, that in addition to baffling parents with teacherspeak it is better to keep the parents happy and quiet by bunging in as much Uriah Heep-like praise as would fill a Dickensian Novel. Basically a dumbing down of school reports with lots of fluffy praise, which in fact means nothing at all once you’ve worked out what it is they were trying to say in the first place.
There is a bit in me that misses that old school mentality of calling a spade a spade and doing it in plain English I mean if my son had the final report that a friend of mine’s had on leaving a highly regarded public school in the north – I would rest easy in the knowledge that he was surely on the road to greatness.
'X is to be congratulated on having navigated his entire school career totally unencumbered by academic achievement'
However, I suspect, that in this day and age it was lawyers at dawn!
However, I can tell you that those in charge seem to think there is plenty to say - the problem is I don’t understand any of it. I mean for heaven sakes what is a diagraph? And would you recognise it on a dark night?
I have a feeling that the reading of school reports is an Ancient and Dark Art for surely the writing of them seems to more akin to the readings taken by the haruspex in Ancient Rome – and just as messy.
I picture the teachers faced with a plethora of blank pages upon which they must chart the progress or lack thereof of a six year old’s mathematical development. I too might resort to the auspices for inspiration or at least something so chronically complicated in written form that scares the parent into submission or if not that, then utter confusion.
I mean I was thrilled to learn that the whole class covered addition with and without the use of concrete materials and that they continued to look at addition and subtraction operations – though why they needed to go to a building site to learn to add-up and take-away is still quite beyond me.
Suffice to say after several hours trying to decipher the meaning behind the extremely long sounding and technical words, I am far too frightened of showing my ignorance to my son’s form teacher to complain – a factor I am sure the school is relying upon.
It seems to me that the School regards reports as a necessary evil - a bit like the parents.
However, there is a growing attitude, I fear in these uncertain times, that in addition to baffling parents with teacherspeak it is better to keep the parents happy and quiet by bunging in as much Uriah Heep-like praise as would fill a Dickensian Novel. Basically a dumbing down of school reports with lots of fluffy praise, which in fact means nothing at all once you’ve worked out what it is they were trying to say in the first place.
There is a bit in me that misses that old school mentality of calling a spade a spade and doing it in plain English I mean if my son had the final report that a friend of mine’s had on leaving a highly regarded public school in the north – I would rest easy in the knowledge that he was surely on the road to greatness.
'X is to be congratulated on having navigated his entire school career totally unencumbered by academic achievement'
However, I suspect, that in this day and age it was lawyers at dawn!
Thursday, 26 March 2009
World Epilepsy Day - I keep repeating myself…
I keep repeating myself. No, I really mean it. I have to keep repeating myself for the benefit of The Boy. I sat with him at lunch and he blanked on me four times in 20 minutes.
It has actually become second nature to me that whenever I see him blank I wait until he regains consciousness and then repeat my last few orders. For it is usually when I have just given him a set of commands that he blanks.
Now of course, it could be that he suffers the same problem as most males in that as soon as a female starts to use officious language with words of more than two syllables then the male becomes temporarily unable to hear. I know my father suffers from sporadic deafness and it can be most debilitating for my mother.
But that is not the problem. The Boy has Absence Seizures, a form of Epilepsy known in the old days as Petit Mal. So what is it? Well it means he blanks or zones out for a short time every ten minutes or so and has no recollection of doing so when he regains consciousness. He doesn’t fit, or twitch in fact some motor responses continue such as walking even though he is totally unaware of his surroundings. You don’t always see it happening, it can be very fleeting and if you don’t know what you are looking for, well it is nigh on impossible to find.
So for a long time we didn’t realise that there was anything particularly wrong. He just seemed to be a bit of a daydreamer, a bit clumsy and well a bit slower than the other kids at school - although I might add far too quick and cheeky at home.
Because it is so difficult to pinpoint, Absence Seizures are frequently misdiagnosed not least because many children grow out of it naturally. It in no way affects his intelligence but it does affect concentration levels, and can, and does, cause havoc with learning. If you are only getting half the instruction because you zone out on the other half you can't really learn very well can you?
In so far as trying to understand what it is like for him I imagine it is like a record that suddenly jumps. It must jar and befuddle one though he just gets on with it. His answers are a bit well surreal to some questions but on the whole a stranger who did not know better would have no idea.
However, at a time when he should be beginning to relish new found freedoms such as going to the Village Shop by himself or riding his bicycle on the road he can’t because in those moments of unconsciousness he could just as easily step out in front of a car or swerve in the road.
What is really annoying is that apart from repeating myself there is nothing I can do and for any parent that is truly frustrating. However I can raise money for Epilepsy Action. This charity has been so helpful and so marvellous in supporting us that it felt churlish not to do something in return – so in a fit of altruism I signed up to run the FloraLondon Marathon this year
For those who would like to support my endeavours with a donation towards Epilepsy Action you can do it via the internet by visiting my Justgiving fundraising page http://www.justgiving.com/lizasmarathon
It has actually become second nature to me that whenever I see him blank I wait until he regains consciousness and then repeat my last few orders. For it is usually when I have just given him a set of commands that he blanks.
Now of course, it could be that he suffers the same problem as most males in that as soon as a female starts to use officious language with words of more than two syllables then the male becomes temporarily unable to hear. I know my father suffers from sporadic deafness and it can be most debilitating for my mother.
But that is not the problem. The Boy has Absence Seizures, a form of Epilepsy known in the old days as Petit Mal. So what is it? Well it means he blanks or zones out for a short time every ten minutes or so and has no recollection of doing so when he regains consciousness. He doesn’t fit, or twitch in fact some motor responses continue such as walking even though he is totally unaware of his surroundings. You don’t always see it happening, it can be very fleeting and if you don’t know what you are looking for, well it is nigh on impossible to find.
So for a long time we didn’t realise that there was anything particularly wrong. He just seemed to be a bit of a daydreamer, a bit clumsy and well a bit slower than the other kids at school - although I might add far too quick and cheeky at home.
Because it is so difficult to pinpoint, Absence Seizures are frequently misdiagnosed not least because many children grow out of it naturally. It in no way affects his intelligence but it does affect concentration levels, and can, and does, cause havoc with learning. If you are only getting half the instruction because you zone out on the other half you can't really learn very well can you?
In so far as trying to understand what it is like for him I imagine it is like a record that suddenly jumps. It must jar and befuddle one though he just gets on with it. His answers are a bit well surreal to some questions but on the whole a stranger who did not know better would have no idea.
However, at a time when he should be beginning to relish new found freedoms such as going to the Village Shop by himself or riding his bicycle on the road he can’t because in those moments of unconsciousness he could just as easily step out in front of a car or swerve in the road.
What is really annoying is that apart from repeating myself there is nothing I can do and for any parent that is truly frustrating. However I can raise money for Epilepsy Action. This charity has been so helpful and so marvellous in supporting us that it felt churlish not to do something in return – so in a fit of altruism I signed up to run the FloraLondon Marathon this year
For those who would like to support my endeavours with a donation towards Epilepsy Action you can do it via the internet by visiting my Justgiving fundraising page http://www.justgiving.com/lizasmarathon
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
In which I realise that I am not the only love in his life…
Hussy!
Harpy!
Jezebel!
Scarlet Woman!
I am incensed. I am shocked to the core and I don’t think I will ever recover. And frankly the woman in question is old enough to be his mother – OK so she must have only been 15 at the time but it still hurts.
This does not bode well for the future does it?
The Boy has informed me this morning that he is in love with his teacher. This is the first time he has ever been in love with a woman and I don’t feel desperately comfortable with it.
I am not a jealous type, or at least I don’t think so. In fact I am quite happy for him to have a girlfriend. He’s been a kissing and a cuddling J for the best part of nine months now though I am informed they have been told at school: “Not kiss on the lips!” To which, when they tell me this, there follows paroxysms of giggles so that I can only surmise the order is totally ignored at every given opportunity.
Bearing this in mind I have said nothing to The Boy about preferring him to not love his teacher. I merely asked in a totally honest and upfront way why he loved her so much.
Him: Cos’ she’s so beautiful.
Right, the cheeky little siren…
Me: Any thing in particular that’s beautiful? Her eyes perhaps?
I’ll scratch them out
Him: She’s got lovely hair
I’ll give her hair…
Him: And she has a lovely smile
Me: It would be nice if it’s more than just looks you know, as we get older our looks tend to go away
There is silence from the back of the car.
Him: Mummy are you sad?
Me: No Darling. Why?
Him: ‘Cos your looks have gone…
Hoisted again!
Harpy!
Jezebel!
Scarlet Woman!
I am incensed. I am shocked to the core and I don’t think I will ever recover. And frankly the woman in question is old enough to be his mother – OK so she must have only been 15 at the time but it still hurts.
This does not bode well for the future does it?
The Boy has informed me this morning that he is in love with his teacher. This is the first time he has ever been in love with a woman and I don’t feel desperately comfortable with it.
I am not a jealous type, or at least I don’t think so. In fact I am quite happy for him to have a girlfriend. He’s been a kissing and a cuddling J for the best part of nine months now though I am informed they have been told at school: “Not kiss on the lips!” To which, when they tell me this, there follows paroxysms of giggles so that I can only surmise the order is totally ignored at every given opportunity.
Bearing this in mind I have said nothing to The Boy about preferring him to not love his teacher. I merely asked in a totally honest and upfront way why he loved her so much.
Him: Cos’ she’s so beautiful.
Right, the cheeky little siren…
Me: Any thing in particular that’s beautiful? Her eyes perhaps?
I’ll scratch them out
Him: She’s got lovely hair
I’ll give her hair…
Him: And she has a lovely smile
Me: It would be nice if it’s more than just looks you know, as we get older our looks tend to go away
There is silence from the back of the car.
Him: Mummy are you sad?
Me: No Darling. Why?
Him: ‘Cos your looks have gone…
Hoisted again!
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Chocolate whispers…
Why is it so easy to give up something you don’t have to start until tomorrow? It makes you forget yourself and become quite rash.
I have given up chocolate for the duration and everywhere I go I can feel it and it whispers sweet nothings and I start to salivate and my tummy grumbles – it’s not a pretty sight.
I have just been down to the kitchen to get myself some tea and there it was, or should I say they, right next to the toaster – 12 McVities Jaffa Cakes and 12 chocolate mini rolls. All present. All correct. And all counted by The Boy.
I should never have tried to explain Lent and the reason why we have Pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. I got carried a way by my own cleverness and have now been hoisted by my own petard.
It all started out so well on our drive to school…
Me: What day is it today, Boy?
Him: Tuesday
Me: Did you know that today is a very special Tuesday? It’s Shrove Tuesday!
Him: What’s Shrove mean?
Hmm what does Shrove mean?
Me – not answering the question: On this day we have a big feast with pancakes to remind ourselves how good Jesus was
Him: Was he good?
Me: Yes of course he was and no more so than when he went into the desert and said no to the devil’s temptations.
Him: What’s a tempertation?
Right OK a temptation, how do you explain that?
I flicked a glance in the rear-view mirror and spied The Littlest staring intently at me and inspiration flowed…
Me: You know when The Littlest is being really annoying and you want him to stop and he wont and you feel like shutting the door on him ‘cos you know he can’t reach it and you can and you know you really shouldn’t because that would be mean. That feeling is a temptation. A temptation is doing something you know you could but that you know would be wrong or mean.
My explanation is met with a wall of silence. This of course could be a good thing but experience has forewarned me that it only precedes a further onslaught.
Him: What’s the devil?
Oh Lord! Theology was never my strong point!
Me: A bad, nasty being who wanted Jesus to rule the world with magic instead of with love but Jesus said no even though he could have done it if he wanted to.
More silence
Him: So why do we eat pancakes? Is it ‘cos they are nice and so was Jesus?
Me: Absolutely.
I felt fine after this interlude, actually quite buoyed up and on returning home set about making pancake mixture in anticipation of a fun filled teatime.
As I said it all started out so well – The Boy and The Littlest in due course returned home and pancakes were at the ready, there was a lot of mess and a lot of laughter and then…
Him: Mum what are you giving up for Lent?
I nearly missed catching a pancake, as these are words I don’t like to hear and my immediate thought after the word “Chocolate” was that The Boy was spending far too much time than was good for him listening in lessons. However, my conscience was working overtime and because I was caught left field I blurted out: “Chocolate.”
Him - awestruck: So you’re not going to eat any chocolate until Easter!
Me – desperately backtracking: Well I’ll try, ‘cos were not all as good as Jesus and (oh joy I remembered Sundays off!) you can do what you’ve given up on Sundays. So Mummy can eat chocolate on Sundays but only then. That’s why Sunday’s are special.
Him: So I can have Sunday off too?
Me: I suppose so, what have you decided to give up?
Him: Being Naughty
I suddenly had a vision of what Sundays would be like for the foreseeable future. No more lie-in and a screams emanating from the four corners of the house…
Him- seriously: Giving up being naughty is going to be very hard.
Me: Don’t worry Darling I’ll help you. It would be no good giving up something that was easy. It wasn’t easy for Jesus.
There was a long silence as he finished eating his pancake, which was covered in chocolate sauce.
Him: I know, I’ll help you too. I could count all the chocolates then you wouldn’t be able to eat any….
I love my children, I really really do!
Monday, 16 February 2009
How to explain the unexplainable...
How do you tell your child you have depression? How can you tell them that when you are wishing the whole world away - it’s nothing personal?
Yesterday morning I did my usual – I shouted at them both because I was tired and coming down with a cold and I wasn’t organised enough and I just wanted to delete the day before it had already started. And as soon as I uttered the words I immediately wanted to turn back time. Every day I wake up and I plead with God to help me be nice to my children.
“Give me strength not to shout at them, not to be mean. God help me get through the day and still let them love me.”
Once the shouting starts it is very difficult to stop although it rarely lasts very long before I put into action all the safety measures I use to protect them. I am furious with myself for doing it and then I strike out figuratively at those I love – but these ones are so vulnerable because they don’t understand. All they know is this is how Mummy behaves. The Boy at 5 I can tell not to talk to me, not to ask questions and to just get on with his breakfast in silence while I try to bring myself under control. The Littlest just watches, no smile playing at his lips. I ignore them both or else leave them to it. As soon as breakfast is over I will put them in front of the telly while I finish my breakfast in peace, calming myself down trying not to let the guilt overwhelm me.
It doesn’t happen everyday but certainly every week sometimes more especially if I am tired. I know everyone shouts at their children from time to time, but I feel I do it more than most and I find it terribly difficult to stop. I roar in my frustration, which must be terribly frightening.
Sometimes I have to escape before I explode but it never seems to go away not truly because all the while where it is safe to explode I can’t because they are there in the house on their own and I worry for their safety.
Well yesterday after I shouted and after I had calmed down. I apologised as I do every time. I explained Mummy was tired and that she found it difficult to be nice and that her behaviour was not good. I told them, as I hugged them both at the top of the stairs, how much I loved them and said that they must not ever behave like Mummy.
“Mummy is a bad person to do this and you should look to Daddy. Daddy doesn’t shout and rave like Mummy.”
I am terrified that my behaviour will colour theirs and so I warn that people don’t like people who shout and are nasty like Mummy and that nasty people don’t have many friends and are not loved.
In despair, I hang my head and aloud I wish that I were gone from here. What damage am I doing to them? Wouldn’t it be better if I left them? It sometimes feels the only way to protect them.
“I love you Mummy,” says the Boy “and The Littlest loves you and Daddy loves you. We all love you.” And he wraps his arms around me. And I feel so sad. He shouldn’t have to be doing this; he should never have to face this. I know he is worried that I will go away and never return, I’ve obviously said it far too much in fact once I just had to leave him in the house and hide as the enormity of everything descended upon me and for a time I could not cope.
It was terrifying enough for me. For him I cannot imagine. Luckily he was able to find J and J looked after him and stayed with him until I was able to return. I remember watching The Boy come out of the house looking for me and I stood silently by the moat hidden by the horse chestnuts. Thinking to myself that he was safe as long as I could see him. But I did not go to him even though he was crying hard. I could not trust myself. J heard and calmed him saying I had just gone out for a walk and would be back. I thought such faith! For I felt as if I could never go back. I stayed out for a couple of hours and I have a feeling that J knew where I was and he had enough belief in me that I would return. For I love my boys.
So back to how do you explain? Well I tell him that when the Black Dog is near Mummy gets sad, tired and then angry and that the Black Dog is difficult to see.
I tell him it’s the Black Dog that makes Mummy shout and that it’s not him or his brother. I tell them over and over again and I pray they believe me.
The Boy says he’ll kill the Black Dog. I say maybe when he’s grown up.
For any of you that read this - I hasten to say that when I feel it getting bad I call in the cavalry usually in the form of J, Dear Charlie and my Mum – mostly J deals with the immediate problems as he’s on the farm. I advise everyone with Black Dog to install a J. He is one very special person.
(This was first published in the Private Forums at Purplecoo - the folks there were incredibly supportive and continue to be so. I decided to put it up on the blog as it is part of my life - a big part and I wanted to come out as I hear too many stories of others who get in a mess with Black Dog. I did try to start a separate blog but it never really works. You can't pigeon hole your life! Today has been a good day as there has been no shouting and all is calm. I don't know what tomorrow will bring...)
Yesterday morning I did my usual – I shouted at them both because I was tired and coming down with a cold and I wasn’t organised enough and I just wanted to delete the day before it had already started. And as soon as I uttered the words I immediately wanted to turn back time. Every day I wake up and I plead with God to help me be nice to my children.
“Give me strength not to shout at them, not to be mean. God help me get through the day and still let them love me.”
Once the shouting starts it is very difficult to stop although it rarely lasts very long before I put into action all the safety measures I use to protect them. I am furious with myself for doing it and then I strike out figuratively at those I love – but these ones are so vulnerable because they don’t understand. All they know is this is how Mummy behaves. The Boy at 5 I can tell not to talk to me, not to ask questions and to just get on with his breakfast in silence while I try to bring myself under control. The Littlest just watches, no smile playing at his lips. I ignore them both or else leave them to it. As soon as breakfast is over I will put them in front of the telly while I finish my breakfast in peace, calming myself down trying not to let the guilt overwhelm me.
It doesn’t happen everyday but certainly every week sometimes more especially if I am tired. I know everyone shouts at their children from time to time, but I feel I do it more than most and I find it terribly difficult to stop. I roar in my frustration, which must be terribly frightening.
Sometimes I have to escape before I explode but it never seems to go away not truly because all the while where it is safe to explode I can’t because they are there in the house on their own and I worry for their safety.
Well yesterday after I shouted and after I had calmed down. I apologised as I do every time. I explained Mummy was tired and that she found it difficult to be nice and that her behaviour was not good. I told them, as I hugged them both at the top of the stairs, how much I loved them and said that they must not ever behave like Mummy.
“Mummy is a bad person to do this and you should look to Daddy. Daddy doesn’t shout and rave like Mummy.”
I am terrified that my behaviour will colour theirs and so I warn that people don’t like people who shout and are nasty like Mummy and that nasty people don’t have many friends and are not loved.
In despair, I hang my head and aloud I wish that I were gone from here. What damage am I doing to them? Wouldn’t it be better if I left them? It sometimes feels the only way to protect them.
“I love you Mummy,” says the Boy “and The Littlest loves you and Daddy loves you. We all love you.” And he wraps his arms around me. And I feel so sad. He shouldn’t have to be doing this; he should never have to face this. I know he is worried that I will go away and never return, I’ve obviously said it far too much in fact once I just had to leave him in the house and hide as the enormity of everything descended upon me and for a time I could not cope.
It was terrifying enough for me. For him I cannot imagine. Luckily he was able to find J and J looked after him and stayed with him until I was able to return. I remember watching The Boy come out of the house looking for me and I stood silently by the moat hidden by the horse chestnuts. Thinking to myself that he was safe as long as I could see him. But I did not go to him even though he was crying hard. I could not trust myself. J heard and calmed him saying I had just gone out for a walk and would be back. I thought such faith! For I felt as if I could never go back. I stayed out for a couple of hours and I have a feeling that J knew where I was and he had enough belief in me that I would return. For I love my boys.
So back to how do you explain? Well I tell him that when the Black Dog is near Mummy gets sad, tired and then angry and that the Black Dog is difficult to see.
I tell him it’s the Black Dog that makes Mummy shout and that it’s not him or his brother. I tell them over and over again and I pray they believe me.
The Boy says he’ll kill the Black Dog. I say maybe when he’s grown up.
For any of you that read this - I hasten to say that when I feel it getting bad I call in the cavalry usually in the form of J, Dear Charlie and my Mum – mostly J deals with the immediate problems as he’s on the farm. I advise everyone with Black Dog to install a J. He is one very special person.
(This was first published in the Private Forums at Purplecoo - the folks there were incredibly supportive and continue to be so. I decided to put it up on the blog as it is part of my life - a big part and I wanted to come out as I hear too many stories of others who get in a mess with Black Dog. I did try to start a separate blog but it never really works. You can't pigeon hole your life! Today has been a good day as there has been no shouting and all is calm. I don't know what tomorrow will bring...)
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Puppies!
The wonderful Mud in The City has tagged me to show the fourth photo in my picture file on my computer - it was surprisingly painless.
I would like to say I was honest about it but I would be lying and suffice to say I'm a bit shy so will hope instead that this from the fourth folder in My Pictures will suffice.
It was taken when the puppies (L to R: Molly, Pica, Shadow, Mia and Gemma) were five weeks old or thereabouts. A moment of calm when they had probably been fed and were just falling asleep. Puppies like children are at their most endearing at this stage in the day.
For those not in the know and for whom puppies like babies all look a like these are whippet puppies and were Tattie's first and more than likely only litter as she's going to be seven in March and I feel that, well, like me, she's in Middle Age and should not have to deal with the sleepless nights anymore!
However, her daughter Gemma, who is now three, is off for an assignation on St Valentine's Day no less and I hope a week before the Flora London Marathon to really annoy my husband by saying whoops sorry dear the dog is about to whelp and I've got a 20 mile training run to do . So if you don't mind this one's on you... well I wasn't allowed to get out of it with my own kids. In fact all he did was loiter with intent in the corridor while I did all the work. Maybe that's a bit harsh, I think I actually suggested he leave but not quite in those terms. It was more forthright I fear at the time.
I tend to do a lot of husbandry on St Valentine's Day. Before I was married it tended to focus around neutering, I'd like to say that those days are long gone but Dear Charlie failed to inform me that he would be out tonight ...
Rules of the game are to tag a further four, so in turn I would like to tag the following (having never done this before many apologies in advance...)
MOB at http://menopausaloldbag.blogspot.com/
Pondside at http://pondside1741.blogspot.com/
Pam at http://textilosophy.blogspot.com/
Elizabethm at http://welshhillsagain.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Friday Angels
Cathrine Harrison - seriously good lass and very dedicated PR!
Jim Darrah - never mess with this man, a hero and great support!
Great Aunt Alice - come on would you quibble with a GREAT Aunt???
Rhiannon Spurgeon - this lass is in training for the Bath Half Marathon (Go for it girl!)
Mauro Marenghi - ad sales extrordinaire
Malory Davies - as close to God as they get ( well he IS my editor!)
Will & Anna-Liisa Gaze - Best Brunch in Suffolk!
Susan Lewis of NR Evans - Operational Support Manager of a seriously good logistics firm (which just happens to have a head office close to Carmarthen in Wales where my Nan used to live - see it's ever such a small world really!)
Peter & Sue James - a magical Godfather and pretty special person (and Sue too!)
Gert & Elizabeth Stern - too generous by half!
Charles Mesquita - well what can I say? He's my bestest mate
OK Money raised so far a whopping £414 only £4586 to go....and then of course I have to run as well. Ever onwards, ever upwards...
http://www.justgiving.com/lizasmarathon
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
LinkWithin
