Walking with the moon

A creative living in the real world…

Blood, sweat and tears. October 2, 2014

Filed under: Community,Depression,School — hannahoakland @ 12:49 pm

Parenting is hard work. Almost always. We’re all in agreement there.

I can handle hard work. Just about. I’ve learnt that I’ll pay for every single minute I dare to stay awake after 9pm. I’ve learnt that the toilet always stays open. And that nine times out of ten it hasn’t been flushed. I’ve learnt that sometimes, the price I pay for going upstairs to hide the Christmas presents is a toddler helping himself to the last Cornetto from the freezer.

Above all I’ve learnt that we don’t do clean. Ever.

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It’s ok. This much I can cope with. Most of the time.

But sometimes there are days that tip it over. Days when your husband is away, your friend suffers a desperate health crisis, your four year old puts your toddler in A & E, the buggy gets a flat tyre on the way home from your hospital and your phone has decided to stop receiving text messages. Just for fun.

Blood, sweat and tears. Literally. All in one afternoon.

Those are the evenings that I spend on the sofa, huddled in a blanket and clutching the ice cream tub as though my life depends on it. Those are the evenings when I wonder whether I’m getting it all wrong. Those are the evenings when I feel alone.

That’s when I miss the good old days. The ones I’m too young to actually remember. The ones where everyone’s kids played outside together all day and only came home at dinnertime. Where everyone lived next door to their mum and their aunty, and their gran.

Where there were always enough hands to deal with an emergency. Always enough wisdom to guide you through. Where mobile phones hadn’t even been invented.

Facebook isn’t quite the same.

Don’t get me wrong. I have amazing friends. Friends who drove us to the hospital. Friends who came round the next day with a spare inner tube to fix the buggy. Maybe even friends who texted me. Not that I’ll ever know. Stupid phone.

It’s just that most days I don’t feel wise enough by myself. I need people on hand to tell me what to do. I want answers. Good, solid, definitely-correct answers. To a million different questions.

When exactly should my four year old schoolgirl stop wearing pull-ups at night? And how much sleep will I lose because of it?

Is it ok that Joel hasn’t even thought about potty training? And that he knows the theme tune to almost every Cbeebies show going?

How much should they actually be eating? And does any of it really need to be vegetables?

It’s not that I want my entire family and friends on my street. Nice as that may be.

All I really want is confidence in my own decisions. Which may take some time. But there’s hope.

Last weekend was rotten. Too many doctors. Not enough functioning tyres. And a large period of time when I felt like I had no control over anything. It’s taken a while for me to recover. Unlike Joel, who was back to his usual self by the time we left the hospital. It’s easier to fix a dislocated elbow than you’d think.

It happened. These things do. Quite frequently, in our house. Five days later, I can look back and say actually, we did ok. We got to the hospital. We got home. We ate dinner. Even if it was beans on toast. Everyone went to bed in one piece. Nobody lost their temper.  No (lasting) harm done.

It was horrid. But we survived. Without an emotional breakdown. Or calling Wes home. That level of success, small as it is, would have been unthinkable even a year ago. We’re getting there.

Perhaps it’s only the blood-sweat-and-tears days that show us what we can do. That make the pull-ups and vegetables seem a little less important. Perhaps the only way to build my confidence is to bash my way through the hard days, over and over again.

With a bit of help from my friends.

Especially Ben and Jerry.

 

Playing on swings. Writing books. And other difficult tasks. September 17, 2014

Filed under: Adventures,Depression,Elvie,Joel,Parenting,Survival Guide — hannahoakland @ 10:42 am

Earlier this month, Joel turned two.

Two years old. Already. Finally. It’s confusing. I think we all deserve medals.

To celebrate, we took both children to the park. Followed by pizza with the family. I know. There ain’t no party like a toddlers party.

In fairness, we took them to a good park. Full of wooden play equipment, natural building materials and opportunities for risk-taking. We even ate marshmallows. It was quite the treat.

Joel had a wonderful time. Running up hills and flinging himself down slides. Bouncing on the trampoline and greeting every new child with a shout of “Hello, friend.” He’s delicious.

Elvie was struggling. Partly because it wasn’t her birthday. So she wasn’t allowed to open the presents. Partly because it hadn’t been her idea to go to the park. And partly because, after the Great Bear Hunt of 2014, she hadn’t been allowed to take her special night-time teddy with her.

All in all, she was less than impressed. Which she made very clear. I would have heard her screams even if I’d stayed at home.

The swings were the final straw. I was pushing her, like the dutiful mother I am. Except that I was pushing her ‘too high’, or ‘too slowly’, or ‘too wonky.’ Continually. For about ten minutes. At which point, considering that I didn’t even want to  push her in the first place, I decided that I’d had enough abuse for one playtime and left her to it.

I muttered something about how she should try to use her legs, and sat down to imagine that I had, in fact, stayed at home and was curled up in bed with a cup of tea.

Oh, how she screamed.

Wes took Joel to play in a tunnel, and I was left with a human tantrum. Of nuclear proportions.

I had a lot of sweet, kind, empathetic smiles from other parents. Whilst I watched their children swinging. By themselves. Using their legs. On reflection, there probably would have been better times to point that out. Suffice to say, the screaming continued.

Eventually, something inside me broke. As it usually does. When I get beyond the point of anger and frustration and annoyance, and remember that actually, Elvie is my daughter. In every possible way.

That underneath the screaming is usually a fear that she can’t quite put her finger on yet. Like I said, she’s my daughter. In every possible way.

It took a long time. A lot of gasping, and snot, and false starts followed by more raging tears. But we got there in the end.

She was scared.

Not of the swings. But of the swinging. The new challenge. The risk.

Scared of getting it wrong.

My sweet four year old was so scared of not being able to swing properly that she had spent half an hour screaming at the top of her lungs. And come perilously close to spending the rest of the afternoon in the buggy.

My wild, crazy little girl. Who, when given the materials to make a bear-ear headband and an outfit for her teddy, created this.

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A tiara and a fairy skirt. For herself.

She’s never been one to play exactly by the rules. She’s an incredible negotiator already.

And yet.

She is driven by an insatiable urge for perfection. By a desperate fear of not being good enough. By the preference for self-sabotage over embarrassment.

Just like her mother.

We had a long chat that afternoon. Sitting on the grassy slope, looking at the swings. A chat about being brave. And taking risks. About right-or-wrong not being the most important issue. About trying. And learning. And making mistakes. And trying all over again.

She got on the swing. Eventually. All on her own. She tried to move herself. To use her legs. And when she couldn’t, I pushed her. This time, she didn’t whinge. So much.

We’ve had a lot of these conversations lately. Me and my girl. I’ve tried to praise her for trying. Rather than succeeding. To not jump on her if something goes wrong. To let her help. Even when it makes the process painfully, tooth-pullingly slow.

We’re working on it.

Which makes yesterday even more ironic. When, after a day of painting playhouses, reviewing and renewing prescriptions, and fraught school runs, I found myself weeping into a bowl of Phish Food. Because I wanted to write a book. But I couldn’t bring myself to start.

Because I’m scared. Scared of getting it wrong.

Because of my own insatiable urge for perfection and my own desperate fear of not being good enough. Because of the voices in my head that tell me I’m deluded. Because I’d almost rather end up sad and bitter than try and fail.

Almost.

Last night I heard my own words parrotted right back at me. Not by Elvie, thankfully. That would have been a bit too much. Besides, she would have wanted my ice cream.

By Wes. Who sat with me and hugged me, and told me in no uncertain terms to stop fannying around and get on with it.

So here I am. Procrastinating a little, admittedly.

But I’ve looked up publishers. And literary agents. And submission guidelines. I’ve made a reading list. And, so far, stayed off Pinterest.

I am beyond terrified. If you try to talk to me about it, I might throw up on your feet. Sorry. In advance.

It will all be worth it in the end. I hope.

Either way, I’ve heard it’s the trying that counts.

Meet you at the swings?

 

Woohoo! Or, the day Elvie started school. September 10, 2014

Filed under: Adventures,Depression,Elvie,School — hannahoakland @ 1:53 pm

It’s here. Finally.

The big first day. Of actual, real-life school.

As I write this, Elvie is doing goodness-only-knows-what in her classroom, dressed in her delicious little uniform, surrounded by her friends.

Whilst Wes walks Joel around outside in the buggy, to try and calm the toddler tantrum that ensued when he wasn’t allowed to stay with her.

It’s been a long time coming. For me, anyway.

7 weeks of summer holiday. And 10 days fuming at everyone else’s “first day of school” pictures on Facebook. Seriously. What school in their right mind waits until the 10th of September to open?

We’ve done our very best to make it an occasion. And to conceal at least a little of our bare-faced joy.

She’s had little presents from family members. Special pens. Alphabet charts.

Last night she had a we’re-proud-of-you card, and a free-choice dinner. The opportunity to eat anything in the world, as a special treat. Whatever she wanted. Which, as it turned out, was chicken pie, baked beans and raw carrot. She’s easily pleased.

Today she was up bright and early, asking if it was morning yet? Could she put her uniform on already? Could she wear her special blue hairclips? What bags did she have to take? Could she decorate her water bottle?

Who knows? She’s not the only one that’s new to this.

Several hours, photos, changes of hairstyle and stretches of double-sided sticky tape later, and she was waiting again. This time, in the playground. In a cluster of old friends, new faces and parents trying to get their overexcited offspring to just-stand-still-for-one-picture-please. And the little girl who turned up a few days early for the start of nursery. Oops.

She was nervous, by her own admission. Holding my hand. Not wanting to run off and play just yet. Turns out she is human after all. If you ignore the green skin on her stomach where yesterday’s paint proved a little too stubborn to remove.

And then we went inside.

She is amazing. Just turned 4. In a brand new environment. Albeit one that the nursery staff have prepared her brilliantly for.

Her confidence blows me away.

We found her peg, her drawer, the box for her water bottle. She found her chair, her whiteboard to write her name on. Her own pen and rubber. And she was away. With an absolute gleam in her eye.

A few minutes later, having demonstrated the use of the rubber, I was dismissed, with the traditional “Goodbye, Mummy,” that I’ve come to expect on such occasions. And I watched from the doorway for a moment, as she sat in her chair. Her little blonde head bent over her board. Rubbing. Concentrating. Completely absorbed.

And I smiled. She’s going to be just fine.

As are we all.

This is a big change for everyone. The first day of the next seventeen years of our lives – if you count Joel’s schooling too. Which we probably should.

It’s a change of pace. A change of intensity. More bake sales, more parents evenings, more letters home and endless form-filling. A sabbatical for the Frozen soundtrack. And a gradual letting go of the total influence I’ve had over what she sees, or hears, or learns.

I’m not as scared of that as I thought I’d be. In fact, I’m mostly grateful. Grateful that she has somewhere, just round the corner, to spend her days. With an outdoor classroom in the woods. And a vegetable garden. Not to mention her friends, and the occasional deer.

I’m grateful that she’ll have hours of stimulation, every day. For her mind and her body. Grateful that she’ll have a way to satisfy her desperate thirst for knowledge. That doesn’t involve Google. Or our fridge door.

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I’m grateful that even as I write this, I can see her from my bedroom window. Speeding round the playground on a little yellow scooter. And hear the accompanying whoops.

Yes, she’s very young. Yes, she doesn’t always cope brilliantly with authority figures. Yes, she hasn’t tried the school dinners yet.

But, from where I’m sitting, this looks like the start of something beautiful.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have twenty minutes, and an entire cup of still-hot tea before pick-up time.

Honestly. What’s not to love.

 

 

Digging. Slowly. August 29, 2014

Filed under: Creativity,Depression,Operation Slow — hannahoakland @ 6:57 pm

This morning I went to my allotment. For the first time.

Well. The first proper time. The first time I’ve done anything other than survey my land. Or show it off to anyone who displays the slightest bit of enthusiasm. Some people have seen it twice. In the same day. Sorry Mum.

It’s possible that I was a little over-excited. At the prospect of this brand new, weed-riddled start. So excited, in fact, that Wes took a picture before I left. Sort of like a grown-up first day of school. With dirty jeans and a trowel.

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Yes, that’s a tonne bag over my shoulder. Yes, it was empty. Yes, it’s now full of weeds. And exactly where I put it, in the middle of my plot, because it’s way too heavy to even think about lifting. Details, details.

I still have a lot to learn.

I spent three hours there this morning. Battling dandelions and bindweed and tall spiky purple things that I wouldn’t even like to guess at the name of.

I found slugs. Loads of them. Huge great slimy things. Ladybirds. Beetles. A frog. Just one. Brown and speckledy. Which sat right in front of me for a good long while before thinking better of it and heading for the nettles.

Oh, are there ever nettles. I’m certainly not going to run out of them.

I met a woman who complimented me on not rotavating my plot, because it would only have spread the bindweed. Which was totally my plan. Of course.

I met a man who knew instantly that it was my first day, and told me to take it easy. Little and often he said. And then he left. Roughly four minutes after arriving. Without doing anything. You have to admire someone who takes his own advice so seriously.

I met a lovely old Irish man. Who told me all about the previous owner of my plot, and the stroke she had suffered. Before confiding in me that his own wife won’t eat anything he grows, living instead by the mantra “there are no slugs in Morrisons.”

He also told me to help myself to his runner beans whenever I wanted. I’m 98% sure it wasn’t a euphemism.

Three hours, I spent there. Maybe three and a half. Until I got hungry. And my back hurt. And I came home.

Honestly, I haven’t cleared much ground. There are a lot of weeds in the tonne bag, don’t get me wrong. But there’s not a lot of bare soil to show for it.

It’ll be backbreaking work just to get it ready for planting. But I’m determined. Because for me, this feels like more than an allotment. It feels like a change of pace. A critical part of my slowing down. My being gentle. Accepting my place in the world.

Allotments are about seasons. Times when the ground seems barren. Times when the trees are overflowing. Times when you put hours and weeks and months of brutal hard work in, and you have nothing to show for it. Times when the weather foils all your best-laid plans. And times when you get an unexpected surprise.

Like the mint I found this morning, thriving in amongst the weeds. I totally have a crop already. Check. Me. Out.

These are the rules of nature. Life is the same. At least it should be. I think. But it doesn’t feel that way.

It feels like achievements and targets and pressures. A world of instant gratification. Where everything is only ever a click away. Where it only matters if someone else can see that you’ve done it.

In this world, there are no seasons. You can have peaches in January if you look hard enough. The Christmas chocolates are out in shops already. Even the weather isn’t left in peace – tabloids threatening total white-outs or raging storms. As though an-appropriate-amount-of-snow-falling-at-the-coldest-time-of-the-year is no longer good enough.

Everything comes with drama. With deadlines. With the feeling that you should have completed it, instagrammed it and moved on to the next thing already. Preferably yesterday. There is no waiting. None.

It’s making me tired. So, so tired.

The pressure is unsustainable. Something has to give. For the last few years, that something has been my sanity. Literally.

Not any more.

I’m going slowly.

As the sweet lady pointed out, I’m not rotavating my plot. Not because of the risk of spreading bindweed. I’m pretty sure it can do that without my help. But because I want to dig it. All of it. Slowly.

I want to know what it’s like. To feel the soil. To dig. And sit. And think. And, for a few snatched hours, not do anything else. I want to have a place that is mine. That is peaceful. That exists purely to make my soul happy.

It may sound foolish. Or wasteful. Or a poor use of my time. I could have spent three hours sewing name labels into Elvie’s uniform. Cleaning the bathroom. Filing.

But I didn’t. I needed the calm, the air, the mud. I needed my little patch of earth. My promises of slowness, of self-compassion, of seasonal living. Made tangible. Before my very eyes.

It may sound like a poor use of my time. If you ask me, nothing could be more essential.

Maybe one day I’ll win allotment prizes. Maybe I won’t. Perhaps it will yield huge crops. Perhaps it won’t.

None of that really matters.

There’s no rush. No pressure. No targets.

Thank goodness.

 

It’s not your fault. August 12, 2014

Filed under: Uncategorized — hannahoakland @ 5:42 pm

Every morning, after the prolonged period of coming-round that follows the children’s dawn chorus, I check Twitter and Facebook.

Just in case anything sufficiently apocolyptic has happened to justify my desire to spend the entire rest of the day in bed. And before you say anything, I’m well aware that there are other, more grown up ways of checking the news. It’s just that they don’t come with holiday photos, gratuitious cake pictures and empathy from my fellow exhausted mothers-in-arms. Don’t judge me.

Occasionally this plan backfires. Because something bad genuinely has happened. And that’s no way to wake up.

Today was one of those days. Even in my semi-comatose state I knew that so many quotes from Dead Poets Society was not a spontaneous celebration of 1980’s cinematography.

Robin Williams.

He joins the list. Of celebrities who have accompanied me through my life, without them ever knowing. And have, for whatever reason, been unable to continue living.

Heath Ledger. Corey Monteith. Alexander McQueen. Whitney.

And now Robin. Who will forever be the voice of every genie in my head. Who introduced an entire generation to men in drag, and outshone Pierce Brosnan in the process. Who inspired giggle doctors across the country. And taught us all how dangerous board games can really be.

I’m pretty sure that everyone has a favourite Robin Williams movie. Mine? Good Will Hunting. No question.

The pivotal scene in the film. Where Williams’ therapist finally breaks through to Matt Damon’s mathematically-brilliant tortured soul.

“You see this? All this shit? It’s not your fault…”

It’s not your fault. Over and over again. Until Damon, and the entire viewing population, break down and sob. Because sometimes, that’s what we really need to hear. That actually, this time, it’s not our fault. That shit happened to us, not because of us.

Social media has made me cross today. People talking about another Hollywood star taking the easy way out. Another loser who couldn’t cope.

To all these people, I say this. Be grateful.

Be grateful that you have no idea what depression does. How it steals every single piece of you. Until there’s nothing left except the sad and the cold and the lonely.

Be grateful that you haven’t had to watch your world turn dark. With no logical explanation. Despite having everything you ever wanted.

Be grateful that you’re able to get out of bed in the morning. That you’re not so empty that everything feels utterly, competely meaningless.

Be grateful that you have a high horse to sit on. I had one of those once.

I’m getting better. The medication is good. The support is amazing. My family and friends are incredible.

The other day I made pancakes and homemade jam. Before 9am. I think I might even have been dressed. Things are getting easier.

But still I have days. Days when the chilly, grey cloak settles on my shoulders and threatens to stay there for good. Days when the numbness and emptiness feels like more than just a memory.

Days when the only thing worse than getting out of bed is the thought of what the children will do to the house if I don’t.

Depression is not a choice that anyone makes. It is something that happens to you. At you. Without your consent.

I can’t judge you Mr Williams.  I won’t. There but for the grace of God go I, and so many, many others.

I don’t understand it. Any of it. I don’t know why some people make it through and some don’t. There’s no logic. No pattern. Not even Mrs Doubtfire could tidy it up.

One day, I’ll get to compare Scottish accents and poetry quotations with the man himself in eternity. Where he is free. Where we will all be free.

Until then, we take each day at a time. Today, we made party bags for Elvie’s birthday party. And went to the park. Because we can. Because we are alive. And fighting. And not yet overwhelmed. Because life, in all it’s chaos, is still beautiful.

To all the social media haters, I say: be grateful.

To anyone who’s lonely, or scared, or empty, I say: there is help. There is hope. Talk to someone.

And to the man himself, cracking jokes up with the angels, I say this.

“You see this? All this shit?

It’s not your fault.”

 

Going off-list. August 7, 2014

Filed under: Uncategorized — hannahoakland @ 1:27 pm

I wrote a to-do list yesterday. It took up an entire A4 page.

Unfortunately it’s the tip of the iceberg. Just the imminent, pressing tasks. Like organising a 4 year old’s birthday, and weeding my wasteland of an allotment. Buying food, emailing friends. That sort of thing.

Obviously this is totally separate to the ‘House To-do List’. Which is separate again from the ‘Fun-things-to-do-to-the-house’ list. Which should probably be renamed the ‘you’re-never-going-to-have-time-to-do-this-so-why-are-you-even-bothering-to-write-it-down’ list. Not so snappy.

I run my life by lists. They’re the only way I ever remember the errands I’ve promised to run, what I’m doing on Tuesday, or the fact that I haven’t actually finished Elvie’s school uniform shopping until I’ve bought name labels.

There’s only one problem.

That A4 page list is intimidating by itself. Even if we ignore the other two completely. Which, to be fair, I do.

But the reality is that most of my day’s activities aren’t even on that list. Those are extras. Useful extras – the kind that mean children get birthday presents and Elvie’s socks can be retrieved from the lost property bin, but extras nonetheless.

Most of my day is taken up with a slightly mindnumbing process of repetition.

Make food. Serve food. Clear leftover food from the floor. Repeat. Three times a day. Every day.

Collect clothes from the washing basket / floor / trampoline / bath. Wash clothes. Hang clothes out. Fold clothes up. Move coathangers between wardrobes depending on who has the most clean clothes. Repeat.

Check nappy. Change nappy. Throw old nappy away. Restock nappy box. Repeat.

Sweep floor. Kill ants. Curse at discarded food under the table. Sweep up ants, and escaped food. Throw in bin. Repeat.

Bath children. Rinse off mud. Clean their teeth. Search for the lid of the toothpaste after mistakenly allowing them to prepare their own toothbrushes. Brush hair. Story. Prayers. Put them to bed.

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Collapse. Repeat. Every night. Sometimes multiple times.

That’s plenty enough to fill a day. Right there. Without even touching the lists. Or the rest of the house. Suffice to say that the phrase ‘deep clean’ doesn’t get used much around here.

I’ve always used lists. Even before the children arrived. There’s nothing quite like crossing through the final item with a glorious, slightly-smug flourish.

That doesn’t happen anymore.

Now I transfer the unfinished jobs onto a new list, hoping to fool my brain into believing that I’ve completed something. That it’s a job well done.

It’s slightly unsatisfying. To say the least.

I wrote a post a while ago about how, as mothers, we need to be prouder of the little things that we achieve. The fact that we made it through to the end of the day with the house still standing. Or that we covered most of the mud up with a nice outfit for the birthday party. The little things. That almost always feel enormous.

It’s easy to prioritise the things on the lists. Nothing wrong with that.

But it’s also way too easy to despise the mundane, everyday, several times a day constants. The dull, monotonous beat that makes up the rhythm of our day-in, day-out life.

Honestly, in the utterly chaotic world of two under-fives, it’s often those off-list, routine, repetitive processes that keep me sane.

The endless loads of washing. The ever-present hum of the dishwasher. The cooking. And sweeping. And folding. And tidying. And collapsing in the evening with an enormous mug of tea.

They’re safe. Predictable. Tidy. You know where you are with a washing machine. Or a kettle. Which is more than can be said for a toddler.

They’re not the kind of things you can put on a list. Mostly because, as soon as they’re finished, they need doing all over again.

But they count. They really do.

Lists are great. I love them. They get stuff done. But it’s off-list that the real magic happens. That’s where homes are built and children are cared for. That’s where real love is shown. Over. And. Over. And. Over. Again.

There will come a time for deep cleans and finishing lists. But that time is definitely not now.

Now is the time for pairing socks and making sandwiches and breathing deeply whilst counting to 10.

I’ll see you on the other side.

 

 

Our big fat summer of slow. I hope. July 22, 2014

Filed under: Elvie,Family,Nursery,Operation Slow — hannahoakland @ 12:54 pm

Summer is almost here. So close I can reach out and touch it.

This time last year I was shaking with terror. Literally. This year, it’s different.

Tomorrow is Elvie’s final day at nursery. Before seven weeks of glorious, laid-back summer. And then Big School.

At least, that’s the plan.

This morning we made cupcakes for the teachers. Despite being utterly intimidated by the hand-decorated wrapping paper on the implausibly large presents that another parent brought in yesterday.

It was fun. We cracked eggs everywhere, covered the table in sugar sprinkles and mixed up some icing in a pretty lurid shade of pink.

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Elvie had a great time. Joel mostly licked things. Between them they consumed so much sugar that the traditional pre-nursery meltdown was at least ten times the usual volume.

We’ll miss nursery. Elvie especially.

We’ll miss the structure it gives to our days, and the friends we see on a daily basis.

We’ll miss the toys, and the climbing frame, and the seemingly unlimited craft supplies.

We’ll miss the wonderful teachers, who deserve much more than a day-glo pink cucpcake.

They have treasured her throughout this year. They’ve let her play in the mud and draw endless pictures. They’ve given her such a positive introduction to education, and opened her mind to a hundred new ideas.

We’ll miss them. Seven weeks is a long time to fill. But I’m optimistic about this summer. I’m even (whisper it) looking forward to it. A little bit.

Mostly because of last weekend.

On Saturday we spent all day in the garden. Literally all day. It was beautiful.

The sun shone. Wes built a play-house. Joel bounced on the trampoline. I was weeding. Elvie was covered in mud. Completely covered. From head to toe. As is her way.

It was perfect. Warm, relaxed and surprisingly productive. Followed by a friend’s party in the evening, where we sat outside eating delicious food while the children ran wild into the night.

It was the epitome of calm and gentle. Of our own particular, cherished brand of slow.

It just can’t happen during the week. When we need to eat lunch by midday to get to nursery on time. And we daren’t stay out late because the consequences are disastrous.

Unless it’s the holidays. Which, thank goodness, it very nearly is.

This summer holiday feels like the perfect chance to practice living slowly.

To eat more meals outside. On the floor. To spend hours in the mud. Or digging up weeds at our beautiful new allotment.

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To have lazy movie nights. And ice cream. And lots of parties with friends. To take my eye off the time, and the calendar and the to-do list. To breathe deeply. And relish the chance to really connect with my children.

Before Elvie starts school in September and everything changes again.

It won’t be easy. Wes is away a lot. Seven weeks is a long time. The heat makes Elvie spectacularly grumpy. As does being bored. It’ll be a delicate balance to maintain.

But, for the moment at least, the chance of arriving at September as a blissed-out, tanned, tie-dye wearing hippy seems a very real possibility.

That’s already a big improvement on last year. And the holidays don’t start until tomorrow.

I’ll keep you updated.

Unless, of course, I’m too chilled out to bother.

In which case you’ll find me in the garden. Feel free to bring cakes.

Whatever colour they are.

 

 

 
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