Ginger Jumbles

An Exercise in Appreciation

2012-02-28T14:25:00.002-08:00

The Sunday before Lent, the vicar spoke to us of a "poverty of appreciation." He talked of a nation that was rich in material possessions and poor in joyousness, and he spoke of a God who wishes us to be rich and happy and fulfilled.

As he spoke, I thought guiltily of the bleak February days that I have moaned about incessantly and the richness of life that I dismiss as monotony. And I decided that instead of spending forty days feeling miserable about missing chocolate, I'd spend this Lent noticing the goodness in life.

I would take care to appreciate the extraordinary beauty contained in everyday moments and, inspired by this beautiful site, I too would record three beautiful things every single day.

Most importantly, I'd take the time to give thanks.

Jesus said: "I have come that they might have life and have it to the full." One week into lent, my life feels richer and more blessed because of this simple practice of appreciation. I am one step closer towards the fullness of life that He promised.

(A link to my exercise in appreciation will remain in my sidebar throughout lent.)

Perfect Sunday

2012-02-26T14:29:00.002-08:00

It was the most perfect Sunday. The sunlight cut through the cold air making the world shiver and shine, and colours that have hibernated all winter long came out to gleam and banish the memory of grey.

All along the canal side lambs-tails bobbed in the breeze and little clusters of snow-drops nodded their heads wisely at grass. Pale golden rushes whispered against a startling blue sky and beside them the canal wound its way through the countryside, deep and dark and grey.

And amongst it all a little boy in a bright orange life jacket ran and splashed and played. Oblivious to the cold in the foot that he dipped accidentally in the water but wide awake to the excitement of the day and fully alive to the energy in the air.

I chased him down the tow path. I hovered anxiously beside him as he examined the reeds at the water's edge. I watched him eat his picnic lunch with serious concentration. I helped him to scramble up and down the length of the boat and dip his little paddle in the water. I watched with an ache of joy as he paddled towards me with Daddy.

And I don't know what it was, but something about the beauty of those golden reeds, the glory of the sun, the hopefulness in the air and the happiness of my family left me quite overcome with joy.

Hop-Hop-Hop's Breakfast

2012-02-24T07:28:00.000-08:00

Hop-Hop-Hop eats grapes. Hop-Hop-Hop eats banana. Hop-Hop-Hop eats apple and gets very wet drinking his water.

But Hop-Hop-Hop does not eat cereal. It is a well known fact that rabbits do not like cereal for breakfast.

Snowfall

2012-02-20T07:33:00.001-08:00

Just when we thought that the winter would break into spring without the slightest sight of snow, we awoke to a dusting of white.

It wasn't snow of the prolific or picturesque variety - just a smattering of white that sat tentatively on branches and blades of grass and looked certain to melt at any moment.

But its beauty was so unexpected that I squealed like a child when I looked through the window, and when the sun broke through, making the grey world gleam, I couldn't eat my breakfast fast enough in my anticipation to wrap John up warmly and introduce him to the snow.

We watched him glower as it crunched beneath his wellies, we watched him grimace as he felt its coldness on his fingertips and we watched him grumble as he sat in it and found it impossible to get up.

We built the world's smallest snowman and watched his grumbles turn to giggles, and we walked around and around our garden watching our feet making tracks as we went.

And even though it wasn't the sort of snowfall that I've been secretly hoping for all winter and it was mostly melted by lunchtime, I was so very grateful for this little dusting of white, and so very pleased that we were able to end the holidays with a little smattering of magic.

Network

2012-02-19T07:29:00.001-08:00

This half term James' family settled themselves into a holiday cottage just 20 minutes down the road and we spent a week with the Gordons.

It's been a strange and mixed-up sort of week. There have been busy all-together times full of feasting and chatter and there have been quiet times when I've found myself all alone, working hard in an empty house.

There have been high-days when we've donned our smart coats and driven out to enjoy ourselves in the fresh February air and there have been low-days when we've pulled on paint-splattered jumpers and come together in the dust of the upstairs room to build ourselves a bedroom.

There have been noisy times when people have come and gone busily throughout the day and there was even the longed for luxury of a quiet night out with my hubby.

And even though I was dubious about the idea of a whole week with James' family on our doorstep, and even though my natural inclination is always to cry out fiercely for family time alone, this week has been good.

It's been good to have people to cook for; it's been good to have help with the ironing; it's been good to send John off, hand in hand with Grandma, and it's been good to watch his shy smile as he returns and tells me sleepily about the choo choo's; it's been good to watch cousins becoming friends and it's been good to watch uncles and aunts and grandparents all busy loving my boy.

Most of all it's been good to share our family with a network of people who care for us - to feel the ebb and flow of a family life that's bigger than just us three and to see how much simpler parenting can be when you're not doing it alone.

I love this place that we've settled in and I love the life that we've carved out for ourselves here. But it seems to me that parenting is meant to be done as part of a network and now that the Gordons have packed up their cars and returned to the North I can't help but feeling a little mournful for the rich tapestry of family life that we're missing by living too far from our families, and wishing, just a little, that I had someone just down the road who could lend me a hand with the ironing.

Undercurrents

2012-02-13T14:19:00.000-08:00

She said: "We're probably just far too protective..."

She meant: "You should take better care of your child."

I wish I had the confidence not to worry about the undercurrents of criticism in other mothers' comments.

Two Bedtimes

2012-02-12T07:32:00.000-08:00

It's 8pm - The floor is littered with toys and John is running naked through the house. Wet baby footprints mark the tiled floor and Duplo blocks scatter as he runs. He screams excitedly as he goes and I smile at the sight of his happiness but the act itself is an effort. Exhaustion has wrung me dry and I'm counting the minutes until bedtime.

With barely-controlled exasperation in my voice I call him down onto the towel, wrestle his wriggling little body into a nappy and then bend his limbs into soft pyjamas whilst he screams and chatters from the floor.

Then I'm hauling his bed-ready body onto my hip, his little arms clinging comfortingly around my neck, carrying him slowly up the stairs, gathering teddies from the four corners of the bedroom, lowering him down into his cot, kissing him goodnight, and leaving the room to the sound of his screams, wishing just as I do every single night that it didn't have to end this way.

And then it's done. I'm free. I walk back down the stairs in my bath-soaked trousers, and if I wasn't so exhausted I'd smile with relief as I collapsed onto the sofa amidst a sea of chaos.

It's 11pm and one by one, the machines are shutting down. First the laptops cease their endless whirring, then the TV is silenced and finally the lights are switched off one by one until the whole of the downstairs is asleep.

With a last glance at my watch I climb the stairs, knowing that it's time to go to bed and yet feeling less exhausted than I have done all day. For three lazy hours I've basked in the blissful balm of silence whilst nurturing my soul with good things. I'm refreshed; I'm restored; I miss my baby boy.

At the top of the stairs I push open John's door, ever so slowly, and tiptoe into the darkness of his room. I peer at the silhouette of his his little bottom in the darkness, and then bend my head close to his to listen to his breathing. Very, very gently, I pull the duvet over his back and tuck it gently around his shoulders.

For a minute I pause, taking in the beauty of his silent, sleeping self and marvelling at the force of my love for him.

And then I go to bed, wishing just a little that he still slept beside me through the night, missing the vitality of his beautiful, simple smile, and hoping, desperately hoping that he will sleep in late in the morning.

Bread, Cheese, Christmas Tree!

2012-02-07T12:46:00.000-08:00

Every morning, before Daddy leaves for work, he comes through to the breakfast table and gives John a kiss on his sleepy, milk-splattered cheek.

Every morning, before he can quite reach the door, John, who seems to think that Daddy spends the entire week at the supermarket, calls out "beh, chee, di-di-dee!" (bread, cheese, Christmas tree) as though these are the three essential things that he must not return home without.

And every morning James and I glance at one another and then smile fondly at John and feel a little pang of regret that we can't grant him one third of his one simple wish.

Itchy Feet

2012-02-03T07:29:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again. The monotonous bleakness of winter combined with the first tantalising promises of Spring have churned up the restlessness that's forever sleeping in my soul and my toes are itching for change.

Dreams of other lives are tormenting my present and ambitions that I thought I'd forgotten are raising their heads and looking me square in the eye.

I want to hear my feet clipping down foreign city streets; I want to wake up in new places and wonder what the day will have in store; I want to dance and run; I want to do wild and improbable things; I want to create something beautiful and important; I want to change the world.

But instead my days are spent walking behind my boy as he climbs the same set of steps over and over again, stooping to pick up dropped mittens and wriggling them onto his fists, listening to him saying "da-cho bye!" and responding with a cheery "bye!" every single time, making sure that I'm home by midday so that our peaceful afternoon routine will remain undisturbed, and tucking him up in bed with his rabbit and polar bear by eight.

And by the time he's asleep my body is so exhausted, my mind is so numb and my life is so firmly set at toddler pace that I have no idea how to pick up the pieces of my own ambitions and I decide that changing the world must wait.

I know that "to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens" and I remind myself over and over again that this is the season for picking up mittens and climbing staircases slowly, but there are days when this is enough and there are days when the itching in my toes makes climbing staircases slowly a very tedious business indeed.

Sticker-Pox

2012-01-27T07:16:00.000-08:00

There's an outbreak of sticker-pox in our house. It started with a nasty rash on the fridge, but soon spread to every surface in sight. Toys, furniture, faces, shoes and floors have all proved not to be immune to the epidemic.

The caterpillar has been particularly badly infected.

And I'm a bit ashamed to say it, but I seem to have a nasty outbreak on my bottom.

What a Mess

2012-01-25T13:41:00.000-08:00

Lately, everywhere I've looked I've seen images of kids enjoying messy play. They're playing with vats of slimy spaghetti, sifting their fingers through boxes of beans and rice, and wading in paddling pools full of jelly with wide smiles on their sticky little faces.

And so this morning, after cleaning down the kitchen, I decided to fill a large box with flour and oil, scatter in some shells and invite the boy to come and play.

I watched the flour mould itself beneath his fingers and I watched it scatter itself like snow around the box; I watched it become matted on his knees, bum and shoes and I saw the kitchen floor turn white; I watched it appear on his face and in his hair and I saw him run the full length of the kitchen, leaving a trail of flour in his wake; I felt it sprinkling on my hair, I saw it sticking to my camera and I watched in disbelief as he tried to body-surf in the box.

And as I sat on the floor in a big pile of flour, desperately trying not to loose it over the mess that I'd wilfully created, I thought: I'm either the best mother in the world or just a complete idiot.

And I couldn't for the life of me work out which one it was.

Mummy School

2012-01-22T14:40:00.000-08:00

When I was a girl, sitting on the kitchen table watching my mother cooking spaghetti bolognese or ironing shirts, I would ask her over and over again: "How do you know how to do that?"

And she would always smile at me and answer "Mummy school - Page 495"

Almost two years into being a mummy, I've still not found the Mummy school manual, let alone reached page 495 - but just lately, with new years resolutions tucked firmly under my belt and a real desire for change, I do feel that I am learning.

I'm learning that mummy chores are endless and that cursing them will do nothing to change that fact; I'm learning that a little often is better than a manic purge every other week; I'm learning that a clean(ish) house gives me the space to be present enough to play; I'm learning that planning meals in advance will save me hours in the supermarket; I'm learning that resenting people for making messes will only make me miserable; I'm learning that fresh flowers are not frivolous but important; I'm learning to accept that my house will never truly be clean.

Above all, I'm learning that this is my work, that it's an intrinsic part of the life that I've chosen, and that I am capable of doing it well.

And so gradually, with many hiccoughs along the way, I'm learning to feel less resentful of it, less frustrated by it, less demeaned by it and less defeated by its endlessness.

Slowly, slowly, I'm learning how to be a mummy. I'm just a long, long way from reaching page 495.

All Aboard!

2012-01-17T15:19:00.000-08:00

Today we rode the Gordon Express to the duck pond, the playground and the castle. We stopped to take on passengers, to collect tickets and to blow the horn - a lot.

I loved being the mother of a baby so very much. But this? Oh, this is so much fun.

Feed The Birds

2012-01-13T13:03:00.000-08:00

After a long week of quarantine, full of tissues and tantrums and none of the normal excursions that help us trip happily through the days, we woke to yet another dull day in which the hours stretched ahead in an endless, empty expanse.

The house felt small, my head felt claustrophobic, our conversations felt like torture and even our new Christmas toys felt as though they were starting to get over-used.

And so, as we fumbled miserably though our morning routine, and I found myself counting the minutes until I could switch on John's morning cartoons, I decided we needed a plan. I grabbed a piece of paper, wrote down "make bird cookies - feed the ducks" and instantly the day seemed brighter because there was a purpose to our play.

All through the morning John scattered bird seed across the kitchen floor, crunched eggshells beneath his rolling-pin and cut heart shapes from the gooey slab of cookie dough whilst I tried to dissuade him from eating the mix. And when we were done we travelled down to the Mere to feed our creations to the placid ducks and frantically hungry geese.

And even though the day still revolved largely around tears, tantrums and tissues, was still devoid of the balm of adult conversation and was still somewhat long and lonely, there was a rhythm to it, a purpose, and at the end, a sense of completion.

And when I went to bed that night I thought: 'I'm proud of what I achieved today'. And I don't think that nearly often enough.

"No Mummy!"

2012-01-11T14:50:00.001-08:00

It's the end of a long morning at the end of a long and sickness-filled week and John is screaming on the floor. He's been screaming on the floor for hours. It feels as though it's been days.

"What's the matter?" I say, for the fortieth time that morning, the gentleness in my voice deliberate, unconvincing.

"No!" screams the boy, his face scarlet, his body stiff, a long stream of snot smearing his burning cheek.

"Come for a cuddle" I say, trying to scoop him up in my arms. "Come here..."

"No Mummy!" he screams, thrashing his little arms and legs about in a frenzy, the blows landing on my arms, my chest, my face.

"Do you want some water?" I say a little desperately, retreating to the safety of the sofa.

"No Mummy!"

"Do you want some food?"

"No Mummy! No Mummy!"

"A banana? A pear? Some bread?"

"No Mummy! No, No, No, No!" He flings himself backwards and rolls about on the floor, his little face pulsing with rage.

"Come on," I say, trying to pick his unnaturally stiff body up off the floor, "Come and have a look at this book with me...Look it's the one about the train!"

"No! No Mummy!" he yells pulling the book from my hand and throwing it to the floor.

"No!" I say sternly, my tolerance slipping dangerously, and anger spilling through the cracks in my semi-patient facade. "You don't throw books. Now get up. Come on!"

"No Mummy!!" he yells arching his back violently so that he crashes back onto the floor with a thud, his re-fuelled screams filling the air afresh.

"What's the matter?!" I cry out in desperation, my patient facade crashing to the floor and the frustration slipping out in tears. "What is it that you want?!"

I bend forward with my face in my hands, allowing the tears to trickle self-indulgently into my palms.

"No" says the sobbing boy, picking himself off the floor and coming over to wrap his arms around me.

"Mummy."

He buries his face in my lap and clings to me with all his might. He crawls up onto my lap and buries his hot wet cheek in my neck. I feel his whole body shuddering as he tries to catch his breath and then slowly he grows still as he settles himself into the hug.

For ten long minutes we cling to one another in a fierce sort of embrace and when he finally pulls his sticky cheek away from my neck, he looks at me and smiles.

And I realise that for this brief moment in time, whether he knew it or not, the only thing that he wanted was Mummy. And the knowledge makes me feel humble and powerful and whole, and at the same time exhausted, because I offer him my whole self every minute of every day and I have nothing more to give.

A Sweet Pea in January

2012-01-08T05:47:00.000-08:00

I thought: if this sweet pea can bloom in January, then I can hang my washing out on the line.

I thought: if this sweet pea can have the courage to unfurl its last precious bloom on a sunny day mid-Winter, then surely there's no dream on my resolutions list that I cannot have the courage to begin.

Moving On

2012-01-06T08:31:00.000-08:00

Since the moment we returned home on the very last day of the holidays we've been dragging our heels against the new year.

We've been cuddling up to the last few days of Christmas and blindly ignoring the January bleakness that's been battering against our windows.

It's been a week of post-Christmas pleasures; cosy fires, twinkly lights; late-night movies; the slow discovery of new toys; late morning-lie ins; big boxes of chocolates, a Downton Abbey catch-up and an obstinate refusal to be drawn back into the predictable routine of term-time.

But last night the tree came down, Christmas was packed away in boxes for yet another year and our denial no longer seemed plausible.

Today, the house feels bigger, darker and drabber and January is tapping at the windows asking us for resolutions, for change, for action.

Our Christmas reprise might have been wonderful, but it's time to face the new year.

Choo Choo!

2012-01-03T07:57:00.000-08:00

On the last Bank Holiday of Christmas, after too many nights in other people's beds, we stopped at the National Railway Museum before tackling the long journey home.

We wandered wearily through the large glass doors hoping for an inexpensive place to break our journey and were greeted with a little boy's wonderland.

Everywhere we looked there were engines. Enormous ones; tiny ones; ones you could climb on; ones you could sit in; ones in books; ones on screens; ones in play-parks; ones on rails.

I listened to my boy say 'Choo Choo' two thousand times as he ran from train to train in an ecstasy of excitement and I watched his eyes grow wide with wonder as he tilted his head back to survey the size of the wheels.

And even though the trains didn't really interest me in the slightest and I really just wanted to get home, his excitement was contagious and I couldn't help but feel that this little excursion was a wonderful start to this new year of 2012.

Advent Obsession

2011-12-30T07:51:00.000-08:00

"Helen's made a paper village" James told his mother during a discussion about Christmas decorations.

"Why?" she asked me, looking at me with that blank look of affectionate incomprehension that so often features in our conversations.

"Because it made me happy," I answered.

And I realised as I said it that I really didn't need to add anything else.

Christmas Morning Magic

2011-12-29T07:44:00.000-08:00

There's nothing quite like waking up in the dark of the morning to feel a lumpy bumpy stocking weighing heavily on the foot of your bed.

There's nothing quite like the crackle that it makes as you pull it close and feel the weight of its promise in your lap.

There's nothing quite like the sleepy sickness that engulfs you as you jump out of bed, giddy with excitement, and peek breathlessly into the top.

There's nothing quite like the pure joy that comes from those first pre-dawn presents, no matter what they may be.

There's nothing quite like passing these moments on to your boy and sharing the magic with him.

Christmas Eve Nativity

2011-12-28T14:45:00.001-08:00

I wanted him to be a shepherd. I wanted him to stand beside the manger that flickered with the glow of two dozen candles and I wanted him to place his little stuffed lamb at Mary's feet whilst the other children grasped their candles and sang 'Silent Night'.

I wanted him to feel the shiver of magic that I felt as a child, when I stood beside that manger on Christmas Eve evening, knowing that a miracle was at hand and that I was included in its magic.

But instead, he opted to sit on my hip and watch.

He laid his tired head on my shoulder and watched as the tiny tinsel-topped angels tripped down the aisle, as boyish shepherds ran in their eagerness to reach the manger and then arranged themselves awkwardly before the crib, and as Mary looked out over a darkened church and sang with such guileless innocence that it almost felt intrusive to watch.

For at least half an hour, my busy little boy - who normally runs laps through the kitchen screaming with excitement at that time of night - didn't move an inch. He just sat in my arms at the back of the packed-out church, his eyes wide with wonder, watching the nativity story unfold around him.

He reached his face towards mine as I sang 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' in his ear, swaying slightly as the melody unfolded, and then he stared in spellbound silence as the children lit their candles and sang 'Away in a Manger' to a church that held its breath in awe.

And as I watched him watching the re-telling of that first Christmas story in the little crib service that hadn't changed one bit since I was a child, I felt tears of wonderment slipping down my cheeks and knew that this experience would be stored forever at the back of his subconscious and that every Christmas for the rest of his life would be a tiny bit richer because of the miracle that had touched him at that moment.

Bags of Love

2011-12-26T15:10:00.000-08:00

Somewhere at the start of the pre-Christmas madness, I decided to make personalised book-bags for some of John's little friends (yes, John's friends are all girls.)

I stitched them in the late hours of the weeks before Christmas, ticking the names off my list as each new bag was hung from my curtain pole, and I thought about the sweet little people for whom these bags were intended, and I thought even more about their mothers.

And as I thought of them, I realised that they were the reason why I was laboriously hand-stitching names on bags late at night in those full days before Christmas for children who were too young to appreciate them.

They were the people whose friendship had made this year such a joy, whose visits had stopped the days from dragging in an endless succession of emptiness and whose presence in my life was such a blessing.

Two days before Christmas I drove from place to place, dropping off brightly wrapped parcels here, and jars of fudge there, and greeting those that I loved.

I drank tea with friends and I brought my boy into bright, warm houses to play happily with other people's toys.

And as I drove home through the dark, with a pile of parcels that they'd given me in return, scraps of chatter floating through my head and a smile still lingering on my lips, I thought of the web of connections that I'd formed in this town that was a stranger to me just a few short years ago - and all I could think was just how lucky I was.

On The Cusp

2011-12-21T15:11:00.000-08:00

This year, as the Christmas season surrounds and engulfs us, John teeters on the brink of understanding.

He says "Di di dee" (Christmas tree) over and over again in a world bedecked with tinsel and lights, he says "O-o-ah" (ho ho hat) whenever images of Father Christmas flash before his eyes, he opens Christmas card envelopes with glee and then points emphatically to the wall where they must hang and he even says "baby Jee" whenever we see a baby lying in a manger or a bright star in the sky.

But beyond that his understanding of Christmas is vague and mysterious. He can't quite understand that glitter glue ought to be splodged on the tissue paper tree, he can't sit and decorate salt dough ornaments, he can't sing carols with me or understand that he must wait to unwrap his presents, and whenever anyone asks me if he's excited I have to say no because he has no concept of time and lives entirely in the present.

And even though there's a small part of me that's longing for him to topple into understanding so that I can share the magic of Christmas with him in all its magnificent glory I know that I need to savour the innocent joy of this simple and special year - a year in which he doesn't know or care that I'm still stitching his Advent calendar on the 1st December, when I can buy his presents whilst he's watching me from the pushchair without fear of spoiling the surprise, when I can loose it completely whilst picking out the Christmas tree and know that he won't remember it for life, when I can shop with peace knowing that a single present would fill his heart with happiness, and when he has no preconceptions or expectations of what this Christmas season should mean.

Because soon this too shall pass, innocence will be replaced with excited expectations and I'll be held accountable for Christmas by someone other than myself.

Christmas Come Early

2011-12-18T08:30:00.000-08:00

When I was a girl, I never decorated the house for Christmas. I never draped tinsel across the branches of a tree or got lifted high in my Daddy's arms to place a star atop its uppermost branch; and when I went to bed, sick with excitement on Christmas Eve, there was not a shred of Christmas in the house.

There were boxes of wrapping paper strewn about the place, candles on our windowsills, a bag of freshly cut holly in the hall and perhaps a naked tree sitting in a bucket outside the front door. But aside from that it was a mess of half-polished floors, wax-splattered nativity costumes and all the glorious chaos of Christmas Eve.

But when we woke up on Christmas morning, everything was transformed. We woke in the small hours of the morning to a house that smelt of polish and fresh pine, we tiptoed down stairs bedecked with Christmas garlands, through a hallway sparkling with fairy lights and then we saw it: the magnificent tree glittering in all its Christmas glory.

I remember sanding still and silently and soaking up the awe of this Christmas morning magic; I remember sneaking to the top of the stairs before my brothers were awake to catch my first glimpse of the tree; I remember being too enthralled by the magic of the moment to care about opening my presents, and even all these years later, the memory of waking to a world that had been transformed into a wonderland whilst we slept brings a shiver of magic to my soul.

As Christmas never arrived in our house until Christmas morning itself I have difficulties with decorating in early December. I hold off bringing the box of decorations down from the attic, I delay the day when the tree gets brought in from the cold and I feel almost guilty if the house starts glittering in its Christmas finery long before Christmas itself.

But this weekend, in a world where distant hills wore thin capes of snow and puddles creaked against the constraints of their first icy caps, we journeyed out to find our tree, and bring it back into the warmth of our home.

We erected it whilst our boy slept and watched sleepy awe and wonderment wash over his face when he entered the room and saw it.

And even though it wasn't Christmas morning, gifts weren't piled high beneath it and there wasn't a faint smell of stuffing in the air, there was a magic in that moment nonetheless.

An Obligatory Visit

2011-12-15T12:36:00.001-08:00

It was mid November when my friend Pauline first asked me if I'd like to go and see Santa, it was late November when the date was set and the tickets were bought and today was the day that John and his little friend Pippa were washed, brushed, dressed in brand new coats and taken out to meet Santa in his Grotto.

I was not the only one that was excited. Pauline greeted me with a giddy smile by the farm gates, clutching a grumpy, sleepy toddler to her chest, and even though our offspring were unimpressed by the offer of a biscuit in a darkened room that still smelt distinctly of cow muck and had all the ambiance of a walk-in freezer, Pauline and I ate our mince pies quite happily as we waited to be ushered in to see Santa.

Because this visit was something that we'd been imagining for some time and something that we as parents felt strangely obliged to do. Regardless of the fact that I feel faintly uneasy about the whole Father Christmas production and despite the fact that I know John is too young to understand or appreciate the visit - I had to take my boy to see Father Christmas. I had to sit him on his knee. I had to get the photo.

And so once the mince pies had been eaten and the little ones had been torn away from the television, we dragged them through an avenue of sparkly trees into a claustrophobic little den where Santa was waiting for another two confused and frightened children to be photographed reluctantly on his knee.

"Hello," he said, with admirable enthusiasm, "Who do we have here?"

And once we'd introduced John, who was clinging miserably to my leg and Pippa, who was hiding behind a chocolate biscuit and whimpering pitifully, he launched into a spiel of questions that Pauline and I did our best to answer on behalf of our terrified toddlers.

"Where do you live?" he asked us merrily. "Do you have a chimney?" "What do you want for Christmas?" "What's your favourite colour?" "What will you be leaving for me and Rudolph to eat?" "Have you been good?"

And with each new question we all waited expectantly as though our toddlers, who are only capable of yelling random vowel sounds at us at their most eloquent moments, were suddenly going to answer this kindly old man, before answering him ourselves in that strange squeaky voice that grown-ups use when they speak on behalf of their children.

"Yes," we said, "We have a chimney." "Yes, we'll remember not to light the fire." "We like tractors and trains and lorries, don't we John?" "Yes, we're very good, most of the time," whilst all the while becoming more self-conscious about our part in this strange charade and trying not to explode into giggles.

"Will you be going to bed nice and early on Christmas Eve?" persevered Santa, after more minutes of awkward silence, during which John stared fixedly at the glowing fake fire and Pippa stared determinedly at the back of her chocolate biscuit.

"Ooh yes" Pauline and I both answered dutifully.

"And sleeping right through the night? You mustn't wake up now must you..."

"No," we chorused obediently. "We'll be fast asleep."

And suddenly, the giggles could be held in no longer and I had to quickly plonk John on Santa's knee and take the necessary photo so that I could get out of that grotto before I crumpled in a fit of hysterics.

We coaxed our miserable children onto the old man's knee, snapped away swiftly and then emerged back into the cold sanity of the farmyard to release our laughter into the clear December air.

And as we walked away, wondering what on earth that had all been about I remembered that it was all about the photo. A classic look of confusion and fear captured forever on camera.

Clearly my life would not be complete without it.

Glorious Mess

2011-12-15T07:59:00.000-08:00

This week Christmas has landed in a glorious pile of mess.

There have been floury messes on my kitchen worktop and scary toddler-made messes involving cheese-graters and kebab skewers on my kitchen floor. There have been piles of inviting fabric sitting on top of my sewing machine, and piles of cut threads on my floor. There has been paint and glue and glitter on John's hands and face and hair, sellotape and wrapping paper-aplenty, decorations strewn hopefully on chairs and lists on almost every surface.

It's been busy and crazy and fun.

I think I enjoy the chaos of the pre-Christmas mess almost as much as I love the magical sparkle of the Christmas Eve clean.

Understanding Johnish

2011-12-10T15:10:00.001-08:00

These days, from the moment he wakes 'til the moment he sleeps this boy of mine wants to communicate. He names the objects in his world, he talks endlessly of the tractors and trains that drive through his imagination, and he expresses his desires and dislikes by shouting them at me until he's satisfied that I understand.

And so every day from the moment he wakes until the moment he sleeps I listen to the jumbled sounds that pour out so purposefully from his lips and try to decipher his language.

My progress is slow and tortuous, but day by day I'm becoming ever more fluent in Johnish.

I now know that "Da-dar" is tractor or possibly breakfast whilst "da-dow" is definitely water. I know that "dee" is cake or grapes or bike. I know that "bee-a" is dried apple, "di di" is bread stick, "ewy" is berry or telly or wellies, "bum" is down, "ah" is hat, and I know very well that "choo-coo-dac-dar" is 'please may I watch videos of tractors and steam trains on YouTube?' (although I mostly pretend not to understand.)

But I still have no idea what "m-ba" is or why he screams "dya" at me several times a day. And even though I cheer and clap every time I hear a sound that vaguely resembles a word, and even though I experience the most intense gush of elation when I finally guess the meaning of a noise and for a second we understand one another, I can't pretend that the road to mutual understanding is easy, that being shouted at incessantly in gibberish doesn't sometimes feel like a slow form of torture, or that there aren't times when my frustration builds to such an unbearable intensity that I have to leave the room for a second - because if he shouts nonsense at me one more time I'm afraid that I might just shout it back.

A Beginning

2011-12-07T13:56:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the thought of Christmas is so vast that it seems overwhelming. It's the awesomeness of the traditions, the collective weight of childhood memories that still shine in my soul, the urge to create magic, to bring beauty into my home, to give gifts that show my loved ones the deepness of my love, and behind it all the longing to be touched again by the silent miracle that angels sang of long ago.

And when I think about all I want to make and give and bake and achieve, I feel the pressure of time pushing against my plans, and wonder where on earth I can begin.

And so, with endless lists and plans and dreams flocking through my mind I begin by making my wreath. I gather scraps of red and green from the garden whilst my little boy sleeps, and twist and bind them until the sight of them make me smile.

I tie a ribbon from the top and I hang it on my door. And as I see it sitting there in a bright burst of December sunshine I smile knowing that one little dream can be released from the to do list in my mind, and that even though there are many more still to chase I've brought a tiny bit of beauty to my home; and that, at least, is a beginning.

A Chance Encounter

2011-12-01T14:34:00.001-08:00

I was wandering aimlessly around the garden centre when she stopped me.We were ambling past bright racks of decorations and John was examining the colourful bird boxes, and suddenly a kind voice behind me said: "Excuse me, are you Helen?"

I looked around, my "yes" full of shyness and suspicion, and saw a lady smiling at me with the openness of recognition.

"I read your blog!" she said warmly, "I knew I recognised your little boy!"

And there on an ordinary Tuesday, I met somebody who knew me. Somebody whose face I'd never seen before and yet who knew me better than the friends I'd met that morning. I flushed and stammered as I tried to come to terms with my online retreat colliding with my everyday reality, and then I began to smile.

Because even though I write this blog purely for myself, and even though I've shied away from telling friends and family about its existence, I was so grateful for that smile of recognition. So grateful to know that my words were read and remembered, that my thoughts made others pause and remember; that my time spent here in this space is in some small way worthwhile.

So to the lovely lady who stopped me to say hello, I'd like to say thank you. Thank you for your kindness, thank you for your encouragement. Thank you for reading and thank you for being there in that garden centre on Tuesday.

And if anyone else should happen to see John and I walking aimlessly around a garden centre, please do stop and say hello. It will send me into a joyous spiral of surprise, it will make me think again about angels and it will make me smile for the rest of the day.

Surfacing

2011-11-29T14:48:00.001-08:00

For weeks now I've been looking at life through a fog. The world's been dense and dark and exhaustion has held its heavy hand on my head. I've hauled my body through the endless days and then slumped miserably into bed at night.

I've written little, photographed nothing, smiled only when required to and cleaned my house a lot. The balance has been all wrong.

But earlier this week, for no discernible reason, the fog thinned and dispersed.

I awoke and the world looked bright and when I flung open my window I gasped at what I saw.

What - is it already Advent? Are there wreaths to make and presents to pick? Are there soups to make and bread to bake? Are there beautiful roses on my mantelpiece? Is that my happy boy saying "Choo Choo!"? Are there candles to light? Friends to meet? A house to build? Gifts to stitch?

Oh life feels full and fun again - I'm so excited to be awake.

Season's End

2011-11-28T14:30:00.001-08:00

I keep waiting for the day when I'll wake up and the world will smell of winter. When the damp smell of decay will be replaced with the crisp smell of cold, and the soggy end of a season will be swapped for the sparkly promise of a new one.

And yet every time we venture out, we find that Autumn is still lingering around the edges of November.

The world is still damp, the air is still mild, the earth still squelches underfoot, and the last of the colourful leaves still spiral lazily through the air.

And so even though I'm anxiously awaiting winter, we're still basking in the glorious business of Autumn.

We're still running through bright, squelchy leaves, still spreading our arms and soaring like aeroplanes in wide, damp meadows, still lifting our smiles to the sky and watching leaves as they flutter towards our faces, and still running without the hindrance of coats.

Because any day now I'll open the front door and the air will be empty, light and cold, and if this is the last day of Autumn I want to make sure we enjoy it.

First Art

2011-11-27T08:55:00.001-08:00

For some reason, I put off John's introduction to painting.

I persuaded myself that we were always too busy, or John was too tired, or the light was too poor for photographs and I waited and waited for the perfect moment when his concentration would be complete and my camera would be at the ready and this momentous milestone could occur.

And then suddenly, on a rainy, no-nap afternoon, when exhaustion was crushing my capacity for patience, the dark was creeping in at the windows and I had no idea how to fill the time until my mum arrived, that perfect moment arrived.

I splashed paint into some dishes, sat him up at the table and watched in awe as my boy become an artist.

I watched him dip his brushes seriously into the paint trays and then purposefully arrange thick dollops of paint on his paper until a colourful symmetry had been achieved.

I watched the absorption with which he painted and the silent satisfaction with which he surveyed his finished masterpiece.

And as I laid my camera aside, knowing that we there would be plenty of other times when we could repeat this activity under the blessing of bright sunshine, I wondered why I ever bothered to delay such happiness and vowed to make more of an effort not to let my own agenda hinder my ability to parent.

Happiness

2011-11-21T13:14:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel as though I'm forever chasing after happiness.

I chase it clickety-click across the internet, I search for it miserably in garishly bright shops, I chase it with lists and plans and unachievable dreams, and yet somehow it seems to flutter away from me, like the leaves that wind their own way from the trees and land far from my outstretched hands.

But John's happiness is instinctive and easy.

He doesn't chase the leaves that are still fluttering through the air just beyond his reach, but sees the beautiful golden ones that are already nestled about his feet.

He picks them up and treasures them.

He smiles because he's happy.

And as I witness his wholehearted happiness and spend time in his calm and contented presence, I learn afresh what it means to be happy.

I see the beauty of the life beneath my very feet and I stop searching for something that's forever beyond my reach.

I pause and remember that I'm happy because he's happy.

And I wonder once again how it is that this small boy is already so much wiser than me, and whether I'll ever be as good a role model for him as he already is for me.

All I Want For Christmas

2011-11-18T14:30:00.000-08:00

"Choo Choo!" he says over and over again as he picks the fresh logs out of the log basket and arranges them in a perfectly straight line.

"Choo! Choo!" he says as he manoeuvres them across the room with his stuffed toys aboard.

"Bye Choo Choo", he says bending to kiss the logs tenderly before climbing the stairs to bed.

And I wonder why it is that I ever bother buying him toys.

Remember, Remember

2011-11-14T14:43:00.000-08:00

A week later than planned, we finally lit our bonfire.

We watched the flames leap towards the stars with a roar of enthusiasm and then settle themselves into a comfortable crackle, we perched ourselves on the damp wooden bench to eat our hot dogs and then we watched the fireworks that Daddy lit for us with unrepressed boyish enthusiasm.

I cradled John's padded little body in one hand and cupped warm cranberry punch in the other, and the tiny bonfire cast a magic glow on John's face as short showers of stars burst through the blackness and then disappeared into dark clouds of smoke.

And as John clapped with unreserved joy and cried "Stars please Daddy," between each shower of sparks I thought: 'I will never have another bonfire night quite like this', and the thought was beautiful and burning, just like a Catherine wheel.

Bubble Bath

2011-11-11T12:54:00.000-08:00

I'm always exhausted by bath-time and he's ready for bed, but bubbles mean that the day always ends with a burst of exuberant joy.

Sixty

2011-11-09T13:38:00.000-08:00

This weekend my Dad turned sixty. You will probably never meet him but here are ten things you should know about him:

1. Earlier this year he came off his bike a short way into the second stage of his ironman competition, badly breaking his collar bone. He waited for the ambulance to arrive and collect the seriously injured man behind him, patched up his bike, mopped up the blood, then cycled the remaining 100 miles one-handed. And then he ran a marathon.

2. If you ask him about it he'll say "Well, you know...it was...you know," cough awkwardly and act as though it's the type of thing that happens every day and is barely worth mentioning at all.

3. He has been on a coeliac diet for the last twenty years, which means that every day he eats bread that tastes of cardboard. I have never even once heard him complain about it.

4. His whole face is designed to smile.

5. If the thought of money so much as crosses his mind he'll reach down and pat the small change in his right trouser pocket. He will then reach into his pocket and give you everything he has. And offer you more besides.

6. He builds the best obstacle courses, rope swings, water slides, camp fires and forts. He makes the best train noises. He pulls the funniest faces. And he can play with all the enthusiasm and tirelessness of a child.

7. For the last fifteen years he's celebrated his birthday by selling neon-bright glow sticks and whirligigs to over-excited children on behalf of the Rotary Club at the village bonfire. This has made him very happy.

8. He lives entirely in the present. This means that he is always late.

9. His enthusiasm is legendary, and contagious. If you spend enough time with him you will start smiling / exercising / bell-ringing / running triathlons.

10. He is the best person in the whole world to share good news with. His joy for your joy makes your happiness complete.

The Day After The Party

2011-11-07T16:04:00.000-08:00

The party was a strange affair where people drank champagne, laughed too loudly, said mean things with a smile to amuse a room, talked about themselves and their accomplishments and assumed that the rest of the world was impressed.

And throughout it all I smiled and drank and laughed along, whilst feeling exhausted and uncomfortable and inadequate.

Because I don't have a closet hung with cocktail dresses, I don't live in a Georgian manor house in the country, I won't be employing two and a half thousand people next summer, I haven't spent hundreds of pounds on Olympic tickets, I haven't been to Sierra Leone or South Africa or India or Vietnam, I've not had dinner with Tony Blair, I've not been introduced to the Queen; I won't be going skiing this winter and I'm not funny or witty or clever in the sort of way that you'd notice.

My life's not interesting or impressive or important.

It's a simple life where I wake up on a Monday morning and cuddle my boy in bed. I wash the blackened Pyrex dish and smile when it sparkles; I let a tired little boy watch cartoons in his pyjamas; I meet up with friends whom I love and tell them that their babes are beautiful; I make my boy beans on toast for lunch and then gently wash his orange face; I gather yet more apples from the grass beneath our tree and I make a jug of apple juice; I sit in silence as John sleeps and remind myself of the beauty of the world; I cook and clean and shop; I sing my boy lullabies before bed; I weave my thoughts into a blog post and I go to bed happy.

It's just a little life, it's not changing the world and it doesn't translate well into dinner party chatter, but it's valid, it's mine and I happen to love it.

Coconut Hill

2011-11-03T12:13:00.000-07:00

This is the hill that stretches steeply up towards the sky behind my childhood home.

I led the first ascent of this hill one summer's day many years ago, armed with a hand-drawn conqueror's flag, a bag of iced gems and a Tupperware box filled with dry Frosties.

My brothers and I didn't take the road that wraps itself around the hill and leads you gently to the top but instead we dumped our bikes at the bottom and scrambled our way up the steep slope to the summit.

We planted our crested flag with pride, we ate our iced gems and Frosties, I declared that the hill would be thenceforth known as Coconut Hill and then we scooted back down the hill on our bottoms as fast as we possibly could.

Since that first ascent I've spent many hours at the top of Coconut Hill.

I've run across it, I've sat on it, I've cried on it, I've sledged down it, I've eaten picnics atop it, I've prayed on it, I've laid and watched the clouds on it, I've jumped in cow pats on it, I've skidded and scooted all the way down it, I've stood in awe and surveyed the ever-changing view on it, and I've dreamed some of my most powerful and long-lasting dreams on it.

And on Sunday afternoon, whilst John caught up on three hours of lost sleep, James introduced a new generation to a love of the mountains, my Dad painted the eves of his house and my Mum baptised four new members into God's family, I snuck away, all alone, and climbed it.

I watched my long shadow stretch ahead of me as I wound my way up the steep road and I smiled as I saw the valley spread out below me.

I hopped over the new fence that now runs alongside the road and ran with my arms stretched wide to the ridge of the hill, where you can look down and see the most beautiful view in the world stretching out as far as the eye can see.

And as I settled myself beneath the lonely windswept tree that sits defiantly on the horizon, I felt solidness of the earth beneath me and the thinness of the air above me; I listened to the silence of the sky and I soaked up the solitude of the place.

"Hello, Old Friend" I whispered to the hill.

And the hill kept its silence, but I'm sure I heard the wind bend and whisper in my ear, "Hello You, Welcome Back."

One Truth

2011-10-31T15:02:00.000-07:00

Even if he wasn't mine, I'm fairly certain I'd still think he was the coolest little boy I'd ever had the privilege of meeting.

For a Moment There I Was Interesting

2011-10-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

"I didn't know you were a writer" said the vicar, suddenly looking at me with a relieved sort of enthusiasm, as though he'd suddenly remembered that he had something to talk to me about after all.

"Ummmm..." I said vaguely, wondering what exactly he was referring to and hoping that I wouldn't have to fumble and fluff my way through an explanation of abandoned novels and unfulfilled ambitions.

"I was talking to some friends about an article I read in the Church Times a few years ago - I remembered the beautiful picture on the cover - and they told me that you wrote it!" he said, looking so genuinely impressed and interested that I felt myself flushing for a moment and feeling quite overcome by my own mediocre accomplishment.

And as I explained to him about the freelance writing that I'd done and the magazine that I'd worked on and he nodded and asked questions and listened to the answers intently, I realised that for a moment I was interesting.

Interesting in a way that I could never be for sweeping floors and playing peekaboo and washing dishes and playing with play dough. Interesting in a way that allowed me to speak and be listened to, remembered, recognised and ever so slightly revered.

And later, as I sat letting the thrill of a neighbour's interest wash over me once again and reading through some of my old work, I wondered whether I should begin writing freelance articles once again.

Not because it would fulfil my creative desires, not because it would give my life purpose, not because I can't live without the money and not because I feel it's important for my career, but just because it would be nice, for one moment, to be interesting once again.

Remember This:

2011-10-27T14:47:00.000-07:00

Whenever the layers of dust get too deep, the list of unfinished projects gets too long or the chaos of life becomes too all-consuming, I want to think of this moment - of my two men paddling happily in the soft evening sunshine - and remember that the truly important things in life are just exactly as they should be.

Beyond The Lighthouse

2011-10-24T15:08:00.000-07:00

Beyond the lighthouse, beyond the steep steps that twist and wind their way down to the shore, beyond the chalk white cliffs that reflect the Autumn sunshine, beyond the smooth white pebbles that roll beneath the soles of our shoes and the sand that crunches and crumbles beneath our feet, beyond the slimy swathes of seaweed that sit mysteriously at the waters edge and the fine foam that lingers at the shoreline like a fragile memory, lies the sea.

And it's so vast and beautiful and awesome that we're all silenced in the face of its majesty, and even John stands seriously with his wellies in the shallows, gazing thoughtfully out across its choppy expanse towards the stillness where the horizon meets the sky.

In Love

2011-10-21T15:06:00.000-07:00

I remember this feeling from a time long ago.

It's a lightness; a slight giddiness; a feeling like sunlight, dancing on the surface of still water.

It's a foolishness, this feeling, but I'm happy to be made a fool, because when the boy you've been mooning over for months and months on end finally shows you that he loves you, you're so overwhelmed with joy that foolishness is a small price to pay.

You laugh together, you gaze lovingly at one another, you snuggle and cuddle all day long; you bask in the gloriousness happiness of his love.

And even though you know that this is just a phase and that his affectionate attentions will pass, you still cannot help but feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Boiling Jam

2011-10-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

When I was younger, and I tried to imagine my 'happily ever after', I always saw myself boiling jam in a large pot on my stove whilst a baby played about my feet.

Today, that tiny glimpse into my 'happily ever after' came true, and I was so busy stirring jam and sterilising jars and trying not to trip over my boy that I almost forgot to stop, see the moment, and smile.

Almost, but not quite.

Felted Soap

2011-10-15T13:25:00.000-07:00

Ever since I saw this post over a year ago, I wanted to make felted soap with my boy.

I wanted him to immerse his little hands in hot soapy water and experience the sensation of suds against his skin. I wanted to see him splash and splosh in the water and rub sweet smelling soap happily between his palms.

And so, after reading the instructions, ordering the materials and waiting patiently for the perfect moment when we were neither too busy, too tired, too hungry nor too grouchy, we set about felting our soap.

I showed him the softness of the roving - he tried to stab himself with some scissors.

I wrapped the soap in its soft, silky blanket - he threw the roving on the floor.

I carried the bowl of water outside and threw the soaps in "splash!" - he disappeared for some time around the back of the house.

I immersed my hands in the water and began rubbing away at the soap - he reappeared with a handful of stones and threw them in the bowl.

I worked one of the soaps into a deliciously scented lather - he took the other soap and dumped it in the recycling bin.

I coaxed and pleaded and encouraged him to participate with all my mothering might - he emptied the entire contents of the recycling bin out on the drive.

I resorted to singing a "rub, rub, the soap" ditty whilst hoping the neighbours couldn't hear, and he finally showed just enough interest to try his hand at felting.

He splashed and rubbed and scrubbed for one glorious, soapy minute whilst I snapped a dozen hasty pictures - and then it was all over. He dumped his soap in a patch of mud and returned to his pile of plastic bottles on the drive.

And as I sat, sopping wet, and foaming in frustration, I had to remind myself that life never turns out to be anything like I imagine, that there's no reason why soapy water should be any more interesting to a toddler than a bin-full of plastic bottles and that for one glorious minute, the boy did experience soggy, soapy delight. I've got the photographs to prove it.

Blackberrying

2011-10-12T08:48:00.000-07:00

He turns left at the end of the drive and takes the lane that leads to the church. He runs, because he barely ever walks, and when he reaches the exact point in the hedgerow where the last of the blackberries are clustered, he points at the hedge and cries "Bewy - Peeee!"

And if you lift him up so that he can reach the fruit for himself, he squishes the ripest berries with his little fingers before popping them greedily into his mouth, and only the black stains on his lips remain as a testament to the joy that they brought him for an instant.

Random Kindness

2011-10-10T12:19:00.000-07:00

After half a service during which John tested the acoustics of the church, the strength of his vocal chords and the limits of my patience, the old man who sits on the very back pew and welcomes us with such warmth came over to share the peace with us.

He shook our hands and smiled kindly at John and then said: "I think you're a wonderful couple, the way you're bringing this little boy up."

Later, as I sat in the churchyard, watching John run happily amongst the tombstones I remembered his unexpected and undeserved kindness, and his words made tears slip down my cheeks.

And I wondered whether anyone had ever said anything quite so encouraging to me before and whether I'd ever said anything quite so kind to anybody else in my life.

It's Autumn

2011-10-07T14:46:00.000-07:00

Autumn has arrived.

The country shakes off its unrealistic and unfulfilled hopes for summer and settles itself comfortably into the damp, homely season that will slide us slowly into winter.

People pack their shorts away in well-travelled suitcases, wondering mournfully whether they'll still fit into them next summer, dust off their winter coats, and remember with annoyance that they somehow ended last winter with only one woolly glove.

They hunch their shoulders as they leave their houses, muttering miserably about the cold, and Christmas slides stealthily into their conversations making them puff their cheeks and shake their heads whilst trying to hide the excitement in their eyes.

There's an all-pervading smell of damp that lingers around the bases of trees and the welly-boots in the hallway, and a chill that creeps under the duvet at night.

And as people retreat back into the warmth of their homes, lighting their fires and simmering soup on their stoves and planning the projects that will keep them company throughout the long, dark nights, the world outside is silently transformed.

Leaves that have danced with the clouds all summer long submit themselves to the inevitability of death and are transfigured in glory before surrendering their souls to the wind.

And the light, filtering through a canopy of gold, shines with a sorrowful softness on the world, making us mindful of our own mortality and conscious of the passage of time and entranced time and time again by the melancholy magic of Autumn.

I Suppose I Love Him Really

2011-10-05T14:54:00.000-07:00

Five minutes after we've waved him goodbye I realize that he's gone off to work with my car keys in his pocket (yet again) leaving me stranded in the house on a wet and grumpy Wednesday.

All day long I curse him and practice the piece of my mind that I'll give him upon his return. But then three things happen that silence my grumbles and moans:

*He pushes open the door with a sheepish smile and offers to climb straight back in the car so that we can buy chips and pudding

*Over the sticky scrapings of the yogurt pot he initiates a 'follow my leader' silly noises game with John that lasts almost to bedtime and makes me laugh so hard that I develop a severe case of indigestion

*After dinner I walk into the living room to find them both stuffed inside the tiny play tent, cozily sharing a story as though it were a glorious secret

He might have an infuriating habit of pocketing keys, but I suppose I love him really.

Work Party

2011-10-04T15:06:00.000-07:00

This weekend, whilst the sun warmed the world, we worked.

Armed with a house-full of helpful parents, a large mechanical toy, the best weather of the summer and a freshly baked chocolate fudge cake, we lined up our paint tins on the drive and set to work painting the house.

We felt the sun heat our backs and we worked.

We taped billowing plastic sheets against the window and we worked.

We soared high into the sky on a flimsy mechanical arm, gaping at our neighbour's gardens stretched out below us like a patchwork quilt, and we worked.

We waved 'Hi' and 'Bye' to John over and over again, and we worked.

We donned sunglasses as our light new house became too bright to behold, and we worked.

We felt paint splatter our necks and arms and faces and it didn't occur to us to care as we worked.

And when the very last of the sunlight had gone, our helpers had left and the chocolate fudge cake was just a plate-full of crumbs we hooked the cherry picker back onto the car and took a look at our house.

And it looked vast and smart and finished, and nothing like the sort of house that we should be living in at all.

Apple Tasting

2011-09-29T13:06:00.001-07:00

I filled the fruit bowl with the rosiest, roundest apples from our trees and left them for my boy to explore whilst I took down the washing.

I watched his chubby fingers grasp each fruit in turn, and I watched the absorption with which he rearranged and replaced them.

And when I came to bring the bowl inside I found that each of the apples in the bowl had one small baby-sized bite out of its perfect flesh.

And I knew that every time I ate one, those tooth-marks would make me smile.

Good Times

2011-09-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

Just lately, as the September sunshine has shone, things with my boy have been good.

Gone is the indescribable boredom of the baby days, gone are the testing tantrums that tore my patience to shreds, gone are the sleepless nights and the no-nap days, gone is the biting and hitting that left me feeling abused and attacked, and in their place is a bright little person whose company is a delight.

He communicates with little nods and shakes of his head and strange words that only I can decipher; he looks me in the eye and smiles before running over to smother my face with kisses; he plays with an independence and absorption that I could watch for hours; he 'reads' with a quiet contentment that makes me long to reach for a book; he sleeps for two long hours in his cot every afternoon and is quiet throughout the night; he mimics me to make me laugh and comforts me when I'm sad and he names the objects that he sees with such delight that cars and tractors bring joy to my day.

And instead of being a baby who I must feed and clean and care for, he's suddenly a person whose company I would seek.

He's my playmate, my workmate, my friend, my love.

And as I enjoy this honeymoon period with my toddler, knowing that the 'terrible two's' are around the next corner and savouring every kiss and smile and song that comes my way, I wonder once again how it's possible to love one small person so very much, and yet to find that I love him more and more with each new day that comes.

Squirreling

2011-09-25T12:50:00.001-07:00

-friendly chatter after church

-a peaceful hour with play dough
-the rich dark scent of horse manure

-the sticky fumes of wood stain

-freshly dug earth ready for the winter frost

-the homely scent of stew simmering in the stock pot

-the soft September sunshine brightening the world with beauty

-the scent of mud and manure on John's neck as I lowered him into the bath

-the satisfaction of knowing that two more windows are ready to face the winter storms

-the joy of working seperately and yet being completely together

There were so many good things about today.

Restlessness

2011-09-23T06:24:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, without any warning, a foul wind blows from the East and restlessness lands in my lap.

I don't know where it comes from and I don't know where to put it when it arrives, but it's a wild and churning dissatisfaction that laughs in the face of my distractions and belittles my work and my play.

Maybe it's a deep and desperate need to create, maybe it's my soul calling out for God, maybe it's my body aching to be worked, or maybe it's my brain screaming out to be stretched; maybe it's nothing more lofty than my hormones stretching in time with the moon.

All I know is that it locks fiercely around my soul and makes me ache with longing for something unknowable and unnameable and forever beyond my reach.

I know it's futile to fight it. I know I'm powerless to blow it on its way.

And so all I can do is appease it (with hot baths and hard work, writing and prayer) and quietly await the day when a fresh wind will blow from the West, the restlessness will pass on, and I'll be restored to a state in which play dough and vegetable pies are once again enough.

Dinner Guests

2011-09-22T06:41:00.000-07:00

There always comes a point, mid-way through cooking and cleaning when I get angry at the effort I'm expending and resentful of the fact that I ever made the offer in the first place.

And there always comes a point, mid-way through sharing a good meal with friends, when all the effort seems worthwhile and I'm so very glad that I did.

Autumn Walk

2011-09-19T14:42:00.000-07:00

There could not have been a more perfect day to take a walk in the woods.

Bright bursts of sunshine filtered through the trees turning the world the colour of Autumn and the air was so clear that tiny chills travelled on the sunbeams tingling our fingers with the threat of cold.

Trees on the cusp of transformation displayed their first amber leaves with tentative pride and everywhere the world was tinged with the poignant melancholy of decay.

We walked at toddler pace, stopping endlessly to watch John pick up acorns, examine leaves, gather twigs and pebbles, cry out for blackberries and moo at the cows.

And as we walked to the sound of little feet rustling through a thin carpet of leaves and breathed in the damp scent of season's change, we realised that at some point, without us even noticing, something imperceptible had shifted and that Autumn had truly arrived.

Upping My Game

2011-09-16T14:10:00.000-07:00

Lately, it seems that everyone I meet has been expounding on the wonders of nursery.

"It will be really good for her," says my friend, "I'm sure it's going boost her confidence and stop her being so clingy."

"He loves it" says another. "He's really friendly with the other children and is so happy there."

"It's important for them to get used to being with other kids and have time away from their parents," says yet another." And they do all sorts of activities in nursery - art and craft and messy play - they have a whale of a time!"

And I nod and smile and agree that yes, nursery does sound like a wonderful thing, whilst feeling anxious and awkward and attacked, because John's not experiencing any of these things and his days are spent solely with me.

And so, because it's September, the season of good resolutions, and because these conversations leave my competitive edge feeling flattened, this week I've been busy upping my game.

We've coloured after breakfast (art activity- check) we've visited toddler groups (socialization - check) we've taken a trip to the farm (different environment - check) we've sung songs and rhymes (musical development -check) we've played quietly with blocks (coordination development - check) we've taken long walks (outdoor activity - check) we've spent time squidging play-dough (messy play - check) we've baked apple muffins (super-messy play - check) we've had many, many stories (language development - check) and we've kissed, snuggled and laughed.

I might not send my boy to nursery, but I think I'm doing OK.

Mmmmm Yummy!

2011-09-15T06:44:00.000-07:00

Whenever he sees pictures of cakes he says "Mmmmm yummy!"; whenever he bites into a biscuit he giggles and when we gave him his very own ice cream? Well, the delight on his face said it all.

I hate to have to admit it, but this boy's growing more like me by the day.

A Room of His Own

2011-09-13T07:09:00.000-07:00

Tonight, for the first night in almost eighteen months I won't have to tiptoe into bed. I won't have to tense at the rustle of the duvet, or startle when the lid of my face cream goes pop, and I won't have to whisper goodnight to my husband and then scowl at him when his whispered reply is too loud.

I won't nestle down in the soft cool of the bed and gaze over at the little face that's lying less an arm's reach from mine and I won't drift off into sleep marvelling at the perfection of his sleeping form. I won't close my eyes and listen to his soft breathing and I won't wake at his first grumbles and groans.

My last sight of the day won't be his scrunched up bottom and my first sight of the day won't be his dazed and sleepy face.

Because tonight, for the first night in his life, John will sleep in his own room.

And even though there's part of me that's thrilled to have finally finished the room that we've been slaving over for so long, and even though I know that the time is right, my boy is ready, and my husband is more than ready, I still wish that I could keep him beside me a little while longer, because there is no better sight to fall asleep to than that of a round little bottom in the air, and there is no better sight to wake to than that of a sleepy face smiling at you over the side of a cot.

Birthday

2011-09-07T07:19:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, after the bliss of a late morning lie-in, the uncomplicated joy of opening presents that I ordered myself, the indulgent ideal of breakfast in bed and the impossible reality of eating it with a toddler on the loose, we headed off to Hawkstone Park.

We basked in the soft September sunshine, ate the most glorious of picnics in the most glorious of settings and then wandered through the park in a haze of birthday happiness.

And even though it was a day entirely dedicated to me, for me it was all about these two:

These two funny, silly, adventurous, independent calm and contented souls, who teach me the meaning of happiness each and every day.

I watched them wander through this enchanted landscape - ducking through dark caverns and behind eerie stone pillars, climbing lone Rapunzel towers, exploring the dragon forest where gnarly branches struggled to strangle us as we passed, and walking beneath expansive rock faces that glowed amber as we wound our way home in the low evening sunshine.

And as my heart sang with joy and my baby sang "e-i-e-i-o" over and over again from his vantage point on Daddy's back I thought that this might just be the best birthday ever, and the best day ever and the most wonderful year of my life.

Morning Reading

2011-09-05T06:30:00.000-07:00

For the past few mornings, when I've climbed out of the shower and walked tentatively into the ominous quiet of the living room, this is what I've found; John, comfortably ensconced on the sofa, surrounded by books, happily reading to himself.

His contentment is so great that he doesn't move when I enter and his absorption is so intense that he doesn't falter when I reach for my camera. He simply sits, turning page after page, naming the things that he sees, singing and babbling, and weaving for himself a story that's too magical for me to understand.

And with each turn of the page, I see his imaginative world grow, and it's a beautiful thing to behold.

Family

2011-08-31T14:47:00.000-07:00

Of course I enjoyed the cool thrill of cold water on warm skin, the smell of the taverna that swept over the beach evoking a thousand dreams in one seasoned scent, the excitement of racing through the turquoise sea at speed, the lazy luxury of time spent alone with a book and the bliss of swimming in a crystal-clear sea, but the real highlight of the holiday was the company we kept.

Because for one whole week, I was with my family; these people who know me all the way back to the beginning and remind me of who I was, and who I am, and who I am meant to be; who mock me mercilessly and build me up just as quickly, and love me, love me, love me.

I laughed with my brothers, who are both ridiculous and cool, silly and inspiring in equal measure, who make me laugh harder than anyone I know, and who have spent far, far too much time in foreign climes in recent years.

I watched in awe as my mum spun a web of magic around my boy, enchanting him with her stories, engaging him in play and engulfing him in such perfect peace that he drifted effortlessly off to sleep.

And I delighted in the company of my Dad, who turns sixty later this year, who is the most selfless and generous man that I've ever known, and who chose to celebrate his birthday by giving us all that most rare and precious of treats; time together as a family.

Holiday Milestones

2011-08-31T06:09:00.000-07:00

The first milestone happened whilst James and I were speeding through the sea on a boat, and we didn't witness it until we arrived at the top of the steep hill that led to our villa, panting and sweating, and saw my mum motion to us to hush.

"Come on John," she said, from the middle of the pool, "swim, swim, swim," and we watched as he launched himself from the safety of the step out into the open water and made his way, armbands bobbing, legs pedalling frantically, teeth clenched, eyes frightened, into the safety of his Granny's waiting arms.

For a second, nobody spoke, and then with eyes wide and smiles flooded with surprise we rushed forward to whoop and cheer and marvel at the fact that in the few short hours that we had been away, John had learnt how to swim.

The second, was one that I'd been half-expecting for the past couple of months ever since I made a momentous decision almost on a whim.

It was an ordinary bedtime on an ordinary day; I read John stories, we gave him his bath and I carried him upstairs. But instead of settling myself in bed for John's bedtime feed just as I have done every night since his birth, I simply plopped him in his cot, kissed him goodnight and then walked away as his angry, uncomprehending screams chased me down the stairs, condemning me with every step.

I sat down in the living room and felt guilt creep across my conscience and open into a wide, gaping chasm of regret.

I listened as his cries grew weary, his sobs became stifled and his indignation slowly collapsed into the quiet slump of sleep, and in the silence that followed I felt all the loneliness of loss.

That night, I lay awake in the semi-darkness of the room, watching his chest rise and fall in the cot beside me, listening to the soft sound of his breathing and willing him to wake. I longed to pull him onto my chest and feel the heavy certainty of his presence and I longed to comfort him in my arms and remember the rigidity of our bond.

And when he finally did wake I held him gratefully on my lap, savouring his sleepy need for me and delighting in this sacred ritual that's bound our bodies since the moment he was born.

For nearly two months I savoured these sleepy night-time feeds, knowing that their days were numbered and that soon a new phase would begin.

And then, quite suddenly, in the cool of an air-conditioned room in Greece, it was over. He awoke in the blackness of night and refused to feed. He tossed and turned amongst the tangled sheets of our bed and refused to be comforted. And after a frenzy of screaming and a prolonged struggle for peace he settled himself back to sleep in the quiet of his cot.

I lay there in the cool hum of the darkness feeling that same sense of loss begin to simmer in my heart, and knowing that something wonderful had passed.

And had it not been for the brightness of the sun and the warmth of the sea and the wonderful company of my family, I should probably have mourned the loss of this ritual for many days to come.

But thankfully I had other things to think about. Like the magnificence of the view, the eloquent nostalgia of my novel, the funny story my brother told that's still making me smile, and the astounding fact that my baby has learnt how to swim.

Where We've Been

2011-08-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

For one glorious week, we've been holidaying in Corfu - feeling the fierce force of the sun on our scalps, eating watermelon for breakfast, picking up handfuls of white pebbles and feeling the warmth of them in our palms, swimming in water so blue that its beauty hurt our eyes, soaking in a view so spectacular that it silenced us upon arrival and then kept surprising us with its majesty throughout the week, sheltering from the merciless midday sun, finding the time to rediscover the quiet joy of reading, feasting late into the night, accompanied by screaming crickets and whining mosquitoes, spending as much time in water as out, devising ever more elaborate ways to enjoy a swimming pool (synchronized swimming and water triathlon), laughing, (a lot), and spending time with every one of my favourite people in the world.

I can't begin to describe just how wonderful it's been.

Horsey Horsey!

2011-08-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

There are many things that I have yet to learn about my boy, but one thing I do know is that he really does love horses.

His little face lights up as he hears them approaching, he clacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and jiggles on the spot as the sound of their hooves grows louder and then he chases them down the road waving in delight until horse and rider have rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

And so it seemed to me that I simply had to make him a hobby horse, and when I found these (very comprehensive) instructions to help me along the way an urgent project was begun.

This horsey is an affable, handsome and curious sort of fellow who has been readily adopted into our family.

His new owner greeted him with a polite "he-wo" (hello) and few gentle strokes before riding him click clack, click clack up and down the kitchen, and I have fallen firmly in love with him.

Welcome to our family Mr horsey, we look forward to having you grace the corner of our toy box for many years to come.

Cob Nuts

2011-08-17T12:50:00.001-07:00

After a morning in which dust and dirt suffocated my soul making me hot and tetchy and dissatisfied, I came outside to find them silently absorbed in the business of cracking cob nuts on the pile of bricks near the back door.

James was quietly smashing the nuts with half an old quarry tile, whilst John was watching in hungry silence and saying "Peeeee!" (please) at timely intervals before crunching his reward.

When they noticed me standing on the doorstep watching them, they turned to me and smiled.

"So far this morning he's eaten apples, plums, greengages, cob nuts, mulberries and blackberries, all from our garden," said James; and at that moment I remembered that it's possible to have many things that you'd like to change about your life and to have everything you've ever wanted at the very same time.

Work In Progress

2011-08-15T07:22:00.000-07:00

The holidays began as they always do; with hope and plans and the giddiness of possibility. We made lists over breakfast of the places we'd visit, the fun times we'd have, the people we'd see, the work we'd do, the progress we'd make and the endless days of summer that we'd fill with laughter and laziness and home-building in perfectly equal measure.

But then with a week's work here, a week's visiting there and a week away in the sun still to come, the weeks disappeared into days and the days looked in danger of slipping through our fingers.

And so in the remaining spaces of the summer holidays and with a whole house full of jobs to do, we've been busy working.

We've taped and filled the cracks in the plasterboard, slathered our hands and faces and walls in sloppy coats of Easyfill, sanded it down until my lungs felt vacuum-bags and the face that I saw in the mirror looked eighty, painted a ceiling, painted walls, planed window boards, ordered doors and carpets and abandoned all else in the pursuit of progress.

For over a week life has been placed on hold whilst we pour our energies into the echoey spaces upstairs; the washing is backed up, the fridge is bare, the blog is neglected, the photos are few, the housework is abandoned and routine is all but forgotten.

And yet even though the chaos is mounting, and progress is painfully slow, I find that I can cope with the carnage, because for the first time in a long time we're working together to improve the state of our lives, and if vast quantities of dust are a prerequisite of progress, then that's a price that I'm willing to pay.

"Mummy?"

2011-08-10T12:51:00.001-07:00

It's the first thing he says when he wakes in the morning and the last thing he says before he falls asleep at night. It's what he says when he's excited or bored or fearful; when he's sitting on the living-room floor or standing at the stairgate or running crazily through Carpet Right.

It's what he says many hundred times a day.

And each and every time I hear it, and no matter how many times I've heard it before, my heart involuntarily hiccups, because he's talking to his Mummy, and it astounds me that that's me.

Making Memories

2011-08-05T12:59:00.001-07:00

"Everything's temporary," said James as John smashed the last of his Kenyan coasters on the tiles, "including memories. That's why we've got to keep making new ones."

And with those wise words echoing in my ears, we embarked on the Summer holidays - and began making memories:

We watched John eat his first ice cream (and then changed his entire outfit)

We rowed up a river in true holiday fashion and managed to stop the boy from jumping in head-first:

We spent hours on the beach watching the concentration and determination with which three generations of Gordons can dig.

We all got a little over-excited about John's first donkey ride:

We visited a country show and listened to the little boy shout "Da-der" (tractor) approximately two hundred times.

We treated John to the very last of the season's strawberries with Grandad:

And melon standing at the kitchen counter with Grandma:

We watched the boy's love affair with the ocean grow deeper:

And we spent time soaking up all the love and attention that grandparents have to give.

All things might be temporary, but these memories are bright and real right now and if they do fade in the future? Well we'll just have to get busy making more.

Just the Two of Us

2011-08-05T12:42:00.001-07:00

I smiled as I kissed him goodbye; I said "have fun!" as I slammed the car door and I waved cheerily as we reversed out of the drive. And only once we were on the road and it was impossible for him to know, did I let the tears roll down my cheeks and the stupid sobs loose from the tight recesses of my throat.

Because even though I was heading off for a long-overdue day out with my hubby and my boy was safely entrusted to Grandma, and even though I knew he would be fine, and I would be fine, and everything was just fine, it still felt guilty and scared and sick for no apparent reason.

I still struggled to hold a conversation with my husband because I was too busy worrying about what John would make of being left for the very first time, I still checked the clock obsessively throughout the day to see whether he would be napping or visiting or making his way back home, I still punctuated every conversation with his name, saying 'John would have loved this' or 'we have to come back here with John', and every time I spotted horses or birdies or bees I felt a sharp pang of regret that I had no one to point them out to and delight with at their presence.

Once the separation had settled and the sun had begun to shine I did relax into the day and enjoy the luxury of time spent at a pace that was entirely our own. I enjoyed the giddy elation of swinging through the trees, I enjoyed a quiet and leisurely lunch and I enjoyed walking through bracken as high as my waist with a man who I married just four years ago.

But despite knowing that I was having a lovely day, and despite appreciating the novelty of time alone with my man, it was a stunted sort of happiness, and I couldn't help but feel that I'd left half my heart behind at home, and that there would always be an ache in my smiles unless my boy was by my side.

Wind and Waves

2011-08-04T16:34:00.000-07:00

It was a typical British day at the beach. The sunshine that lured us to the coast hid its face the second we stepped onto the sand and the wind that whipped across the shore made me send James straight back up the cliff in search of a rainbow-striped windshield.

Sand flew in eddies around our feet, stinging our shins, and out at sea huge rolling waves frothed and foamed in their anticipation to pound their pebbles on the shore.

And so it was with fleeces over our T-shirts and eyes screwed up against the elements that we chased John down the long length of the beach towards the windswept shore.

And there we watched the delight with which he greeted the wind and waves.

We listened to him scream and giggle as torrents of icy water crashed against his chest and saw his eyes light up with delight as Daddy's strong arms swooped him up just as each wave was about to crash violently on his head.

We felt the shift of sand beneath our feet as the waves came and went, we felt the cool water chill our toes and we felt the excitement of the elements stir us deeply within.

And the exhilaration of the moment was so extreme and the joy on John's wet little face was so pure that once he had been swung back up the length of the beach, dried off, wrapped up in a thick woollen sweater and safely deposited with Grandad, James and I threw off our fleeces and ran back down the length of the beach towards the waves on our own.

We ran straight into the surf and we splashed and screamed like children. We felt the cold of the ocean shake the breath from our lungs and then we splashed out towards the horizon, feeling the huge waves lifting our toes from the sea-bed and carrying us along as though we were weightless as seaweed.

And once the cold had turned our skin numb all over and the waves had carried us far out from the shore, we splashed back through the shallows and raced each other up the beach - our bodies streaming across the wet sand, our hearts pumping faster even than our feet and our muscles stretching themselves further than we actually believed possible - and in those tingly, out-of-breath moments I felt more alive than I had done in a very, very long time.

Recovered

2011-07-31T12:57:00.001-07:00

I may no longer have the perfect picture of John splashing with the hosepipe, and I may no longer have twenty-seven shots that record a second-by-second account of his joy.

But I have this little glimpse of the happiness that was had, and really, it is enough.

Enough to remind me of the perfect giggles that rang across the valley as water sprayed though the air, enough to bring back the pure elation on his face as he spun and shook the water from the hose, enough to help me recall my Dad's grunts and cries as he was splashed unexpectedly in the face and enough to remind me of the clear brilliance of that silent summer's day when the air was so light it was cool.

It's not the perfect picture - but it's enough to remind me of a beautiful summer's moment and so for me it's more than enough.

Homemaking Is Not a Competitive Sport

2011-07-30T06:52:00.000-07:00

Despite my constant efforts to master the art of calm contentment there's a competitive streak in me that just cannot be quelled.

It's a deep-rooted component of the person that I am; it's the one that once prompted me to re-write an A grade essay because only an A+ would do, it's the one that drove me to spend hours in the university library when many of my friends were out living and it's the one that makes me shy away from competitive sports because I know where my capabilities fall short.

And so when I sit down with the laptop at the end of the day and browse through the highlights of other people's lives, there's a small part of me that flounders in failure.

I see loaves of freshly baked bread on large wooden chopping blocks, beautiful vases of wildflowers placed picturesquely on the edges of bookshelves, handmade shorts on the legs of beautiful little boys and sumptuous alfresco salads on candle-lit picnic tables.

And although I relish the sight of such things; although I pour over them in reverence and inhale them deeply into my soul as though they have the power to restore me, the competitive edge that lurks beneath my contented exterior feels crushed, because my homemaking skills simply can't compete.

My house is not a haven full of handmade art and homemade cooking. It has a Tupperware box containing mouldy cheese in the garden and a bag of pasta by the broken cat flap of the old front door. It has rotten vegetables in the veg box and outgrown clothes in drawers. It has bottles of long-corked wine under the stairs beside piles of un-ironed clothes and the remnants of last year's unwanted Christmas presents; and it has half-finished sewing projects in boxes in an extension that's still a dusty and un-inhabited shell.

And so as I look at the glimpses of beauty that are evident in other people's lives and feel the competitive urge to compete, I have to remind myself that homemaking is not a competitive sport, look for small ways to introduce beauty into my own flawed and fallible home, and find solace in the fact that if there were a prize for the most glorious vase of pink sweet peas, mine would surely be in with a chance at first place.

Powerful

2011-07-29T11:14:00.000-07:00

It's strange when James is away. Exhausting, of course. And difficult.

No matter how much support I may get from my parents, no matter how many trips I may organise with friends and no matter how many bright and summery days I may be blessed with throughout the week, the responsibility of parenting is heavy when it falls solely on me.

I lie awake at night like a lioness, feeling fiercely protective of the quiet little thing that sleeps with its bottom in the air; and even when he's busily engaged during the day or quietly napping in his cot there's a part of me that's alive and alert; watching, listening, parenting.

And even though it's exhausting and terrifying and there's a part of me that's resentful of having to do it at all, it makes me feel powerful in a primal and fearsome way.

Lost

2011-07-27T15:40:00.000-07:00

The camera bleeped three times at me and then flashed up two exclamation marks and this alarming message: "Card Not Initialized."

It refused to be read in the card reader; it refused to function in the camera, it refused to mend itself magically, and it refused to heed my heartfelt prayers.

And so, after half a week of worry, several trips to the computer repair shop and an evening full of tears, I've come to accept that three month's worth of photographs have been wiped from the card.

Some have thankfully been recovered, some have been re-formatted into mosaics that are beautiful and heartbreaking, some offer the tiniest tantalising glimpses of the pictures that once were there and many have been lost for good.

And although I'm thankful for those that still remain and grateful for this blog which continues to keep my memories safe, I cannot help but feel mournful for the tiny glimpses of everyday life that have been lost, fearful for the memories that may be lost with them, and strangely bereft in the face of such a small and everyday disaster - as though it were a small slice of my boy's childhood that has been eradicated rather than a few mediocre pictures documenting sunshine and smiles.

The Question

2011-07-22T06:52:00.000-07:00

The old lady smiled at John and then asked me the question that I've been asked countless times over the past fifteen months:

"How are you enjoying being a mother then?"

It's a question that's a favourite amongst casual acquaintances and rarely-seen relatives and it's one that I still haven't got the faintest idea how to answer.

Because how could I answer it honestly?

How could I explain the pleasure and pain that this journey through motherhood has brought?

How could I tell them of the fears that are always chasing the joys or the smiles that always follow the tears?

How could I sum up the exhaustion, the elation, the loneliness and the love that I feel on a daily basis and how could I put into words the awesome responsibility of parenting that turns me cold with fear when I stop and consider it too deeply?

How could I begin to explain the mind-numbing tedium of time spent with a baby or the unbearable frustration that can come from trying to tame a toddler, and how could I begin to expound on the patience and endurance and contentment that I have learned as a result of doing both these things?

How could I describe the pure joy that's borne on my baby's beautiful smiles and the peace and purpose that he's brought to my life, and how could I explain that there are moments when I've sat and cried on the kitchen floor because the helplessness that I've felt?

And how could I tell of the contentment that I've found in the everyday moments of life along with the accompanying panic that these moments are slipping through my fingers even whilst we're living them?

"I'm loving it" I said to the smiling, well-meaning old lady, just at I've said to everybody else that's ever asked.

Because it was the answer she was expecting to hear, it was at least partly the truth, and if she's a mother herself then she'll already know all the rest.

An Experience

2011-07-19T06:08:00.000-07:00

It all began when James flicked through his diary and listed his weekends away.

"Duke of Edinburgh weekend, the reenactment weekend that Matthew wants us to do, stag party weekend, and then a full week away with my Duke of Edinburgh gold group..." he said, flicking the pages of his diary and looking somewhat sheepish.

And entirely of my own volition and without any prompting whatsoever I said: "let's all do the reenactment weekend together."

So after weeks of stressing and sulking, and after cursing myself repeatedly for uttering those few foolish words, we headed down to the Kelmarsh Festival of History to join the Coldstream Foot Guards Regiment for one weekend, and to journey back in time to the Napoleonic era.

It was a strange and surreal experience.

We abandoned our comfortable clothes in favour of hand stitched linen undergarments and heavy, woolen cloaks; we abandoned our warm house for a canvas tent that sagged as the rain pooled in its roof and we abandoned socially accepted behaviour to participate in a strange sort of charade that involved grown men barking orders at one another and rushing about self-importantly in their splendid military garb.

And even though I've spent the past two days trying to mentally deconstruct and compartmentalize it, I still can't quite work out what to make of it.

Because there were moments of magic even amongst the misery of torrential rain and sopping wet shoes, and yet there were moments of despondency too, that left me wondering what on earth I was doing grappling with a cape that was intent on throttling me whilst chasing my boy in a dress around a large, wet field.

I have no idea how I will remember this surreal weekend that interrupted our sedate and ordinary life in the years to come, but I hope that it will be with wonder.

I hope that I'll forget the boredom that came from hours spent sitting in a wet tent with strangers; the despondency of rainy mornings and leaky tents; the pure rage that left me shocked and shaken when James abandoned me in a cold tent with a screaming baby whilst he went and 'found the camp' via the beer tent; the discomfort of ill-fitting costumes and the exacerbation of spending time with strangers who found it hard to distinguish between the real and imagined.

And instead I hope that I'll remember the quiet wholesomeness of the life that we lived for those days. I hope I'll remember the smells of woodsmoke and wet grass; the sight of hundreds of canvas tents stretching away towards the horizon; the peace of sitting around a campfire late on a summer's evening whilst long shadows stretched over men intently polishing their muskets; the relief of a warm cup of tea on a long, wet morning, the simple joy of bread and jam, the bizarre cuteness of my baby boy in a bonnet; the way strangers oooh'd and ahhhh'd over John and stopped to take his picture; the serene magic of watching my babe become hypnotised by the wisps of cloud that floated in front of the full summer moon; the thrill of taking part in such a splendid and sumptuous spectacle, the excitement of seeing Roman soldiers and medieval knights and vikings wandering quite naturally past our camp; John's unbridled excitement as the Spitfires roared overhead and the pride that I felt each time someone complemented me on his cuteness and unnaturally good nature.

But most of all I hope that I remember the quiet contentment of my boy; the way he adapted quite naturally to this strange new reality that we thrust upon him and amused himself for two long days with pieces of wood from the woodpile and scraps of bread from the table, and the way he never once grumbled in spite of wet clothes and late mealtimes, lack of sleep and an onslaught of strangers.

And I hope I remember that the next time I land myself in the midst of some strange and surreal experience, I needn't worry about my boy, because he's the definition of adaptable and he teaches me lessons in contentment each and every day.

Barefoot Afternoons

2011-07-15T04:49:00.000-07:00

All week, as the skies have opened and sunshine has poured forth onto the earth, we've been spending our afternoons barefoot.

We've been busily working our way through our mornings, with their usual tasks and trips and toddler groups, but our afternoons have been as free and clear as the blue skies overhead.

We've sat in the overgrown beauty of our garden in between the heavy branches of the fruit trees and stretched our toes out amidst a bouncy carpet of clover. And as the bees have droned in the flowers and tractors have droned in the distance, we've delighted in doing nothing.

Sometimes we've read, sometimes we've scrambled and played in the car and sometimes, when the garden has started to seem small, we've wandered down the lane to pay a visit to the horses; but mostly we've spent our time soaking up the silence and the sunshine, and it's been restorative, restful, beautiful and blissful.

Special

2011-07-14T04:55:00.001-07:00

There was a time, before John was born, when I could have walked through this garden as nothing but an anonymous nobody. Strangers would have seen me without really noticing me at all and passed me with nothing but a absent-minded glance or a semi-courteous nod, and then I'd have gone on my way, forgotten.

But now that I have a little boy to chase, I'm suddenly something special.

The boy who has been collecting smiles since the day he was born is still working his wonder on the world, and people are drawn towards us as we wind our way through the flowers.

Old ladies stop to pucker up their wrinkled faces and smile as though his mere presence brings them untold joy, strangers who were walking quite purposefully stop to watch him climb stairways and explore the texture of a box hedge, and people who were lost in thought or busy in conversation stop me to comment on his busyness, his enthusiasm for life, his mischievous smile and his content yet inquisitive spirit.

Of course there will come a time when John's simply another boisterous boy or another mournful teenager and he will be nothing but an anonymous nobody just as I once was.

But just for now, he's special.

And as I walk with him, smiling at the people we meet, flushing with pride at their kind comments and glowing with appreciation for this small person by my side, I can't help but feel that I'm special too, simply because I'm with him.

One Day Of Summer

2011-07-10T04:40:00.001-07:00

This weekend, Summer decided to stop by, and smile on us for a day.

It poked its head through the rainclouds, pitied our pathetic indoor play and invited us out into the open to savour sunshine for a while.

And so, with grateful hearts and sunkissed smiles, we basked in the glory of summer. We lay in a carpet of clover and counted the apples on the boughs overhead, we slathered suncream on our skin and then coated it with a crispy layer of sand, we set up our brand new play tent and played peekaboo until our cheeks hurt from smiling, we pointed at helicopters that passed overhead and horses that passed on the road and waited for John to squeal in delight, we transported the treasures that we'd bought at the food festival out into the garden and watched John snaffle them whole, we wriggled our bodies into the tiny play tunnel and watched John fall about laughing as we found that we were stuck, we abandoned naps and trips and tasks in favour of soaking up the sun, we feasted on cherries and watermelon, Stromboli and brownies, and as evening fell we lit the barbecue and let that evocative scent of summer wash over us like happy memories.

For one blissful day we celebrated the sort of summer that you imagine when you close your eyes and picture it on a bleak midwinter's day, feeling the sunshine slow time to a standstill, and relaxing as the warm weather made our worries slip and slide like the butter left in our butter dish.

And today, when I woke up to rain, I smiled. Because I held a taste of summer tucked up inside me like a secret, and no matter what the weather did, it was staying there for good.

Personality By The Pound

2011-07-08T03:50:00.000-07:00

At the beginning, it was weight that he gained by the pound. But just lately, my boy's been gaining personality by the pound instead.

Every day he's busier, naughtier, more adventurous, more dextrous, funnier, sillier, more purposeful, more communicative and more boyish, with more of his own likes, dislikes and desires.

He climbs on every surface in sight, he runs at life from morning to night, he has an insatiable appetite for fruit, he loves books and horses and tractors, he plays happily for hours in the driver's seat of the car, he brings me his shoes when we've been stuck in the house for too long, he has an unstoppable compulsion to bite, he laughs like a maniac when we spot rabbits in the garden, he says 'tree' and 'apple' and 'baby' and 'pooey', he brings me books to read every time I sit on the sofa, and he works tirelessly at his life's mission to redistribute our belongings throughout the ground floor of the house.

And as we watch his personality flourish and grow before our very eyes, I can't help but feel that it was there all along, and that time is simply stripping away an outer husk that covered it to reveal the person that he was born to be.

Carrot Cake

2011-07-06T05:32:00.000-07:00

For two days, my mind has been wrung dry. Emotions that I can't name and thoughts that I can't contain have saturated my brain and memories that once sat quietly at the back of my mind have flooded to the forefront, stinging quite suddenly, like tears.

And so today, with the aftermath of the funeral still suffocating my sanity, I baked myself a carrot cake.

And as I baked I thought about the cake that we ate once the funeral was over, the awkward conversations with unknown relatives had been borne, the enormity of the occasion had been digested, and the tears had been forgotten.

We'd kicked off our uncomfortable shoes and shed our sombre clothes, and we'd sat in the splendor of Granny's garden, pouring tea from her silver tea-pot and eating carrot cake off her china plates.

We'd lifted our faces to the sunshine and felt our bones lighten with the warmth, and we'd chatted about holidays and future visits, bickered over the last slice of cake, and smiled and laughed and talked.

It was all completely normal, except that Granny wasn't there; and it had occurred to me that this was the simple reality of the matter and this was how it was always going to be.

The Best Things In Life...

2011-07-03T03:50:00.000-07:00

On an overcast afternoon, during a severe bout of toy fatigue, I almost climbed into the car and drove to town to buy the boy something new.

But when the rain clouds thinned and the sun broke through the clouds, I gathered up treasures from the floor of my garden instead, and presented them to him in a plant pot.

I set them on our little garden table, beside a big bowl of water and a few twigs and then I sat back on the grass and basked in the blissful sound of silence.

I watched him choose apples and pebbles with serious deliberation and then plop them into the water; I saw him stir the stew with intense concentration and I sat quietly as he scooped dirt up with his spoon and transferred it from one pot to the next with utter absorption.

And as I watched him work, and marvelled at the intensity of his play, I knew that no matter how many toy's I'd bought him or how much money I'd spent, none of them would have held his concentration so completely as this.

Flying Away

2011-06-29T06:50:00.000-07:00

Two days before my Granny died, in between his afternoon sleep and his next trip to the hospice, my Grandpa rang me to say thank you for the card that I'd made for her and sent.

And after he'd updated me on the details of her decline, listed with selfless sincerity the little things that they had to be thankful for and told me that the end was now just days away he asked me:

"Is Granny the small red butterfly on your card?"

"Yes" I answered him, before hurrying through the rest of the conversation so that I could put down the phone and finally release the sobs that were lodged painfully in my throat.

For two long days I lived with an acute awareness of pain. I went about my days in distraction, knowing that there was unfinished business at hand and picturing that small red butterfly hammering its wings against the glass jar that contained it.

And so when the phone call came to tell me that Granny was gone, I felt nothing but relief.

Because I knew that she had finally been released from the suffering that had imprisoned her for so long, and that a small red butterfly was flying freely heavenward on a brilliant beam of sunshine.

A Run

2011-06-27T15:30:00.000-07:00

"You watch John and cook dinner, I'm going for a run" I said as he wheeled into the driveway and he laughed because it was such an improbable thing for me to say.

"A run!" he chuckled, dismounting from his bike and scooping John up in his arms, "Seriously?" But I'd already disappeared to find my trainers before my resolution faded and my energy got lost amidst the daily drama of tea-time.

I jogged out of the garden to the sound of John's squeals and when I reached the bend in the road I paused to watch him chase me down the road, his little arms and legs flailing, but then I rounded the corner and ran.

I ran because it had been a hideous day in the midst of which John had bitten another baby leaving teeth marks either side of her perfect, innocent nose.

I ran because anger, mortification, disappointment, confusion, guilt and shame were jostling for space in my heart and finding it hard to co-habit with the unconditional love that's been dwelling there for so long.

I ran because I felt as though I'd tried as hard as I possibly could try and somehow I'd still managed to fail.

I ran because I needed to escape, I needed to be alone, I needed to find some space, I needed just to be me.

I ran because I'd been walking about at toddler pace for months on end and if I had to amble behind my boy a moment longer or linger beside him for another second I felt that I would scream.

I ran because for the first time in over two years I felt the need to run.

And as the road slipped slowly by beneath my feet I felt the sharp squeeze of a cramp grip my belly, I felt my chest grow tight as my lungs expanded within it, I felt my legs grow heavy and my feet grow hot as they pounded against the road, I heard my own breath rasping from my lips and I began to smile.

And as the summer rain began to fall, making the world smell of fresh hedgerows and warm tarmac, I opened my arms wide, lifted my face to the sky and grinned.

Because in the midst of all the chaos of the day I had seized control. I had run. And at that moment in time it was about the only thing I could do.

Foraging

2011-06-24T15:32:00.000-07:00

He picks blackcurrants straight from the bushes, wrinkling his nose in distaste even as he goes back for more, he picks tiny bullet-hard plums from the grass and crunches them between his teeth and when the unripe apples refuse to be plucked from their stems on the bending branches of the apple tree? Well, he just munches them right off the tree.

At the Victorian Fair

2011-06-23T00:07:00.001-07:00

After we'd half-eaten our picnic, chased John repeatedly across the grass to stop him from snaffling tidbits from other people's plates, explored the excitement of the circus tent, heard the brass-band play their rambunctious opening number, smiled at the well-dressed Victorian ladies who sat eating strawberries on the grass, spotted Queen Victoria herself making her way towards the tea-races and trailed our boy as he meandered obliviously in between the legs of strangers who were not expecting to be tripped up by a toddler, we made our way to the fairground.

And there, beside the Donkey rides and the hook-a-duck stalls, we came across the magnificent carousel, glittering with promise and tinkling with merriment.

It stood, glowing with a mythical, magical presence, promising a joy far greater than bobbing horses could possibly deliver, and making me tingle with excitement and jiggle with anticipation.

And as I took my seat astraddle a magnificent dapple grey steed with my little boy on my lap, listening to him clicking his tongue endlessly because he knew we were riding a horsey, watching the fair fly by in a swirl of colour, waving over and over again at Daddy who was dutifully taking pictures below and whooping with excitement every time we passed him, I felt sure that a fairground ride had never before brought me such pure and simple pleasure, and that it was true what they say; things really do get better with age.

Father's Day

2011-06-20T14:53:00.000-07:00

Of course, there are times when he's not here. There are times when he's distant and busy and distracted with work, and there are times when his life seems so separate from mine that I can barely comprehend it at all.

And when these times come, and the burden of parenting falls heavily on my shoulders, it's easy for me to feel distant and deserted.

It's easy to feel begrudging towards the job that pulls him endlessly away from our home and resentful of the work that makes him purposeful and passionate and proud.

And yet, when I stop and consider it, I know that it's because of his work that our little family exists.

It's because of the sacrifice that he makes every time he walks out of the door that we're able to live the way we live and love the way we love; it's because of his separate, other life that I have the awesome opportunity to nurture my babe by my side and it's because his work makes him purposeful and passionate and proud that he's the man that I love.

And so even though there are times when I miss him and the burden of parenting weighs heavily on my heart I know that my burden is light compared with the one he bears.

Because he holds his family on his strong and sturdy shoulders, and his arms are ready to catch and cuddle us whenever we wobble or fall.

Scarred

2011-06-17T04:30:00.000-07:00

After the panic had slowed, the tears had been cried and dried, the fear of stitches had evaporated, the cut had been stuck and sealed and the evidence had been patched, the nurse looked at me and said: "It will probably leave a bit of a scar."

And at that moment I felt as though it was my heart that had been split open with force and that would bear a small but visible scar for life.

First Haircut

2011-06-15T14:07:00.000-07:00

The second she started to snip, John started to scream.

He sat on the stuffed burgundy cushion, his little body as stiff as the squeaky leather seat beneath him, gripping my arm as tightly as he could and looking small and scared and vulnerable.

Then, as the scissors started to snap and the comb started to scratch, he opened his mouth wide in terror and let out the most honest of screams.

And as his soft downy hair filled the air and tickled our cheeks, and my boy screamed at his frightened, sobbing reflection in the mirror, I held his hand and stroked his knee whilst whispering "It's ok, it's ok, it's ok."

And although I'd spent months agonising over the right date for this milestone, and weeks debating the decision with friends, and even though just moments before the scissors snapped I'd felt panic rising in my chest at the thought that the final part of his babyhood was about to be cut off for good; as his beautiful blond curls fell softly about my feet, I was at peace with the reassuring words that I whispered.

Because I knew with all my heart that my little boy was beautiful and that he was loved, and that no kind of haircut could ever change the truth of those fundamental facts.

A Beautiful Mess

2011-06-14T04:53:00.000-07:00

Today I was reminded that life's greatest achievements can only be accomplished if we embrace the mess that inevitably accompanies them.

Will You Ever Know?

2011-06-12T04:37:00.000-07:00

Will you ever know just how much I love you?

Will you ever know the joy that you share with your smile?

Will you ever know the sheer delight that fills me as I watch you exploring the world?

Will you ever know the painful lurch of love that catches me as I watch you silently sleep?

Will you ever know the anguish I suffer whenever you're sick or sad?

Will you ever know the pride that overcomes me when you share your smile with the world?

Will you ever know the fearsome force of my love for you?

Does it matter in the slightest whether you ever know it or not?

What Not to Say

2011-06-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

Late on Friday evening, after a testing week, on a day when John refused to nap, whined and clung to my legs as I manically attempted to make the house less mortifying before my friends arrived, tried his hardest to bash three babies over the head as they played happily on our floor, used his sturdy wooden hammer to hit my friend hard on the bridge of her nose, bit me incessantly as I tried to make him a snack and then lay on the floor and screamed in a fierce and furious frenzy, we made our way to the supermarket.

And as we shuffled along the meat aisle, trying to find something quick to make for dinner we met the mother who asks me every time we meet whether I've returned to work, and who I tell every time we meet that I haven't.

And once we'd exchanged pleasantries and compared babies, and she'd told me, just as she always does, how incredibly lucky I am not to work, she turned and pushed her baby away on its pristine pink tricycle and called over her shoulder: "Enjoy your life of leisure!"

Half Term

2011-06-09T12:08:00.000-07:00

It was the kind of half-term that could so easily fade into forgetfulness. There were no grand adventures or spectacular photo opportunities, and there were no momentous accomplishments or exciting family outings.

There were just everyday achievements, good intentions, blessed moments of restfulness and the relief of time spent together.

And so in the years to come when we look back at this half term, we might forget that in amongst the duties and the downtime, there were moments of brilliance and beauty. And we might not recall the little glimpses of wonder that lit up these few special days, in the midst of the weary weeks.

Like the rainy bank holiday Monday that turned out to be punctuated with flashes of sunshine so brilliant that they illuminated my boy's hair into a halo,and caused us to seek shade beneath dock leaves.

Or the peaceful joy of spending time with my family on a day when the pressures of life paused for a moment and allowed us simply to be together.

Like the excitement of our first family bike ride and the sight of John's happy smile as he experienced the elation of sailing downhill at speed.

Or the relief of being able to set aside all the pouting and petulance that I've associated with cycling ever since my childhood and enjoy the experience for all its vigour and joy.

Like the thrill of a hot mid summers day landing quite unexpectedly in the midst of a forgettable week full of sunshine and showers, and the satisfaction that came from being able to seize it with both hands.

Or the utterly blissful sight of a naked baby playing in the sunshine.

And like the perfect devotion of a grandmother and the way that her love is reflected straight back to her from the face of my little boy.

Yes, it was a half term holiday that could slip into forgetfulness, but these simple moments have imprinted themselves on my memory and now that I've stopped and recorded them I know they'll stay with me for good.

Time

2011-06-06T15:54:00.000-07:00

How is it possible that the days can seem so endless and yet the months can fly by at such a frighteningly furious speed?

A Christening Gift

2011-06-04T03:49:00.000-07:00

If I were her fairy godmother I would wave my magic wand and wish her a wild and vivid imagination and a quiet and contented spirit.

But I am merely her mortal godmother and so I have made her a book bag instead.

Because if she can discover the joy of reading, she'll find that contentment of spirit is just a page-turn away and her imagination will flourish as surely as the grass grows in May.

Hello Handsome

2011-06-03T03:41:00.001-07:00

He looked so very handsome, and I was so very, very proud.

What a Wedding!

2011-05-31T12:58:00.000-07:00

It started with a tiny country church, lost amidst fields full of wild flowers.

Outside, forgotten gravestones lay sunk in a sea of buttercups and inside people in hats waited and whispered, their heads twisting endlessly towards the door, as the comings and goings became fewer and the itch of anticipation spread.

All around us, the delicate scent of roses filled the air, and well-groomed guests rustled with expectation, and deep inside we re-lived the same electric moments on our own wedding morn, as we packed ourselves into the pews and waited in an uneasy silence for the magic to begin.

And when the door opened and the bride entered, dripping in lace, and looking bashful, bridal and more beautiful than she'd ever looked in her life, we knew something special was at hand.

We watched a smile slip through the church as we marvelled at her radiance and then we wiped tears from our eyes as we looked up towards the groom and saw pure love plastered across his face for everyone to see.

We sang the hymns with celebratory gusto, I read my reading with a clear voice and a stumbling heart, and then we all grew wistful and humble as the marriage vows were said and we witnessed the awesome sight of two people binding themselves together in love.

And once the ceremony was over and we had smiled for our photographs and showered the newlyweds with rose-petals, we headed off towards the reception without really having any idea of what we were going to find, but hoping for even more magic.

And magic is exactly what we found.

We walked into a manicured garden where flowerbeds frothed with foxgloves and jugs overflowed with roses, and felt its tingle hit us even before we'd sipped our champagne.

Above us, bunting fluttered beside Chinese lanterns and streamers soared from the treetops, and higher even than that, the marquee pointed majestically to a clear blue sky.

To our left little pavilions were dotted about the lawn, and to our right, beyond the cushioned hay-bales and the croquet game, an orchard stretched off into the distance, its branches dancing with streamers and hung with lampshades and hearts.

And beneath its bedecked branches, in a little glade that we happened across almost by chance this is what we found:

A Mad Hatter's tea party, complete with illuminated chandelier, hiding quietly in the orchard just waiting to be discovered.

And as we giggled and gushed, and felt reality shift beneath our feet, we wondered whether there could possibly be more, without knowing just how much more there was to come.

There was the marquee, bursting with roses, festooned with flags and dripping with vintage style.

There were the tables laid out with mis-matched china and hand-embroidered table-cloths and bedecked with cakes and flowers.

There was afternoon tea of the most exquisite and picturesque variety, complete with finger sandwiches, scones, strawberries and cream and trifle.

There were the gramophone records that crackled with Frank Sinatra as we sipped our tea from vintage teacups and picked our pastries from china cake stands.

There was the pick-and-mix table that made us gasp and giggle and then gallivant like sugar-high children.

There was the film tent, where old movies crackled in the darkness and buckets of popcorn waited to be picked up and munched.

There was the wish tree where people wrote out their wishes and watched them flutter happily in the breeze.

And of course there was my beautiful friend the bride, whose wild imagination had dreamed up this day and whose happiness was sweeter than all the cream eclairs in the world.

It was a wrench to leave the party, just as the band were beginning to set up, the fire-jugglers were arriving, the site was becoming illuminated from without and whispers of fireworks were at large.

But we'd savoured every minute of this magical and memorable day and as we bundled one sleepy boy into the car and made our way home we knew that we were blessed to have been included in the magic of this wedding and to have friends whose dreams are as big and imaginations are as beautiful as this.

Blue, With Bells On

2011-05-27T02:02:00.000-07:00

Every May, when I know that the bluebells are in bloom, I yearn to be back in this meadow.

I long to turn the corner at the bottom of the steep, wooded path and see the grassy field open up before me like a secret and hear the rush of the river intensify the silence.

I long to smell the sweet scent of the blossom that bursts into flower just as the bluebells come into bloom and gaze down the grassy expanse of a meadow that's green as Spring itself.

And so, when I returned home last week, and the sun burst briefly through the cloud, it was with a happy heart that I carried my boy down the path towards the river, and saw the meadow stretch out before me, frilled at the edges with blue.

I sat in the freshly cut grass with my Dad, my brother and my boy whilst bright sunshine made us lift our cheeks towards the light, rest our eyes and smile.

And for a moment, everything was perfect. The colours were brighter, the air was quieter and the sun was warmer than I would have believed possible and cabbage white butterflies were dancing in the grass. Bluebells were nodding their heads gently in the breeze and behind them, rhododendron flowers studded the riverbank like jewels.

Moments of pure rapture are rare and need to be savoured and celebrated, and as I watched John rollick and roll in the grass, his giggles rippling over the glade, I realised that that's exactly what he was doing, and that he was capable of expressing the joy of the moment with an eloquence that I could only dream of.