Can you get sick from missing someone?

While we were in Israel, Eva’s daughter was unwell.  My heart went out to her in spades – what kind of torture is it for a mother to be separated from her sick child? Particularly when you’re a 5-hour flight away?  And Eva’s daughter is still so small.  Unlike my hulking lad. 

James is a strapping 12-year old, rapidly approaching 13 – with the body of a jock.  He is fearless in rugby; a natural daredevil on the surf or up a mountain. His favourite pastime with his mates appears to be wrestling. But, oh, oh, that boy has the soul of an artist.  He feels.  He hurts.  So so deeply.  His hide might be tough but his skin is paper-thin.

We went through babysitters like water when he was small.  One night we actually got to go out without being called back after half an hour.  We returned to our isolated farm, punching the air. ‘We’ve cracked it at last,’ said Adrian.  Except. Hmm. There were four cars in the driveway.
‘She’s had a flipping party,’ said Adrian.

‘She didn’t look the type,’ I said, worry creeping in. 

Sure enough, the poor girl was frantic.  James had cried non-stop – for five hours.  She hadn’t wanted to disturb us so had called her mother…..who’d tried, failed, and called her mother….who’d tried, failed and called her mate, the baby whisperer….who couldn’t believe any baby could be so dogged, so determined. 

I took him in my arms and felt his little body, rigid with tension and exhaustion, relax. The crying stopped. The party broke up.  And so it went on.  Year after year.  But not now, surely?

The trip was so full-on, I barely had time to think or sleep, let alone keep in touch – two hours’ time difference didn’t help either – it was always too early or too late.  So we didn’t talk much.  James sent me links to YouTube of songs he thought I’d like (and I did - my boy is getting good taste).  I mailed back.  We Skyped a bit but it was kinda unsatisfactory – crap sound, time-lapse images and – is it just me or does everyone look like the Living Dead of Manchester Morgue on Skype?  Tell me people don’t seriously have Skype sex?  It’s just plain wrong - for aesthetic reasons alone.

Sorry, slight digression there.  Anyway.  I got back and Adrian came to pick me up from the station – with James.  On a school day?  What?  He was home sick? On the last week of term, missing the swimming gala, missing Sports Day? 

‘His stomach hurts,’ said Adrian with a shrug.

Ah. Those mysterious stomach ailments.  His appetite was fine – put it this way, he made serious inroads into the small mountain of snacks and sweets I had brought back.  Was it psychological?  Stomachs often hint at other problems – but he swears blind there is nothing bothering him, nothing worrying him at school.  And I’m loathe to dismiss it because last time we accused him of malingering, it turned out to be Lyme Disease.

But then, this morning, he just held onto me like he never wanted to let me go; like I was a glass of water in a desert. 

‘Oh Mum. I missed you so so so much.’

Can you be sick with missing, I wonder?  Was the cure a day or two of full-on hugs and kisses?  I dunno.  I’ll take him to the doctor to check it out but, you know, I think my boy is just plain exhausted. 

I figure he just needs some time and rest and a big big dose of love. 

 This is one of the songs he sent me...  :) 

London calling

I arrived at Tiverton station and felt a lurch in my heart as I spotted the small figure charging over the bridge.  My boy hurtled down the platform towards me, paused and then just threw out his arms and sank into me, in our usual embrace.  How lovely that he feels he can still do that, at the grand old age of twelve.  I wonder how much longer he will fit so I can (just, with a bit of a stretch) rest my chin on the top of his tousled head?  Not that long now before our positions will switch and I will rest my head on his chest. 

Adrian ambled behind, looking surprisingly chipper given he’d spent the  weekend with the King of Extreme Alcohol Intake (aka Big Chief Sitting Birch) and we commenced the handover.  A briefing on what was going on on the home front; what was needed; what might occur.  There was I back from London, not even home, and he was going straight off to Moscow.  Modern parenting, eh? 

James hates it.  Can’t bear the way we’re always flitting off here, there and everywhere.  But, really, what can you do? 
‘Dad said we won’t eat while he’s away,’ James said, as soon as we got in the car.  
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘We’ll eat just fine.’

And, when we got back to the Bonkers House, I opened the fridge door and, lo and behold, two vast bars of chocolate and a huge box of chocolates – a present from Switzerland from BCSB, who works over there.  ‘See,’ I said to James, brandishing a bar the size of my arm. ‘We’re sorted.’
'I rest my case,’ said James.

‘Oh, that reminds me,’ I said cheerily. ‘Apparently lawyers are a dying breed, as well as journalists.  You can get a divorce online now, or so Jane says.  And there’s going to be no more Legal Aid.  You’re going to have to rethink your career choices.’
He shrugged. ‘They’ll always need private corporate lawyers.’  Ye gods.  Oh well, maybe it doesn’t matter that my pension is fecked.  My darling son can pay for my retirement grape peelers. 

But anyway.  London was fabulous.  I got massaged within an inch of passing out with pleasure. I met men with prosthetic boils on their heads and bolts through every part of their anatomy.  I walked into my past time and time again.  I had lunch with my lovely agent and I met an angel (no really, I did) in the British Museum.  I ate Japanese, and Lebanese and Greek and French.  I scribbled like a madwoman and bought more books.  I fell in love with a memory mattress.  Oh and I read Bradley Wind’s fabulous novel Bulb on my Kindle. 
‘You know what?’ I said to my agent, Judy, as we hugged goodbye on Hampstead High Street.  ‘I could just handle a pied-a-terre in London, then we could do this every week.  How about a stonking deal for the Samael series?’
She grinned.  ‘Now there’s a plan.’ 
Maybe, just maybe (if the angel was right) James won’t need to sell his soul to keep me in old age luxury…

PS – there’s still time to enter the Ila competition on the last post….just leave a comment here.  I’ll close it on Thursday. 

Durga and the Temple of Jerusalem

Teachers, bloody sodding teachers!  Okay, not ALL of them, alright?  But really. James doesn’t get home until 6.30pm. He has something to eat and watches The Simpsons (vital for his social and emotional development) and then has to settle down to do prep. This should, theoretically, take twenty minutes per subject. Well, French was fine but last night his English was, frankly, ridiculous. At 9.30pm he was still on my PC, red-eyed and irritable.  A mirror image of his mother, come to think of it.
‘This is crazy,’ I said. ‘Surely you’ve done enough?’

But no. He had to finish. Then we hit another problem. The only printer in the house is attached to Adrian’s Mac laptop but said laptop is with Adrian in Wales (or it may be London by now, I’m losing track). So James attached his laptop (with half the keys missing) and tried to get it working. No joy. So I tried. Wouldn’t play ball. Yeah yeah, added new printer, checked all settings...the whole caboodle.

At this point, I was feeling like a Hindu deity with about eight arms thrashing wildly around... running him a bath, doing the washing, refereeing the evening dog skirmish, ignoring the phone, trying to fix the fecking printer. And, yeah, okay, so I was sort of online and listening to stuff about Libya on the radio as well. But really.

This isn’t an isolated incident either. Take the bloody Temple of sodding Jerusalem which hung like a....oh I dunno, hanging garden of Babylon or summat...over the entire half-term. I thought we’d got off lightly, having been right through junior school without having to construct anything larger than a Scottish croft.

‘I’m despondent about it,’ said James, despondently, when we came back from Wales.
‘Rubbish,’ said I, clicking on Google images, heart sinking fast. Except. Okay, so that looked vaguely do-able. Basically lots of cubes of various sizes interconnected by walls. 
‘Let’s do it.’
'You're sure it is the Temple of Jerusalem, Mum?'
'Yeah, well, that's what it says on the tin.  You're not doubting St Google?'
'Just that Timmy Bander built the mosque instead, and got a crap mark.'

Oops.  And, really, what a dozo.  Who'd go for a mosque (necessitating blowing up balloons) when you can do a nice straight-lined temple?

So build it we did. Papier mache and gold paint and all. And it wasn’t bad, if I say so myself. Until I went on Twitter in a sense of smug achievement.

‘You wanna put on PVA glue and then sprinkle sand over it to add texture,’ said Lulu, veteran of many ancient edifices.

‘Ooh yes. And have you used modeling clay for the detailing?’ added Milla (she of the Temple of Diana and a mott and bailey castle). Detailing? What detailing? Feck off, my erstwhile friends. ;)

Actually I’d just sort of left James to it, muttering words of encouragement in an overseer-ish sort of way. Well, children have to learn, don’t they? My main contribution was to mix up a tasteful blend of Craig & Rose for the paint job. No Temple of Jerusalem is leaving this house in shabby old Dulux, no sirree.

Eventually it was done. ‘Damnit, that took forever,’ I said, heaving a sigh of relief and pouring myself another coffee.
‘Yeah,’ said James. ‘Three days, basically.  My divinity teacher said it should take about an hour.’
WTF?

Dear teachers. Could I just beg you, when you’re dishing out prep, have a heart? Not just for the poor sprats that could do with at least half an hour’s downtime before bed, but for their poor demented, arm-thrashing parents.

What should you teach your child?

And my third (or is it fourth?) night without sleep. It’s getting insane, it really is. But I realised I couldn’t do anything about it so I meditated (which some say is equivalent to sleep) and worked on fixing my back. When 6am came round, I wouldn’t say I bounced out of bed but the stabbing pains in my back had vanished and I felt a curious clarity.

There’s a different dynamic in the house when Adrian’s away. James came into my room and said he had a suggestion for the problem of the Arctic Cryochamber Breakfast Room.

‘Wear your dressing gown,’ he opined. ‘Over your clothes.’

I had to laugh. He was standing, in school uniform with a long dressing gown knotted round his waist; trousers tucked into thick socks and a pair of ankle-high furry slippers.
So I followed suit and we had breakfast looking like a rum old pair of Noel Cowards.
James switched the radio from Adrian’s beloved Radio 4 to Radio One and we danced with the dogs to the Black Eyed Peas and shook with laughter and lost track of time and nearly missed the bus.

Once again, the SP and I went over the bridge and up the hill. Shrouded in mist; fine soft kisses of moisture on the air. But the path was slick and I felt my feet slide under me. So I followed the SP up the steep rocky path, through the trees, up, up, up, feeling lighter with every step. No wulfas; no beasts at all; just bird song, rustle and footfall. To the hill fort, the fastness, surrounded by ancient ghosts and then down the steep passage known as the Chimney.

Careful walking. Walking as thoughtfulness. Thinking, thinking. Mainly about my son, my lovely son – and the man he will become. It made me ponder the principles I hope I have offered him.

I don’t believe we should inflict our ideas, our beliefs on our children. But I do think we can offer up suggestions, thoughts, possibilities. When I thought about what I would like James to take through life with him, I came down to these...

1. To your own self be true. The stormy search for the self starts young and it can be a hard path. I like to think James has enough self-esteem and self-belief that he does not need to follow the herd. That he can make his own decisions; be his own person; be happy in his skin.

2. Be independent. It’s not just practical, this one (although James is learning to cook, to clean, to wash clothes and iron them; to have responsibility for animals and his own stuff – why, oh why, do people not teach their boys this stuff?). It’s about being self-sufficient; about taking responsibility for oneself.

3. Be honest but also kind. This is about discrimination and it’s a fine line for children to learn. If your self-esteem is strong enough, there is no need to put other people down. Yes, some people are hugely irritating; bombastic; stupid; plain revolting. But hey...who are we to tell them? And that leads on to...

4. Stand up to bullies and stick up for the underdog. People who bully do so from fear, from lack of self-esteem. This chimed with James and now he stands his ground. He also stands between the bully and the bullied, even when it means going against the crowd – and for that, I am so proud of my young knight.

5. Communicate. Honestly, this is so fundamental – not just to children but to everyone. Nearly every question I answer (in my dubious role of agony aunt) comes down to this. Talk. Say what you mean. Don’t expect another person to intuit your meaning. I go over this time and again with James. He – like so many of us - imagines slights that probably aren’t there; is over-sensitive; gets the wrong end of the stick.

6. Confront your fears. Fear is the biggie; the one thing that so often stops us from achieving our potential; from being who we want to be. But, once you confront a fear, stare it straight in the eye, it often backs right down. James learned his lesson on this a few years back when he was picked for a county cricket training. Nobody he knew was there and he baulked. He’s regretted it ever since. It’s not just the physical fear either (though I must say jumping off a mountain blows away a bit of that) but psychic fear too. I have taught James how to confront his nightmares; to stand up to the monsters and ask them what they have to show him (monster comes from the Latin verb, monstrare – to show, reveal).

7. Question your thoughts. Thought can deceive. Thought can lie. Thought jumps to conclusions; turns simple dilemmas into catastrophe. ‘I got a C for English. I’m rubbish.’ ‘He looked at me funny; he hates me.’ Negative thoughts are your ego acting out of fear. Okay, so you don't need to go into that with your child but, well, you get my drift...

8. Open your heart. Ah, this is a tough one to teach a child on the verge of teenagedom as you know it will bring heartache as well as joy. But, truly, hearts are made to love. I have no doubt James’s will be broken, probably many times. But, the heart is a muscle, a spiritual as well as a physical muscle – and without breaking, it does not grow. There is huge healing and transformation in unconditional love - yes, even to those you consider enemies.  I would point out that James isn’t totally convinced on this one yet

9. Have a sense of humour. Truly, the world hates a sourpuss.

10. Know when to shut up. :-)


Sorry. Longer post than intended.
What have I missed?
What do you hope to impart to your children?
How much should we impose our thoughts and beliefs on our children?



btw, there's still time to enter the Kinect competition. Just leave a comment here

Would you 'go to heaven' with your child?

Okay, so a while back I told you about a book I read called Simon’s Choice. I met the author, Charlotte Castle, on Authonomy, while I was garnering opinions on my YA novel, Samael.
Simon’s Choice is an unusual and very brave book that deals with one of the great taboos – a child dying. But there’s a twist.... here’s the pitch....

Doctor Simon Bailey’s previously perfect life is shattered when his seven year old daughter is given months to live.  Whilst he can almost come to terms with her impending death, he cannot stand the idea of his child facing death alone.
“But Daddy, who will live with me in heaven?” she asks.

He answers her question in a moment of desperation, testing his marriage, his professional judgement and his sanity to the limit. He offers to go with her.

Despite its subject matter, this actually isn’t a hard, gloomy read. It’s thought-provoking and, while certainly tugs at the heart-strings, it manages to have moments of wonderful humour. I was keen to know more about how Charlotte wrote this book and she kindly agreed to answer my questions.

Hi, Charlotte. First of all, could you tell us a little about you?
I'm 29 (hanging on to my twenties by my fingernails, 30 in a few weeks.) I live in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire with my husband Simon (yes, I really am that unimaginative) my two children, Arabella and Alexander and my cat Deborah-The-Bad-Puss.

What gave you the idea for Simon's Choice?
A friend and I were chatting in his van one day. He was talking about how his world revolves around his daughter and he said that, if she was dying, he might 'offer to go with her'. It sent a shiver down my spine and I thought "There's a book in that." I sat down and started writing it that afternoon.

You say in your author's note that it's not based on personal experience. I think many people will find that incredible as it seems so 'real'. Do you know parents of children with leukaemia?
No, thank God. Nor did I speak to any. I've always had a bit of a knack for empathy. I can get inside people's heads. I probably spend far too much time thinking about how I feel and how others feel. I had a fair idea of how I would behave (Melissa, the mother, is partly me) and I knew how my real Simon would behave. There is a lot of Simon in Simon!

As parents, it's all too easy to flinch from reading about children being ill or dying. Wasn't this a terribly hard book to write, as a mother?
I was pregnant as well! I started the book in my 7th month of pregnancy and finished it when Alexander was a newborn - often with him on my lap. Yes there were many times when I thought "Christ. Should I really be writing this? Am I tempting fate?" Certainly I now have a deep understanding of what it must be like to be losing a child and I can only pray it never happens to me. That said, I was interested in the mundanity that continues in one's life during such times. Your precious child is dying and the washing up still has to be done. I find that very striking.
I was very keen that the book shouldn't be maudlin. I hope that I have managed to temper the more upsetting aspects of the book with a little humour and some more light-hearted vignettes. That also provided light relief for me!

I love the depiction of Madron House, the children's hospice. Presumably you visited places like this? It sounds incredibly upbeat and really rather wonderful - is that the reality or are only a few like that?
I've always been aware of Martin's House Hospice in Wetherby near Harrogate. However Madron House (Madron is the patron saint of pain relief, so I thought it was apt) is entirely fictional - I made a lot of stuff up and it might even be slightly idealized - but generally children's hospices are wonderful, upbeat places. The work they do is stirling. The larger percentage of their funds have to be found through fundraising. If you ever see them fundraising, please do try to find a quid or two. To use a tired old cliche, every penny counts.

How DO you think you should talk to children about death? Other people's and their own?
I live next to a graveyard, which has prompted quite early discussions with my 5 year old daughter. She knows that we all die - normally of old age but we can have accidents or get dreadfully ill - and she knows that our bodies, or overcoats as I explained it, get put in the ground. (I think I'll deal with cremation at a later date!) There is absolutely no point in trying to skirt around the issues of death. Children have wonderfully open and positive minds. I told my daughter that we would all meet up again in heaven and that death was in many ways wonderful as we get to see people and animals we wouldn't be able to see in life. That may be rubbish of course and it is up to her to decide what she believes, but for now, she's happy.

Death is such a taboo - and children's death above all - do you hope books like yours will help us talk more readily about it? I clearly remember my father dying when I was ten and nobody – but nobody – talked about it.
When I was thirteen, a friend's father died of cancer in the school holidays. When she came back to school, none of us spoke to her. We didn't know what to say. I remember rushing out of the common room so as not to be left alone with her. She went from being popular and surrounded by friends to being a bit of a loner for the rest of her school career.
I swore to myself many years ago that I would never, ever do that to someone again. I'm not sure that Simon's Choice will have any effect on the world and the way we deal with death, but I certainly learnt a valuable lesson and perhaps Simon's Choice was part of putting that right.

Simon and Melissa find people avoid them, as they don't know what to say. What SHOULD you say to parents in a situation like that?
Nobody likes an uncomfortable conversation, but shying away from those who are grieving is emotional laziness. If you bang into someone you know, ask how they are feeling. Remind them that you are there if they ever want to talk but also try to bring something into the conversation that isn't all about death. I know that many people who are grieving also find that other people seem to think it is wrong for them to do normal things - or to even be seen laughing. Sometimes people will welcome a break from their sorrow. Offer to go to the cinema. Include the grieving person in a trip to the pub or football match. They may well say no, but it will mean a lot to still be asked.

Simon is comforted by his faith - are you a religious person? How does your faith (or lack) affect your parenting?
I'm on the atheist side of agnostic. Our children are brought up as Christians though - Arabella goes to Sunday School and I keep my skepticism to myself. It is for them to choose their own beliefs when they are older. Even if they do not believe, our entire culture is lain on the foundations of religion and so it is important that they know the stories, hymns and rituals that most of our artwork, politics and music is steeped in.

Porridge, the family's Labrador, is a great character....hmm, is he drawn from real life???
Ah - I thought you'd like Porridge, Jane. No, he's completely made up but I noticed that dogs in books always seem to be incidental characters. In real life they are so much more important - a large Labrador is a big part of family life - hence Porridge gets a starring role.

What are you writing now? Is it going to be very different?
The working title is 'Scared to Death'. It’s about a Theatre Studies teacher in a super-elite school who plays a silly prank on his students. A girl (whom nobody realised was bulimic) has a fatal heart attack. It asks the question, would she have died anyway or was she 'Scared to Death'? We also explore his past and what has shaped him as a person. I like character driven novels. I like to explore personality - people fascinate me.

Huge thanks, Charlotte.  Most important of all - how can we buy your book?
It is out of stock on UK Amazon right now but hopefully will be back soon.  However you can buy it from  Amazon.com here
Charlotte also blogs and you can find her on Twitter

If this interview has interested you in the work of children’s hospices then check out these links to learn more
http://www.childhospice.org.uk/
http://www.martinhouse.org.uk/
http://forgetmenottrust.co.uk/

And let me know what you think.  What would you do if you were in Simon's position?  How do you talk to children about death and illness?

Not the best week in the world

Why is it that things always go pear at precisely the worst possible time? It sometimes feels as if there’s someone up there thinking, way hay, she’s going to be on her own for a week so what can we throw at her?


Adrian was off to the US to check out the breweries of Vermont – by bus. Well it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
‘Hey, you’ll have a lovely peaceful week without me,’ he said at the breakfast table, clearly expecting a flurry of denial.
‘Good point,’ said James. Poor Adrian headed off with his rucksack, looking forlorn.

That evening James gave me a funny look (as in a very funny look).
‘James, stop pulling faces. You’ll get stuck.’
‘I can’t shut my eye,’ he said gurning like a gargoyle.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake.’ I packed him off to bed.

But the next morning he really did look decidedly uneven.

‘Um, I think we’ll just drop by the surgery,’ I said, trying not to sound alarmed.  If he hadn't been eleven, I'd have sworn it was Bell's palsy.
‘I think it's Bell’s palsy,’ said the GP.
‘But he’s only eleven.’
She agreed it was rare and had a chat with the hospital who said we’d better go in ‘to be on the safe side’.

Now that would be fine except, ahem, who was going to look after the soul puppy? My usual stalwarts were all away and of course, Adrian was by now going entirely the wrong way on the interstate out of Boston, so we took him with us.
‘Hey look, it’s gone foggy, isn’t that great? The pup will be fine in the car.’

We barrelled along in thick fog, praying there were no kamikaze sheep around.
‘Mum, he’s been sick,’ said James.
‘Okay, that’s okay,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘I brought towels and baby wipes. Let’s get him sorted.’
We pulled in, wiped, sluiced and veered out back into the fog.
A mile down the road. ‘He’s been sick again.’

At that precise moment the mobile rang. Could we get to the hospital ASAP for a CT scan? Umm, yes, no problem. Providing, of course, the puppy stopped throwing up and we didn’t plunge headlong into a ditch.

‘Look on the bright side, Mum,’ said James, as the pup hurled up for the fourth time. ‘He wasn’t quite as sick as last time. He’s probably running out of stuff to sick up.’
‘Exactly! It could be much worse. Just think - he could have diarrhoea.’

We spent the next two days at the hospital, making mercy dashes to the car, praying it stayed overcast and gloomy.  The tests showed nothing nasty. It was, said the consultant with a rueful shrug, ‘just a virus probably.’
Would it get better?
‘In 80 percent of cases, yes.’

We didn’t talk about the other 20 percent. The temptation to descend into gloom tugged at me but two days at a children’s assessment centre puts everything into perspective. Watching children being wheeled to surgery or seeing parents hunched over babies lying still and stuffed full of tubes, really does make you grateful for small mercies.
‘Hey Mum, it could be worse,’ said James with a lop-sided smile.
‘Yes, my darling,’ I said hugging him tight. ‘It really could.’
'And the puppy has stopped throwing up too.'
We looked at one another.  'Uh oh.  Return journey coming up.'

But the pup was all spewed out.  So basically we’ve spent the last week curled up on the sofa – me, James, the Soul Puppy and even (on occasions) Asbo Jack. We’ve watched movies and eaten tortilla chips by the bucketload and generally slobbed. Work has had to go hang.

Poor Adrian has been in a frenzy, as you’d imagine – 3000 miles away and without a phone that worked (I did try to warn him). But yesterday he returned (laden with maple syrup, jelly beans and dodgy T-shirts) and James seems a little better. I meanwhile am totally shattered. 

On Mothering

Be warned, this isn’t my usual chipper ‘isn’t life a hoot’ type of blog. It’s a bit sad really. I am not entirely sure why but I’ve been feeling a bit ‘vulnerable’ shall we say. Maybe I’ve got the opposite of SAD and go gloomy as a reaction to the rest of the world hurtling into shorts and throwing sausages on the barbecue. Maybe it’s because I’ve finished my ‘baby’ - Samael – my YA supernatural romance novel (click on the link on the sidebar if you’d like to read a taster) and I feel a bit bereft. Or maybe it’s because my real ‘baby’ (all eleven hulking years of him) is away for the week and I’m getting premonitions (okay, seven years too early) of being an empty nester. I dunno. But as I sat at my PC, trying to write a feature on Lava Shells massage (another story) I found myself tearing up.


I got to thinking about how being a mother shifts your entire world. No matter how cavalier you think you are, however nonchalant, however non-maternal really, it changes you, deep down to the cellular level. Okay, bottom line, I worry. My lad is doing the stuff I really want him to do – he’s off with his school, doing gung-ho action stuff (kayaking, abseiling, rafting, hiking) and all the usual team and confidence building malarkey. I love that he’s there, with his friends, that he’s stretching himself and having fun but it’s impossible not to think ‘what if...’

Impossible, right now, not to think of that terrible coach crash in Cumbria. How on earth would it feel? How could you cope? I was in buckets as I watched the news. How would I feel if the mothering was ripped out of me?

I knew, when I started writing Samael that mothering was a deep theme in the book but, as I came to the climax, I was surprised to find how pivotal it was and how emotional it made me writing about it. Not just about how I mother but about my own mother (who died eighteen months ago) and about how a legacy of mothering can pass down through the generations. And how, equally, that legacy can be changed, if you are mindful enough about it – if you make the decision to do things differently.

And then, in the strange way that life has of throwing up meaningful coincidences, synchronicities, I was sent a copy of The Help by Kathryn Stockett (Penguin). It was ‘about nannies’ apparently and I wasn’t terribly overwhelmed at the premise. But as I read, I realised it was all about mothering. Good mothering, bad mothering, no mothering at all. And about choices, about the power to change – if one has the guts and the will. I was, quite frankly, bowled away by it. It’s set in the Deep South of the US, in the sixties (the decade in which I was a child) in a world where white middle-class mothers hand over the care of their children to black ‘maids’. The story is filtered through three points of view. Aibileen who lost her own son and is now raising her seventeenth white child. Minny, rebellious and lippy but kind-hearted and nursing her own grief. And Skeeter, a decent-hearted college girl who yearns to be a writer and doesn’t want to become just another wife and mother. Their voices (superbly captured) weave a compelling tale of secrets, ignorance, love, betrayal and friendship. It is shocking, appalling, uplifting and also very funny. I was transfixed. I stayed up one whole night, reading until I thought my eyes would drop out.

So, there we have it. Me, listening to Moby for some bizarre reason and feeling my heart whimpering. Then Adrian calls down the stairs – ‘they’ve got a blog up on the school website. You can see what they’re up to’ – and I’m there, with my magnifying glass, trying to figure out which of the boys in wetsuits and helmets is mine. Not really mine, just borrowed (I know, I know), but oh so loved and, for this moment at least, oh so safe. And I say a quiet prayer of deep thanks for my good fortune – and send out a prayer of deepest sorrow for those whom fate has dealt the hardest cruelest cards. Even when the child has gone, we still remain mothers to the core.

Should children get the vote?

I never write about politics. Hellfire, I never talk about politics. It’s just way too fraught and people are way too angry. I’m one of life’s ditherers – I just don’t see things in black and white. In my time, I’ve voted Labour, Liberal (yes, it was a long time ago!), Tory and Green. You could call me a floating voter – I say I see both sides of the equation.


Maybe it’s because of my upbringing. My father was a staunch Labour man, always had been, always would be. He was working class, ergo he voted Labour. Though quite what he would have thought of Gordon Brown saying we should all strive to be middle-class I have no idea (actually I do know – he’d have been hugely affronted). My mother, on the other hand, voted Tory (even though she read the Guardian and loathed hunting). Come election time we would go through the farce of each of them putting up their poster in the window, only to have it torn down by the other.
Anyhow, enough of all this.
I’ve just been tagged in a meme by Ellen Arnison on the rather fab new parenting website Readyfor Ten. In it she asked her son what he thought about the election. So, in the spirit of the meme, I put James in the hot-seat before school this morning and asked for his opinions (no leading questions; no interrupting – Radio 4 it wasn’t!).

Why are we having an election?
To change the power of the country; so we can get some change happening.

If you were allowed to vote on Thursday who would you pick and how would you decide?
Conservative. Because I like the name and the slogan. I don’t want to follow you or Dad – I just like David Cameron the best out of the three. The other two are just eeeughh. I look at Gordon Brown and he looks like a toad or something. Nick Clegg looks like he just killed someone and is going off in a Chevrolet Camero.

And what laws do you think the new government should bring in?
I’d keep most of it the same though I’d try and stop the war. I don’t know really. Um, free education and medicine - except for private. Try to get out of the credit crunch. I would get more people to pick up litter – there would be a fine if you dropped litter and more cameras to catch you. Adults have more power but children should have a little say.

(at which point I interject and suggest that, if he’s saying it’s all fine as it is, why isn’t he voting Labour?)

Cos Gordon Brown makes too many slip-ups. He’s a bigoted man. (knowing look)

Should children be allowed to vote and why?
No, they shouldn’t. Because they could just do something silly like vote for the Monster Raving Loony party and all the children could vote for that and then the MRLP would get in and you’d think, Oh God, the whole country will be on a downer.
People are silly about it. They like the slogans. A few people talk properly about it at school but not many. I think children would vote for smaller parties, like the BNP and UKIP so the country would go down and people would leave it and go to other ones like the US and then we’d be underpopulated and then we’d be attacked by Japan and Korea and be blown up.
Nick Clegg’s the same – he’s trying to get rid of nuclear stuff and so other people would come and blow us up.


So there you have it - keep it the same, yet make it different.  Don't vote for small parties. Don't run into Nick Clegg in a dark alley. 

Time is short – with the election tomorrow - so if you fancy this meme, just grab it. Out of the mouths of babes...

Oh God, am I a pushy parent?

Should you push children? That thorny old question. Gloom has descended upon the Bonkers House because the end of the holidays is looming and with the new term comes entrance exams. James has been set a pile of practice papers and getting him to tackle them has been akin to making a terrier avoid rats.

Part of me thinks, oh for heaven’s sake, he’s eleven. Surely it’s an eleven-year old’s god-given right to lounge around during the holidays, watching TV; hanging out with his mates; lobbing snowballs and so on. But another part of me thinks, shit, I’m working my socks off to keep you at this school and I’d like just a tad of commitment in return.

Aha, I hear you say, clambering onto the moral high ground and gazing down disapprovingly – well, if you will send your child to independent (ie fat fee-paying) school, then it’s your lookout. And, yes, it is. But let’s not go into that one right now – I seriously haven’t the energy.

James will pass his exams, of that I have no doubt. It’s the scholarship thing that bugs me. Let’s be honest, anything that would help with fees would be a blessing from on high. The annoying thing is that he could do it. He’s a bright lad but, by heck, he’s lazy.

‘I’ve finished my English paper,’ he says.
‘But you’ve only done half an hour.’
‘But I finished.’
‘Well, write more.’
‘My hand hurts.’

Ah, it is a sad thing for two writers when their offspring finds writing a story a chore. But such is the sheer nastiness of fate.
‘But isn’t it fabulous, making up stories, letting your imagination go wild?’
He just looks at me as if I am a complete imbecile.

So I figured I’ll resort to bribery.
‘Look, no pressure okay, but just saying...if you were to get a scholarship, we’d save so much money that maybe we could afford to go on a really great holiday.’
‘Portugal?’
Why he is fixated on Portugal, I have no idea. He hates seafood. Maybe it’s the golf. He caught the quizzical look.
‘Okay, not Portugal. DisneyWorld. Florida.’
Gulp. Disney was fabulous but, having tasted the high life there, I don’t think I could bear to do it budget fashion. This time he caught the look of sheer panic-stricken rabbit in headlights and, bless him, took pity on me.
‘Disney Paris then. With a friend.’

So it was agreed. Has it worked? Nope. Not even the charms of Mickey and the thrill of the roller coaster has lured him away from the Xbox and the snow. The papers sit, gathering dust, and wistful dreams of skinnier fees have been put sadly to one side.

Because maybe, just maybe, my heart isn’t really in it either.

Crime and Punishment

Crime and punishment – how far do you go? This morning we were listening to the news and a MP saying that the mood in Westminster was tortured and ‘unbearable’.
‘It’s getting a bit McCarthy-esque,’ I muttered through my muesli.
‘It’s like a McCarthy witch-hunt,’ echoed the radio. Whoah, that was a bit Big Brother-ish. Is someone listening in?

The breakfast table was swathed in gloom. Not because we are particularly anxious about our tortured MPs but because of a case of crime and punishment much closer to home.
Last night James came in from school as I was on the phone to a mother from school. Yes, Ben would love to come for a sleepover, yes I could pick him up from school and they could go to the cricket nets and muck around in the den and generally have a heck of a laugh. We haven’t had this boy to stay before; he’s a bit of a ‘new best friend’ and James was virtually dancing as I got off the phone.
‘Oh, thank you, THANK you, Mum. You’re the best Mum in the world.’
Yeah, well…..
Off he went to climb into the hedge and spy on the neighbours, practicing to be a deep cover M16 agent. My boy was happy: I was happy. The sun was shining (rare and beautiful). I sipped a glass of wine and thought all was well with the world.

Twenty minutes later the phone rang. Same mother. Er, change of plan.
What, in twenty minutes?
Another younger boy, it transpired, had accused James, Ben and another friend of calling him, not names (the typical playground taunts) but, bizarrely, name (that of another boy in his year – still shaking my head over that one). The small boy’s mother was threatening to complain to the head. Ben had been dispatched round to apologise profusely but his mother felt further punishment was necessary and the sleepover had been cancelled.
What could I say? It seemed a little steep but if the boys had been mean then obviously something needed doing. I said I respected her decision; maybe we could reschedule another time, and came off the phone with my unhappy mother face stuck firmly on.

James was genuinely incredulous. A small stunned and indignant face poked out from the top of the hedge.
‘What did we do? We didn’t do ANYTHING.’
I believed him. James can be a little sod but he’s an honest little sod and if he’s transgressed he will hold his hand up and take what’s coming. But this was clearly unfair in his book and he totally lost the plot.
The head disappeared and the bush heaved with sobs.
‘Twenty minutes?’ he managed to splutter. ‘Twenty minutes ago I was really really happy; now I’m totally miserable.’

What can you say? That’s life. Sometimes, no matter how good and innocent you are, crap things happen. I suppose it’s a good lesson for later life but my heart went out to him. We’ve always tried to be scrupulously fair with James and he respects that privileges are taken away for misdemeanours. But being punished for something that he felt really wasn’t his fault unleashed the flood-gates. He lashed out in every which way – grief turned to anger turned to incredulity.

Finally, exhausted, I got him into a bath (laced with soothing lavender) and managed to calm him down.
‘Honey, these things happen. Nothing’s achieved by taking it out on the cricket bat.’
‘But it’s so unfair.’ He shook his head sadly.

This morning I’ve been wondering about it. As far as James was concerned it was all part and parcel of playground banter. He said that everyone gets called names at some point and that you just take it on the chin and get on with it. I could sympathise. As a child I was called ‘willy’(from my surname I hasten to add), ‘carrot-top’, ‘spotty’ (freckles let’s be clear) and never thought of complaining. When James has moaned that so-and-so did this or that, we’ve told him that he needs to ignore it, or just deal with it.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ asked James. ‘How am I supposed to play with kids if at any moment they might take offense and run off and tell tales?’

Interesting point. How far should children ‘snitch’ and how far should parents take it on themselves to interfere in the playground? When does teasing turn into bullying (which I think we all would agree needs stamping on firmly)? I suppose it depends on the degree. But I do wonder if phoning up parents and threatening to go to the headmaster actually benefits the child in question. Will this boy grow up expecting that, every time something rotten happens, that someone will dive in and sort it out? Are we breeding a tell-tale culture?

I really don’t know. All I do know is that the atmosphere in this house has turned horribly sour and sad. Much like the corridors of Westminster I suppose.



Over at my other blog I have posted on downshifting and also on watery ways to enjoy the summer (ho ho ho). Click here to be directed.....

Er, Disney....

Last week Blackden, next week Walt Disney World. The contrast couldn’t be greater really. I’ve been invited (along with a band of other bloggers) as a member of Think Parents Network. I always do a double-take on being described as a parent as it’s not a label I think of applying to myself (likewise ‘mother’). I’ve never been archetypal parent material and never really ever imagined I’d become a mother. My mind and body went into severe shock when I was pregnant and neither has ever really recovered. I have blundered through parenthood by applying my standard response to any new challenge – a crash course of reading the textbooks then bluff like fury. It’s always worked in journalism. I don’t think I’m a bad parent (I don’t write books shaming my son – at least, not yet) but I hardly think I’m representative.
Also, and here’s the irony – I don’t really like theme parks. Part of being an odd parent is that we have never really done the parks – have never made the pilgrimage to Paris, have never faced up to Alton Towers. My odd excursions (to Legoland and Chessington) have been to accompany friends and their children. I get vertigo and motion sickness and have a very low fear threshold. Consequently I screamed all the way round the baby roller coaster at Legoland and got off (shaking) to a barrage of abuse from parents who had been patiently queuing for an hour only to find that now their children were all sobbing and refusing to do the ride. ‘That mummy was scared – me not doing it’ was the bottom line. Wise me.
I succeeded in getting round Chessington without setting foot on a single ride.

Given this antipathy, I’ve been reluctant to tell people about my forthcoming trip. But the response has been extraordinary. Seems the most unlikely people go gooey-eyed over Disney.
‘Oh, it’s fabulous, absolutely fabulous. You’ll love it!’ gushed one of the mothers from school, who I’d always had down as the ‘trekking across Patagonia by llama type’.
‘Don’t be such a snob,’ said a friend at the pub, rolling her eyes. ‘Suspend your critical faculties and you’ll have a ball. Ah, you’re soooo lucky.’ She went dreamy-eyed and floated off into fond memories of Mickey and the Magic Kingdom.

Even my mother-in-law went into full-on gush mode. Turns out she’s been to Disneyland, Disneyworld, Florida, Paris and Outer Mongolia with her friends (not a child in sight) and LOVED it every time. Now there’s the weird thing. Like MIL and crew, we bloggers (mothers all) are going without a child between us which, to my mind, rather defeats the object. But no. It seems that people (lots of people, adult people) go to the ‘worlds’ sans children. Strange but true.
‘We went without children,’ said another friend on the phone last night.
‘We did?’
‘Yup. Don’t you remember? We were in Florida and felt we ought to have a look. It was full of children screaming, ‘I wanna burger, I wanna nicecream, I wanna ka-ka.’
Silence. Did we really? Ah yes, it’s coming slowly back. I was twenty-something and lean as a reed, wearing cut-offs, a t-shirt and a baseball cap over cropped peroxide blonde hair. We walked down the beach and I noticed that three months of working out had paid off – my leg muscles were actually rippling. Full-on panic mode set in. Can I lose three stone in a week? Florida = sun + coast = swimming = costume = ritual humiliation. Having spent last week writing about the latest Hollywood beauty trends I am suddenly painfully conscious of my:
a) rippling flab
b) eerie gleaming white skin, pockmarked with cellulite
c) two inch grey roots
d) sprouting hair (sorry Milla)
e) grubby finger and toenails.

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ said my pal at the pub. ‘This is Florida, not LA. You’ll be the skinniest there by a mile.’ Flicking through my photo album, refreshing my memory, I take comfort in the pics I took of the largest bodies in the world, standing like megaliths, fat-swathed ankle-deep in water, gazing out to sea. Let’s just pray that Florida hasn’t gone on a health kick in the last thirty years.


PS – have to say, full brownie points to Disney for taking along a self-confessed sceptic. ‘Can I write what I like?’ I asked. ‘Yes, providing it’s not libellous,’ came the reply. So that’s OK then. Of course, when someone is paying for everything it takes a hard nut to be totally and utterly rude but I will try my hardest to be honest and objective. Yup, even if hanging upside down vomiting. Whether that would be on Thunder Mountain or at the sight of a giant Mickey Mouse cosying up to small truculent children is yet to be decided.

PPS - image shows me and my fellow bloggers - see, I'm getting into the mood already....(he he)

On being feckless and child-free

James finished school on Friday for the summer holidays. Yup, that’s right – the start of two months stretch ahead of us (and again I wonder why it is that you pay huge fees for less school time than state schools – one of life’s mysteries). More for less, that’s a principle I wish I could apply to my working practice (and my whole life really).
Anyhow, the curious thing is that I haven’t seen him yet. Could he go home with a friend for the night? Well yes, sure. He has fun; we get a night to frolic around town. Freedom! Freedom without the cost of babysitter! Exclamation points surely allowed for this? We had early supper at Woods, bumped into some friends, got chatting, didn’t have to keep looking at our watches for the witching hour. Adrian sank a fair few pints and I sank, hmm, two decaf cappuccinos, one J2O, one mineral water and one ginger beer. God, I hate this not drinking lark.
Unused to being off the leash we trailed home reasonably early and watched American Gangster with a mug of Options hot chocolate (how sad is this?).

The next day was surreal. Vague memories of a life pre-child floated back. The actual reading of papers (rather than skimming the headlines and then putting them in the recycling pile – some days I even bypass the headline bit); the leisurely drinking of coffee; the silence (no PlayStation, no yelling, no thump of rugby ball against wall); the sheer unadultered luxury of a bath uninterrupted by ‘Where’s my (whatever)….’ and ‘I’m hungry’. Then the phone call. He was having a fabulous time and could he stay another night please? We looked at each other, shrugged and said, sure, why not. A whole weekend of feckless freedom. Bring it on. Arms punching air.

But the problem is we’ve forgotten how to relax. We’ve lost the gentle art of childless pottering. One morning was fine but the prospect of a whole other day sans child, sans Playstation, sans incessant ‘what can I do’itis? I went into panic mode. This was my chance to do all the things that normally can’t be done. Panic turned into headless chicken. The list reached such monumental proportions that it toppled over and fell to the floor in a heap.

I got some work done; we visited SWCBM; we cleaned; we tore down half the old kitchen; I washed piles of clothes; sorted out tons of stuff and freecycled a bunch and took another bunch to the charity shop. Then I decided to make an assault on the garden. So this morning there was I, in the sagging fruit cage, picking fruit in steampunk fashion, arms like pistons, fruit flying anarchically – half in the bucket, half out. My back aching, vicious gooseberry spikes stabbing my wrists. A young blackbird hurtled past me in terror and I suddenly wondered what on earth I was doing. How tragic is it that I can’t even pick fruit in a vaguely bucolic leisurely fashion? Instead it’s a manic race against time.
I really truly envy people who can lose themselves in the moment, wobble through life in a gentle manner, smell the roses, seize the day. But maybe I just have to accept that that is never going to be me. I’m always going to be spinning, arms flailing like a demented Indian deity.

Also, I realised that, while childless freedom is fabulous, I miss my boy. Hate having his room empty, find it unsettling that I leave my PC for half an hour and come back to find it still on the same page (rather than being greeted by wild flashing graphics and some new just-discovered game). As I type this, Adrian has gone to pick him up. Within half an hour we’ll be back to the usual mayhem. Have to say I’m pretty glad.