Pride comes before a fall

I was feeling so proud of myself.

I had got up early. I had got the children up early (or at least in plenty of time to get to school).

I had taken my daughter to choir before school (having forgotten about it completely the previous week - oops!)

I had taken the dog for a walk around the field, letting her have a good run and be thoroughly exhausted for the day. Muddy from nose to tail, she was curled up in her basket in the utility room.

All this, and home before 9am. Just enough time for a cup of tea, a bowl of cereal and then to go to work.

Perfect.

So I thought I'd tweet about it. (I like to tweet at moments of achievement, for usually tweeting only seems to cover the disasters.) I reached into my coat pocket to retrieve my phone.

It wasn't there.

Nor was it in the other pocket. Or on the side in the kitchen.

My conclusion was that it had fallen out of my coat pocket when I was walking the dog. I thought back to the point I'd pulled a treat from my pocket - presumably it had fallen out then and I was totally unaware. That was right on the other side of the field, about as far away as I could go.

I groaned. (As did my stomach, as I still wanted breakfast.) Reluctantly I rang up work and said I'd be late in, as I felt obliged to walk around the field again to locate my phone. I am the luckiest girl alive to have very understanding work colleagues. I only hoped the phone hadn't fallen into too much mud! I left the dog in the utility room, pulled my wellies back on and trudged back to the field.

Retracing steps to look for something you have dropped is never a fun task, nor is it easy. Anything looking black or catching a glint of light might have been it. I took a stoical approach and decided not to be too concerned until I had looked at the far side of the field, where I thought it most likely to have fallen.

Taking a short-cut across the centre I felt the biting wind blow across and shoved my hands in my pocket, wishing that I'd put my gloves on. That reminded me that I'd left my gloves on the side in the utility room when I'd come in with the dog after our walk. And then I remembered that I'd put my phone down with them.

I stopped abruptly, considering my stupidity. I had a dilemma: go straight home and check, or walk around the field in case my memory was wrong. (After all, within 2 minutes of putting them down I'd forgotten that I'd left my phone with my gloves, so what hope had I of remembering correctly now?) I decided that I would curse even more if it had fallen out of my pocket, so hiked over to the other side, looked around half-heartedly, and returned home.

My tea was cold. My dog was confused. But my phone was safe and sound.

My only problem then was what to tell my work colleagues!

Red is for...

My son's move into secondary school has resulted in a new way of teaching, not least of which involves a whole new range of lessons - subjects that are touched on in primary school but are better dealt with when they've achieved the maturity (ahem!) of 11+.

The most exciting are the practical ones. Every fortnight there is cookery (or Food Tech, as they officially call it). To my surprise, everything so far has been edible. My husband and I even managed to finish off the rice salad, into which he had added slightly more curry powder than you would recommend. I asked him if he'd accidentally added a tablespoon rather than a teaspoon. "Oh no," he said, "I just took the pot and shook it..."

DT develops another batch of skills. I am full of hope for the demonstration of woodwork and metalwork skills, but the first item to come home was from plastic. He told me what they did.

1 Took a piece of plastic.
2 Sanded all the edges and rounded all the corners so that it was smooth.
3 Placed it on the machine, which heated it and then moulded it into the wavy shape.
4 Let it cool and added the stickers.
(To be fair to him, the stickers may have been added before the heating step!)

All very well and good. Look at the result:

Does anyone else think he's designed a communist flag?

Why is nothing as straightforward as it should be?

I always thought it would be easy.

When I started writing In the Shade of the Mulberry Tree, I thought it would just be a case of opening a Word document, thinking a bit about where to begin my story and then to start tapping the keys. Clearly all I would have to do was persist at that for a bit, then hand it to a nice publishing company, have it printed and - voila! I would be a best-selling, multi-millionaire author.

My first hurdle was the writing. It isn't quite as simple as just sitting down and doing it. That, in itself, requires discipline. Discipline is not something I am good at. I am easily distracted. I love lots of things. Tea and biscuits, for example. And, gradually, as I made friends and contacts in my new home, they were more enticing than retelling my story.

I am forever indebted to Debbie who listened patiently to my whinge about getting the book written before suggesting I set myself a target: 500 words a day. All of a sudden it was manageable. 500 words is just a couple of sides of A4. I could make enough time to sit down (with a cup of tea, of course) and write that. In fact, perhaps my target should be 1000 words?

So I revised a target, knowing I would be happy with half of it. And thus I was able to achieve, but also didn't feel a need to be down on myself when it went wrong. And I gave myself weekends off: writing time then was a bonus! (In fact, spending time with my wonderful husband and children was the bonus, and made all the writing mid-week worthwhile.)

Writing those final words of the final chapter was such an exhilarating feeling! I had accomplished something - I had followed it through to completion. There, in a few kilobytes of text, was a year of my life, written out for all to see.

Then I started reading it through and didn't like bits. And it was lumpy, with chapters of variable length - some many pages long, some just a couple of sides. And did it really flow together? Would anyone else truly be interested? The process of editing began in earnest.

Today is my private deadline for finishing editing. Well, actually, it will be tomorrow (you see, I like double deadlines so that I don't feel too bad when I fail the first!). If this book is to be published then I have to get it as good as I can at this moment in time. What is astonishing is how many spelling or grammatical mistakes there are that I must have overlooked all the other times I've read it through!

I am determined to meet this deadline despite the traumatic computer events of the last week. My old Mac Mini had died on a couple of occasions in the last month: the entire operating system crashed. I'm no technological expert, but I know that isn't good. So in the middle of last week the nice men at the Apple store did a data transfer to the new model for me.

In itself the change wasn't a problem, but the new Mac Mini (a) doesn't have the right connector to my old computer screen, so I am hitched up to the TV in a rather precarious fashion and (b) doesn't have Word on it (and won't accommodate my older version), so I am having a rapid lesson in Pages (Apple's equivalent).

As if that wasn't enough, over the weekend the computer decided not to communicate with my printer. Did anyone ever say life was supposed to be easy?

The Car Story, Part II: ...and In with the New

After the month that it has taken to get our old car collected and taken away it would be fair to think that we might be more lucky with the process to purchase a new car.

Wrong!

Well, a little bit right. It wasn't quite such a frustrating waste of my time. But only just!

About the same time as I was first arranging the collection of our old car, we paid the deposit on the new car. We were told that it was in transit and it was possible - though not probable - that it would be ready by the end of September. I would be phoned on Wednesday to confirm its arrival date.

Wednesday came...and went...

(This blog post is already sounding very familiar!)

During the succeeding two weeks I rang the garage repeatedly to check on its progress. Their policy (or so it appears) is to not respond to any phone calls made in the morning until at least 3.30pm, more usually 5.30pm. This I note as a frustration rather than a crisis.

Finally - finally! - the car got as far as Grimsby.

"It may be ready for you on Friday," I was told, "but definitely the following week."

Friday came...and went...

"It's on the loader tomorrow," I was told, "and here on Wednesday, so you can collect it on Friday."

This was reasonable, as I know they had to do a couple of things for it to be ready for us (not least of which was to fit a towbar!)

So I arrange to go in last Friday at midday to collect the car.

Now, how long do you expect it to take to collect a brand new car from a showroom?

At 2.15pm I was free to drive away.

That's right: 135 minutes of waiting. A few bits of form-filling, a lot of form-signing but mostly, mainly, a lot of waiting. And an awful cup of tea.

I think the 'hand-slams-into-forehead' moment was when, after over 90 minutes, I was given the car keys, only to have one set taken away so he could drive round the corner and fill it with fuel. Couldn't someone else have done that whilst I was ticking all the other administrative boxes?

Now don't get me wrong: the new car is fabulous! It is clean (I note the lack of dog hairs and wonder if our dog will ever get a walk again!) It is quiet, despite being another diesel engine. It is bigger, comfortable and delightfully shiny. I love her.

But it was as I drove home that I thought, I wasn't shown the towbar. Is it there?

My suspicions were not allayed when I stopped and looked underneath the rear bumper. I could see no evidence of any fitting. Another call to the garage.

"Just let me have a look," he said. A pause as he rifled through paperwork. "That's because it wasn't fitted," he said, and spent the next half hour arranging for a man to come out to fit it.

And the manager wondered why I hadn't ticked the box saying: Yes, I am completely satisfied.

The Car Story, Part I: Out with the old...

After three glorious years with our car the end of our lease contract loomed. In fact, it has been looming for the last six months but no amount of my nagging seemed to provide the time my husband needed at work to reorganise its replacement. Deadline approaching we made a decision to purchase our own - possibly financially worse, but better than being without a car for at least 3-6 months while a new one was located.

So, mid-September I rang the leasing company and arranged to have our beloved Fabia taken away.

"What day would you like?" she asked.

"Monday? In the morning?"

"Fine." She checked my home address (rather than husband's hospital) and all was sorted.

Monday morning came...and went... 

In the afternoon I gave her another ring.

"But it's booked in for tomorrow morning, collecting from the hospital," she said.

"But that's not what we arranged!"

At this point there was, of course, a bit of a stand-off, as I knew I hadn't agreed to that (my husband has clinics all morning so I'd never have arranged something that would interrupt them!) She was adamant this was how it was planned and with a big sigh said, "So, are you wanting to rearrange it?"

"Of course I am!" I blustered, and suggested that we tried again the following Monday morning.

"No problem," she said, again checking my home address.

Monday morning came...and went...

This time, when I rang, the girl on the phone had no record of the car being due to be picked up at all. This despite us having received an email from them during the week charging us £84 for rearranging the collection date. (I know! We were being charged for them not turning up on the date they had agreed to originally!)

The week came...and went...

Eventually we got an email specifying a date (last Thursday) when the car would be collected. Would we prefer AM or PM? After 1.30pm, I respond.

Imagine my consternation when I found a message on the answerphone on Wednesday afternoon asking me to call about the collection. It was another company again clarifying the time of collection.

"Between 9 and 6?" he said.

"Erm...no - I'd said after 1.30pm?"

Grumble, grumble. Ok. "And collection address: Stafford?"

"Definitely not!" and proceeded to tell him our own address. Stafford is not even the hospital address. Just don't ask.

So, late Wednesday afternoon I am rearranging a company's schedule to involve possibly an extra 2-3 hours of driving in order to pick up our car. I wasn't placing money on their third attempt to collect it.

Thursday afternoon came...and went...

Surprise, surprise. But - to be fair - when I rang up this time the lady was profusely apologetic, realising that what she had on her screen had not been transferred to their driver's screen and thus he'd gone to Stafford.

I hope he enjoyed his day out!

Furthermore, within 10 minutes the lady's manager rang me to arrange whatever time I wished for the car collection, explaining again the error that had occurred.

This morning... they came!

Early!

(That bit wasn't so good. It's half-term and I'd anticipated more of a lie-in!)

And so, with regret, I watched my car being taken away before 9am. It has done us so well over the last three years, being super-economical and totally reliable. Had we been renewing a lease contract we would have got the same type of car again, but instead we have a new car to last us until my son learns to drive - a scary prospect on many levels!

The Old Car story would have been over at this point...but whilst I was out and about this morning I received a call on my mobile.

"I'm calling to arrange the delivery of your car," he said, quoting the registration number...

Water, water everywhere

We have a history of water disasters in the home.

In our first house the entire kitchen had to be ripped out due to damp in the kitchen, presumably from a persistent drip that had been going on for years.

In our second house we woke up one morning to find water pouring through the bedroom ceiling all along the front of the house. A new roof didn't solve that problem: heavy rain gathered in a front gully and something, somewhere wasn't watertight.

In our third house when the plumber assured me he'd fitted the new radiator correctly it then leaked as soon as the heating was getting going, pouring water through to the room below.

In Zambia we had problems with lack of water, but that wasn't the house's fault. Termites eating through the ceiling was the issue there! Nor did we have problems in our rented houses.

Our current home? Despite being renovated from top to toe, an entirely new plumbing system fitted and everything being (ahem!) perfect two years ago, we have one window that leaks badly when it rains heavily; another where there is damp above the window cill and - the pièce de résistance - last week it appears that emptying my bath didn't go down a pipe but through the ceiling.

Not a happy bunny.

Amusingly, when I came down for breakfast in the morning, my son had no awareness of the dining table being covered in water, everything sodden and sticking to the mat, and was happily playing games on the laptop surrounded by this water disaster. Briefly I held onto the hope that he'd just knocked over a jug of water, but looking up to the ceiling was the tell-tale sign of a yellowy-brown streak just where my bath is upstairs. How the laptop escaped the deluge I have no idea!

Still, as they say, worse things happen at sea!

If you need a job done...

... do it yourself. This is what motherhood really means now.

Before Easter, in a moment of forward planning, I booked a babysitter for tonight.

Last weekend I pointed out to my husband that he might like some time alone with his children to go shopping. "Uh?" he says.

Last night I suggested to him that I took the dog for a walk round the block before going to bed. "Why?" he asks. "Don't you need the paper, scissors and tape before tomorrow?" I reply.

This morning I elbowed him viciously in the ribs. "Don't you need to get the children up before you go to work?" To be fair, they weren't too happy with this pre-7am wakening!

Finally, before my husband left to catch the train, the decision was made to go out for dinner tonight...though I am left with the job of finding a restaurant and booking a table.

My birthday presents were two saucepans ("with lids," as my daughter keenly pointed out), a whisk and some kitchen scales. I guess I know my place! 

Poppy puppy progress

The weeks fly by in a mad, manic rush, so apologies for the tardiness in writing a blog post. I blame the dog.

In four weeks of ownership, what has happened?

Sleepless nights: the dog chose to start barking at 3.30am one night. She didn't quieten for long when I went to see her so I went down a second time. Then the smell hit me, and I had to open the door to let her out whilst I cleaned up the mess. But of course it is cold outside and neither she nor I wanted to go out. So puppy and mess and me in the utility room with door wide open: not a good start to the day.

Mess: toilet training has involved a lot of mopping up. Despite the previous paragraph, she is usually dry overnight (wahey!) and the sunny weather has meant she has been outside a lot, but the minute someone comes to visit she gets very excited. Very excited. So I mop up more damp patches and apologise to everyone for her (a) waving her tail in the liquid and then (b) wagging the wet tail with vigour...

Chewing: I fear this is only at the beginning of the phase, but paper does appear to be a favourite. This doesn't help much with the toilet training, given we leave out newspaper for her to go on! It didn't do much for last night's bible study notes either, and my daughter wasn't too chuffed with the loss of her work of art.

Walking: What a battle! She is excited when she sees the lead picked up (but see the note on mess and excitement...) and then spends the whole walk sniffing at every tree and lamppost and cigarette packet and leaf. Yanked along she'll eventually be persuaded to walk beside me, then gets a sniff of something new and practically pulls my arm out of its socket as she rushes to reach it. A tug-of-war push/pull fight to the end.

Eating: this she does a lot, but I'm trying not to let my husband know that I had to replant his row of box hedge plants (gosh, I hope they still grow: I'm not the gardener in the family!)

And yet...
She is good at sitting.
She is patient with children, loving being petted.
She rarely jumps up.
She doesn't bark much.
She can be bribed with a cube of cheese.
She is gorgeous.

Marital incompatibility

I am reading Island of Wings by Karin Altenberg at the moment. It is the tale of a woman who goes with her husband (a Scottish presbyterian minister) to live in St Kilda's, Britain's most remote island. Set in the 1830s it tells a tale of primitive living in a bleak place. In contrast, my husband is reading Spud - Learning to Fly by John van de Ruit, the third book in the Spud series. It was my Valentine's gift to him: given we both loved the first two books it was a fairly safe bet.

The other evening we were lying in bed reading our respective novels. I was contemplating what life must have been like for this poor woman, on a cold bleak island in the middle of nowhere (quite literally). What would it look like: the crags, the scrubby grassland, the lack of trees?

*chortle, chortle*
My husband is enjoying his book.

I return to the isolation of the minister's wife. She can't speak a word of Gaelic. Why doesn't her husband try to teach her a few simple words to let her communicate with the natives? Surely she would be more content if she had others to talk to; someone other than her husband, who is solely focussed on his mission to save the islanders' souls?

*chuckle, laugh*
I give my husband a look. He straightens his face and returns to reading.

My heroine is pregnant... and now she chooses to go for a walk up the hill. Her husband doesn't think this is safe. Can he be right? I read on, anticipating the worst. She slips, she falls, she...

*raucous guffaw*
The bed shakes with my husband's laughter. "Sorry," he says, but can't hold the laughter in as he returns to his book.

For me, I read of inevitable loss, of the husband taking control in a tragic situation, of him naming and disposing of the baby before she wakes up. I read of the woman's meek submission to her husband's will.

*more laughter*

I give up reading. Sometimes you have to recognise you aren't going to win.

(I'll let you know how good the book is if I am ever given the space to finish it!)

Too busy for words

There are some weeks when I look at the diary and go...

Urrgghh!

or

Yer WHAT?!

or

And I'm supposed to breathe... when?

At least, after this weekend's endeavours, I'm not going to run out of marmalade.

When housepride flies out of the window (again)

I don't claim to keep the cleanest house in the world. In fact, I may be competing for messiest at the moment. There is paperwork everywhere, Christmas stuff lying around and general chaos. I tell myself that this is all part of the tidying up, part of making the house look better, but somehow that 'better' never arrives.

Despite my untidiness, this discovery when cleaning the kitchen floor (you see, I do some cleaning!) was rather a shock.

How did he get into my kitchen?

*runs off to check seals on back door!*

Read the label

It is a well-known fact in our house that nothing stays in the same place for long. Pick it up ... walk around ... put it down ... go somewhere else ... can't possibly find the object ever again. The biggest culprit? My husband.

So it was with my kitchen scissors. To cut a long story short (ahem!) my husband lost them.

I've learnt over the years to show a little generosity of spirit about such things, a little patience, to give it all a bit of time. After all, who knows when something may turn up (just as you put down the forms for the school trip, or the music for the trombone exam, or you favourite pen...) Eventually most items reappear.

But after nearly two months without the kitchen scissors (yes, I improvised a lot using sharp knives) I gave in and purchased a new pair - not least because I wasn't quite sure how I was going to wrap the Christmas presents.

I buy new kitchen scissors. I get them home. I read the packaging.

Remove packaging and cut tie before use

Now just how am I supposed to do that?!

The Coco Pops effect

We have a family tradition that when it is your birthday, you can choose a new breakfast cereal to have.

This doesn't sound like much of a treat, I know, but it truly is something to look forward to. The rest of the year we eat Weetabix. Or Cornflakes, Rice Crispies, Muesli or Bran Flakes. Nothing very exciting; high in fibre and (most importantly) low in chocolate and sugar.

Once a year, we each get to choose Choco Hoops or Frosties or Coco Pops or Crunchy Nut or... blimey, I'm almost salivating at the thought!

So imagine the scene when my daughter came downstairs (late!) for breakfast and discovered an empty box. It had been her birthday: her choice. "What's happened to all the-?" she whined.

My son stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth. We all knew the guilty culprit. Before I could say anything he said, "I'll go and sit at the bottom of the stairs."

And he did!

Now that's the most effective parental discipline I've had for a long time!

In which I notice a big change

Sometimes you know that the season has changed.

It could be the colours of the leaves on the tree: the bright green buds of spring or the russets of autumn. 

It could be the produce of the land: glorious flowers in the summer or barren earth in winter.

It could be the TV schedule: the return of Strictly, X-factor and Merlin from September or the plethora of sport in June and July.

Or you could be me. 

I know that winter is coming. 

Today I had to wear socks.

I am not tired and I will not go to bed!

So, it is late. The children have been put to bed, stories read and sleep beckons.

I decide to have a bath - my husband's still not home from work, so I figure I could take my time, read a book, relax.

All seems right with the world.

After a while, who appears at the door but my Son, clinging to his teddies, rubbing his eyes, hair all askew.

"I can't get to sleep," he says. "I've tried every position possible on my bed."

Now, I'm not feeling very sympathetic (it is late, he's clearly tired - just sleep!!) He's interrupted my novel and I'm a little vulnerable, being as I am in the bath. And I don't really want to have to get out to deal with him. This is my justification for my next, fatuous remark.

"Have you tried sleeping on your head?"

It does stop him in his tracks.

"No," he says, looking at me as if I am mad. Perhaps I am.

"It's probably not a very good idea," I say. "After all, when you do fall asleep, you'll just fall down and that will probably wake you up and you'll be back to square one."

He laughs, in that way children do when they know their parents are both right and completely bonkers. And with that he sits down on the bathroom floor with his teddies. Then he lies down on the bath mat.

I figure, if he can't sleep, a few minutes lying on my tiled bathroom floor won't make any difference. I'll finish my chapter then deal with him. But I don't get to the end of my chapter before my next interruption: my husband comes home from work.

He walks in, grins at me, then gawps at my Son. At this point I sit up and take notice. Peering over the edge, I see him in all his childlike glory: fast asleep. For a mother, I suspect, there is nothing more beautiful than their children in peaceful repose, clutching their teddies or dolls, far away in the land of nod.

But he is on my bathmat, and I do have to get out of the bath sometime. Reluctantly we wake him and take him to bed. This time, thankfully, he falls asleep quickly in the proper place (head on pillow!)

Something funny happened in the car park

So, there I am, chatting with my friend.

I hear my son sigh just by typing that sentence. He was at school, so not a witness to this event. I'd only popped to the shops to drop off some dry-cleaning and my friend happened to be doing something similar, and the sun was shining, and we just stopped to chat. Just next to my car. Nothing important, nothing to write home about.

Anyway, as we are chatting I notice the car opposite beginning to reverse.

Fine. It was reversing towards us.

Also fine.

Except it kept going. Slowly, but nevertheless in our direction.

As we realised it was about to hit us several things happened.

1  We each took a step out of the way (really, we are quite intelligent women!)

2  My friend, who was more in the firing line so-to-speak, hit the back of the car to indicate to the driver that he/she should stop - quickly - before hitting the car next to mine.

3  I looked to tap the driver's window and screamed, "Aaargh!!! There's no-one in it!"

The car was driving itself. Or, more accurately, rolling gently.

Thankfully the incline in the car-park is negligible so it just rolled to a halt without hitting anything or anyone.

But it was now in our way. (Well, mine. I was, despite my protracted conversation, about to leave and a rogue car blocking my exit was not in my plan.)

We stood there and scratched our heads for a while. We got abuse from drivers entering the car-park for being 'women drivers' - this really riled me. It was not my car, I was not responsible, I was having to delay my departure as we worked out what to do. I didn't need prejudicial assumptions laid at my feet.

The long part of the story is that we went to the local row of shops to see whose car it was and get messages put out on the tannoy. The shorter part is that we noticed a poster in the back of the car and rang the number - and got the owner (who was in one of the shops, but ignoring our dash around pleading for them to move their car!)

Irritatingly (given the verbal abuse I'd taken) it was a woman who hadn't put on the handbrake.

All's well that ends well. How and why the car started moving I have no idea. No-one was hurt, no damage done. The poor woman who rushed back in a fluster was about to get teased mercilessly by her accompanying husband.

And I left with a delightful and slightly bewildering tale to tell.

Lost

Early morning, and I go into my daughter's room to wake her. I find her sat on her bed, motionless, morose. Rather than my usual chirpy morning routine I am flooded with concern. Something must be wrong.

"Are you ok?" I ask.

"I've lost Doris," she croaks.

I'm not sure I've heard her correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"I've lost Doris."

Presumably Doris is one of the vast array of dolls and soft toys that take over the bed. It isn't a name I recall but I could name most of the ones I can see, so maybe she is lost.

"Doris?" I query.

Her voice is fading, hoarse and raspy. "My card," she explains.

A light switches on. All becomes clear in my mind as I remember the Moshi Monster cards that are so precious to her and the joy of the previous day's acquisition.

She looks at me, all forlorn, for her world is falling apart.

"And I've lost my voice," she whispers and bursts into tears.

Why is it, at these tender moments, all I want to do is laugh?

(For info, both Doris and voice have been recovered!)

You know you are getting old when...

... you find a piece of tooth in your mouth when eating nothing more innocuous than a cheese-and-marmalade sandwich, and then your dentist says, 'teeth become brittle after the age of 35...'

... when watching a Yorkshire cricket match you note that the first match recorded in your scorebook featured the fathers of two of the current players (Bairstow and Sidebottom, in case you're interested; Yorks v Kent 1979...)

... your son comments on how your shoes are old-fashioned ...

... you remember Now that's what I call music (number free; the first) being released and your children (with Now 78) are confused as they thought one came out every year ...

... the gentleman opposite on the train asks if the two young children you are with (my nephew and niece, taking them home) are your grandchildren...

*reaching for my zimmer-frame*

What happens when he grows up?

This week my son went on a school residential for three days ... and I went all weepy.

I don't know why. My children have stayed away from home on many occasions during their lives - in the early years with grandparents, or with aunts and uncles. They have never had separation anxiety and neither, really, have I. Knowing that you fully trust the people they are with (and having my own self-doubts at being anything like a good mother so expecting that they'll do it better anyway) has enabled me to let them go.

And it isn't even his first school residential trip. I wasn't like this last year!

So, I have a list of things to blame.

1. Too much alcohol the night before.
2. Too little sleep (same evening - possibly probably related!)
3. His goodbye was an over-the-shoulder 'Bye Mum!' - no hug or kiss or hint of sadness.
4. I suddenly realised he's growing up.

He's growing up, and one day he'll leave home. Probably in about 8 years. This is less than the length of time I've already spent with him! Panic about him fleeing the nest has set in and I haven't even reached the horrors of teenage years yet! The house will be so quiet: No elephants jumping down the stairs. No conflicting volume control fights with TV/computer and sister in same room. No 'Can I play on your phone?' arguments. No screams from his sister when he hits her. No trombone practice. And, for me, no school pick-up and longer days and time to myself.

Calming down a little, I can also rationalise that when I've experienced the teens I might be much happier about him leaving home...

Curling up

Son wants long hair.

To be fair, he has had it quite long for the last year or two. I think he wanted to have hair like our friends' son's, who came to babysit at our old house. He was a mini-god in my son's eyes!

Unfortunately, our babysitter had straight, dark hair. His cut was very Beatles-esque: clearly stylish, well-kept. My 10-year-old Son's original blonde has darkened over the years. His hair suffers from running around, never being washed (unless under force and duress) and general boy behaviour.

But none of that would matter. His biggest problem is that he has inherited his father's curls.

Now, to look at his father you would never think he had curls. His preferred cut is a number 3 all over (or perhaps a number 2). His problem is hair loss, not hair gain.

But Son has curls, and the longer the hair gets the more noticeable they are. It makes the hair stick out at funny angles and, in the morning, is quite wild. They aren't ringlets (like Ryan Sidebottom, pictured above) nor are they tight Afro, but they are not loose enough just to hang in a wave.

We tolerate the lengthening hair well. No, I lie. I tolerate it well. My husband hates it and is longing to give him a number 3 all over (or, as a concession, a number 4!)

And so it was with trepidation that I sent them to the hairdressers together on Saturday. I fear my husband dictating the style. My more laid-back approach is that my Son is the one who has to live with it, be ridiculed at school or get frustrated by its mess. If this is his rebellion against his parents then I can cope with it! (I am dreading teenage years...)

Back to Saturday. Apparently the girl looked at my son and said, "We've got to get rid of these curls!"

A few snips later and he has a lovely, smart haircut. Curl-free.

But short.

Son doesn't like it.

It isn't as short as his father would like, but the length at the back has gone. On top there is still some volume and I can't deny that he looks great. So I tell him that, and reassure him that his hair will grow again.

Then I wonder. There's my son: losing his curls. And here am I: contemplating getting them put in.

Why are we never satisfied with what we have?

Photograph: Stu Forster/Getty Images