What you missed in September

When we lived in Zambia I used to write a letter home every month summarising what we had done and experienced. Given the last month's blog-void and life-rollercoaster I thought it was time for a quick revival.

Dear blog,

The last month has rolled past with barely a moment to catch our collective breaths. It turns out that working part-time, two mornings a week, can take up so much of your life that there is no time for blogging. This is not good, but it is exacerbated by the extra hours I've had to work in order to sort one particular client's accounts out. I'd rather not.

September 2012 has brought about one of those moments when you know you are getting older, moving on to the next phase in life. My first-born, son and eldest child (one person!) has started secondary school. He's taken the change completely in his stride. His mother was much more of a mess, worrying about her baby amongst all the big kids. Still - there is nothing quite like distraction (see paragraph 1!) to take one's mind off the big life-changes. I have dutifully taken photos in the front garden of the boy drowned by blazer and trousers that are a couple of inches too long.

His aunt commented on his hair ("he's going to love that photo when he's older!") ... which leads us into the other life-changing event of the month: haircuts. My son's mop was in desperate need of a trim and so, in a moment of despair that I would ever drag him to the hairdressers, I set up shop at home. (This means I sat him on a chair in front of the mirror in my bedroom and attacked him with the scissors.) He wants long hair, but the natural curls prevent it lying beautifully and it grows into a ball of chaos. Now I've cut it to be something approximating smart.

If his hair was a trauma it was nothing compared to my daughter's. She too wanted long hair and over the last year or two it has steadily grown down to shoulder length. When washed and heavily conditioned it looked beautiful, but every morning there were horrific knots which resulted in screaming and agony as I tried to brush it. I kept telling her the only solution was to shut up or cut it short. Astonishingly, she decided one day to cut it. Not believing her I left it 48 hours before sitting her in my (bedroom) hair salon. With many a deep breath I cut her a short bob - probably 15cm of hair falling to the floor. She looks so much more grown up, and best of all there are no morning tantrums any more!

Other childish events? I tried to organise a sleepover for my son's birthday party (in advance of his December birthday) and failed. I am planning my daughter's 10th birthday party, which is causing me marginally less stress...so far... I've also been to-and-fro to hospital appointments for her incontinence issues and met up with teachers, classroom assistants and speech & language therapists.

Perhaps the biggest time consumer has also consumed the most money. After three years the lease on our car has expired. If my husband didn't work such long hours he might have got round to ordering a new lease car through work but, as it became apparent that wasn't going to happen in a reasonable timescale, I decided that we'd have to bite the bullet and buy a new one. So we have - or at least it is ordered. I have to reassure myself that it is a great offer, a good deal, and we haven't been sucked in by the car salesman.

To add to the financial stress my husband has decided to invest in a trailer tent. Long-term this will be fantastic. Already the children are planning our holidays in Holland and France (Modern Languages week at school has set my daughter's imagination rolling!) but I have never driven a car with a trailer on. Lots more deep breaths and telling myself that it will all be ok! I'm praying for a glorious hot, sunny summer in the UK next year!

Both car and tent took up weekends of family time and hours of analysis (Can we justify the expense? Is this the right way forward? Will my son's 6ft tall rugby-playing friends squeeze in the car in 3 years' time?) but I am hopeful that we have made good decisions for the family as a whole.

Throw in some grandparents visiting, church responsibilities, orchestra practices, swimming lessons, dentist appointments and puppy training and you've jammed September about as full as is technically possible whilst still allowing time to sleep. Well, doze lightly.

Roll on October. After all, it must be quieter. Mustn't it?

xx

Mud, mud, glorious mud!

Last weekend we went with friends to the Greenbelt Festival at Cheltenham, camping on the edge of the racecourse and being entertained by top quality acts.

It rained on the Saturday. A lot. In fact, there were hailstones.

Thankfully at this point I was safely inside a cafe, then queueing to hear Simon Mayo talk about his new book, Itch. Simon gave an entertaining talk and then was marvellous in his interaction with the children as they asked a million varied questions. Yes: we were first to hear about the book 'Itch goes to the zoo' (erm...an unlikely sequel involving exploding elephants!) The most hilarious moment was the build up for the final boy to ask a question - only for him to ask where he could buy the book.

The tent survived the rain. My son's friend's book didn't.

On Sunday the sun came out ... for a short while ... then it became apparent that Rain + Racecourse = Mud. By the evening I gave up on wearing my crocs and walked barefoot through it: it came over my ankles in certain parts. Still, you should feel more sorry for the earthworms, whose bodies littered the field.

Monday was forecast more rain, so striking camp was done first thing. We stayed to hear Folk On, who were magnificent, as you can tell from this recording. I know, it is from 2011, but our main stage experience included this song with many of the same jokes! We were doubled over with laughter for an hour, and laughter is the best medicine for many ailments. (Especially mud.)

The rest of the weekend was filled with buying books and CDs, singing with The Wild Goose Collective, listening to Frank Skinner (whilst water dripped through the seam at the apex of the Big Top...) and bopping along to The Proclaimers. The heavens opened again whilst we watched some impro that had 5* ratings from the Edinburgh Festival Fringe on Monday afternoon, and with that we decided to wend our way home.

Combining the last two posts... we present the Zoolympics-tathlon

Over lunch today the family discussed a new modern pentathlon to introduce to the Olympics. My husband was keen to find something that my son could participate in when old enough (let alone my daughter, though she was singularly uninterested in the conversation).

"What sports can we include that involve sitting down?" my husband asked, noting that those are the ones the Brits seem to be good at. Of course, we couldn't possibly include anything that is already used - that would be far too dull and boring.

"Donkeys!" he exclaimed. "We could race donkeys. Better still - onagars!"

We saw these at the zoo. They are donkeys that are faster than horses, and nigh on extinct in the wild.

"Or camels," my son chipped in.

"What about ostriches?" I asked, remembering the lovely photo of my father-in-law riding one in South Africa.

And thus the zoolympic-tathalon was created. It involves racing onagars, camels and ostriches, then some target-shooting from the back of an elephant (or a tortoise, but the elephant would probably cover the distance quicker!) Of course, some suggestions have to be discounted. Bashing the meerkats with a mallet as they stick their heads up of out of the ground is simply cruel...

I guess very few schools would have the facilities to house all the animals required, so it may prove something of an elite sport!

(I think we may have become a little over-excited by TeamGB's medals success!)

We all went to the zoo...

It's summer; it's the holidays; it is time to indulge in days out.

So we went to the zoo.

Rhinoceros

I can't quite decide what I think about zoos. Is it right to keep animals like that, in unnatural surroundings? The first animals we saw were the elephants (my favourite) who were roaming around a dry mud pen. All I could think of were the elephants I have seen in the wild: in Ghana, where I heard them first charging down the hill breaking trees as they went; and in Zambia, where they frolicked in the river and wandered through local villages. There they lived in green, luscious land, covered in trees and vegetation and with lots of space to roam.

Is it right to keep them in a zoo?

Then again, at Chester Zoo (which was where we went!) they invest a lot in local conservationists, people who give their lives to providing the right environment for animals to prevent extinction. A lot of the animals we saw are endangered or threatened, and there is an argument that keeping them in a zoo means that we don't lose that genetic gene pool.

Surely it is right to breed these in a zoo?

Whatever the arguments, I still love seeing animals moving and prowling. My daughter and I were fortunate to see the jaguars whilst my husband and son were still inside (tee hee!), and spotting the cheetahs was a delight. The lions were stalking their cage, yawning and stretching before settling down for an afternoon snooze. The butterfly house was a delight: the colours, the lightness and the joy of seeing so many fluttering around our bodies.

But the biggest surprise relates again to our Zambian experience. It took us nearly a week's holiday in Kasanka National Park before one of the guides pointed out a sitatunga antelope to us. We saw its head poking above the marshy grass from miles away (or so it felt: the only real sighting of it was through binoculars). We were elated to have seen such a rare breed of antelope! Yet at the zoo: there was a field full of them. Not much marshland for a marsh-dwelling animal, but nevertheless a field-ful. My husband and I were delighted by them (unlike our children, who were more excited by the zebra on the other side!)

Sitatunga antelope

It was a fantastic day out: a day in glorious sunshine was just what the family needed! And even inspired my writing gene, as I was reminded of the children's story that lurks at the back of my mind involving some of these...

Flamingoes

Maybe now I'll get round to writing it!

It's not the taking part that counts...

Yesterday I reluctantly decided to support my son's decision to be outside (YES! without a small screen inches from his eyes!) and went to join in a family game of football in the back garden. Football is not a sport I excel at. Or even know much about. I was secretly praying for the rains to come...would you believe it! They didn't!

None of my family are very good at football, but we are competitive. There is no way I was going to let my husband win if I could help it.

My son decided on the goals: ours was a fence panel; my husband and daughter aimed for 'the wall between the windows'. My heart lost a beat every time they attempted a shot at goal.

My husband would get the ball, then my daughter would shout, 'Pass!' and tackle it from him. We had to explain that 'passing' meant actually kicking the ball to another player.

Due to an extremely muddy walk with the dog earlier on I only had my best shoes to wear. I slipped and slid all around inside them. Occasionally I could co-ordinate enough to kick the ball, though usually to a rather grateful husband rather than my teammate son.

Well, the game ended when my latest husband's tackle (grabbing my arm and holding me back) meant I fell to the ground in agony, having strained some muscle in my shoulder. That's not where you're supposed to get injuries in a football game, is it?

Never mind. Whilst I was lying on the grass in extreme pain my son took the ball and scored repeated goals against our fence panel. So we won!

And that's what counts, right?

And the answer is...

Here is a bigger clue to our recent holiday:

Two weeks on a canal boat, puttering around the Four Counties Ring. These photos were taken on the Shropshire Union Canal section, when we still had sunshine (even if we could hardly see it for the trees towering up the cuttings!) This was a particularly unusual, double-arched bridge.

Canal boating seems to bring up nothing but adventurous stories, which I hope to write up and regale you with over the coming weeks. Ironic how many stories there can be, given you slow down to 3mph!

Truly, for us, it was just what the doctor ordered, allowing us to sleep and rest, to talk (often without the children, as they played games together inside the boat) and to see some of the most beautiful countryside. The rain at the end of the second week put a dampener (ahem!) on things, making us all a little miserable as we battled with our 15th lock of the day...

I've asked the children if they'd like to go again. No response.
My husband and I? Back like a shot!
Does that reflect well or badly on our individual paces of life?

And, for the record, my son's response when asked what the best bit of the holiday was?

"Trying out two new types of Magnum ice-cream!"

We could have done that at home!

Why I am avoiding Mother's Day

Every year Mother's Day is a problem for me and - simply put - it is because I don't have one. At least, not any more.

Perhaps if my mother had died at an 'expected' age it wouldn't matter to me so much. But I was 16, beginning my A-levels and all I think about is that she hasn't been there to share in so much of my life - going to University, graduating, meeting boyfriends, buying a house, getting married, having children (oh, that most of all).

Each year it hits me that I am now supposed to revel in this day. It is a precious time when motherhood is celebrated. As a mother, it is supposed to be the best day of all, when I get treated and pampered and might get away without doing any ironing (ha!).

I am supposed to love my children bestowing me with gifts (invariably a seedling in a pot, that I shall spend many tender weeks killing). Yet I know my children love me. Just the other day, on the way back from swimming lesson and totally unprompted, my daughter tenderly stretched her hand over to me as I was driving and said, "I love you mummy," with a big smile on her face. I am blessed by many smiles and cuddles from both my children, so the 'special day' is not necessary. After all, it is far better to be loved all year round than to have a bunch of flowers delivered by Interflora once a year.

Building on that, other things niggle.
Why are flowers more expensive now than they will be next week? Oh yes, supply and demand. I'll happily have mine when they're cheaper!
As a churchgoer, my church gives a few daffodils to every woman in the congregation. Why? They are not all mothers. It would make more sense to give them to everyone who has a mother. (Or perhaps just to those who have lost a mother?)
I have noticed that I am asked to lead Mother's Day services. Because I am middle-aged and a mother it is presumed that I am the right person. Might it not be better coming from a man who appreciates what his mother/wife have done?
Even having a quiet lunch out is unpleasant because everything is labelled for Mother's Day, tends to be more expensive than normal, and I am surrounded by generations of mothers.

I know: some of these are blocks and walls that I have built up. But, as with all things, it is wise to see the other side of the coin; to remember that there are some who are going to find the day difficult. Think of the mothers of the children killed or injured in the bus crash in Switzerland on Tuesday night. Think of those whose mother has dementia and doesn't recognise them when they visit. Think of those who've recently been bereaved. Think of those whose mothers are alcholics, drug-abusers, prostitutes, abusive, a poor role-model. In that way, you can celebrate motherhood with compassion. For undoubtedly mothers are the hardest working people on the planet, which is why they are worth appreciating.

And me? I am going away for the weekend, leaving my husband to look after the kids and giving myself some space to write. Now if that isn't a treat, I don't know what is!

(And I'm going to eat the chocolate my daughter decorated for me this year!)

A new addition to the family

As with most things, I give in to my children.

For ages they have been wanting a sibling (one wants a brother, the other wants a sister!) They also nag me endlessly about iPad, iPod Touch, iPhone, Kinnect and other technologies. So far, I have resisted. (Well, a combination of me, my sanity and my bank balance, depending on which option you choose!) In practice, I have given in to this:

Welcome Poppy!

Two days in and she is very much part of our family, although I haven't a clue what I am doing most of the time! She is, evidently, gorgeous and so it is easy to give in to her. At nearly 4 months she is quite old for coming to a new house but that also means that she is further on in her training than other puppies are. She is an all-consuming distraction from what I'm supposed to be doing - be it writing or children or meetings or whatever. She has slept well since arriving (two nights!) but really wants a lot more attention in the mornings than I am able to give her. And our adventure to walk to the post box yesterday only got as far as the neighbours' gate!

The name caused much debate. My husband and I wanted 'Pepper' but - as you can tell - we gave in to our children's preference. Surely taking ownership like this means they'll be delighted to walk her as she gets older. No? Me still?

A little late...

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Yes, yes: I know my greeting is a little late, on both counts but my excuses are many.

1. It is still the season of Christmas (up to and including, I believe, Twelfth Night or Epiphany, when the celebration of the arrival of the Wise Men concludes the Christmas story). On this ground, I am not (yet) late in wishing you a Merry Christmas.
2. We may be a few days in, but I still hope that the rest of 2012 is good for you. Indeed, this year we have an extra day to celebrate in.
3. Who really gets time to blog in the run-up to and during the festive season itself? (Oh yes: those who are more organised than me. Oops.)

To maintain that festive mood, here are two photos of the Withenay family Christmas. Firstly, the tree.

(It looked even better with the presents under it.)

And then a picture taken in the garden a couple of days before.

Isn't it great to see the beginning of Spring before you've roasted the turkey or brought lumps of coal to people's houses? What topsy-turvy weather we have been having!

So, to reassure all my lovely blogging friends, I haven't disappeared off the face of the earth. We have had a lovely family Christmas, full of good food, parties, games, fun with friends and wonderful presents. Celebrations may now be over as school and work resume their humdrum routine but it will be a year of many happy memories.

I'd love to say that I have a list of marvellous, virtuous New Year Resolutions, but I haven't. Last year I managed a month which (on past form) isn't bad. If I can myself, my house and (spot where this all falls apart) my family a little more organised, that will suit me fine.

Here's hoping God richly blesses your year ahead, filling it with love, joy and peace.

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!)

The one where I learnt new things

Family holidays actually force us to live together for a fortnight. In the humdrum routine of life, we pass by, rush around, seek our own space and generally only talk about what we need to. Holiday allows us to unwind and (sometimes) talk, and in so-doing we learn new things about each other. Here is what I have learnt.

... about my husband ...

He has a passion for fish finger sandwiches.
Where did that come from? Thirteen years of marriage and I discover that we have to experience this culinary delight. Supplemented by a healthy portion of chips and tomato ketchup, Sunday lunch was a whole new experience for us.

When he says he doesn't like slides, don't believe him. 
I spent half our time at Duinrell holding his glasses so that he could try all the water slides. And when he says he doesn't like all the thrill rides, don't believe that either. The water slides were of increasing intensity (dark, steep, fast) and then outside it was he who rushed to go with our son on the wildest rollercoasters. Meanwhile, my daughter and I watched, waited and munched our way through a packet of sweets.

... about my children ...

They actually get on very well.
All the months at home when they whinge and whine, tell takes, thump, hit, fight ... and yet on holiday they can quietly play cards together, help each other set out clock patience and invent new games between themselves. Something, somewhere, is actually working correctly in this dragging up of children.

... about myself ...

I get too tense going on holiday.
When my son said on day 3 that I was really unpleasant, I had to pull myself in check. The adaptation to a new place, the stress of having everything in place (food, car, the final night in an as yet unknown location) was making me tetchy and liable to snap. Son objected - and rightly so. I think - I hope! - I improved after that. We're still talking to each other at any rate!

... about the Dutch ...

They are, on average, the tallest people in the world.
Incredible fact I was told. In our flat, when I sat on the toilet my feet didn't touch the floor. It must have been like mountaineering for my children! They couldn't see in the mirrors at all and none of us attempted to get crockery or glasses from the top shelves. At the Space Expo, I had to lift the children up for them to see through the peepholes at the planets. There was one I couldn't see in myself. I consider my 5' 4" a fairly average height for a female so I don't think we can base this on my diminutive stature. What makes the Dutch so tall? Milk and dairy products? Sun and fresh air? Cycling? Who knows!

To end my holiday week blog, a childish joke. I don't know any about The Netherlands, but I do know one about cows and, given their export of the black and white friesian cow to the rest of the world, it is a small tribute to one of their greatest (and smelliest) assets. (And my children taught me it, of course.)

Why do cows wear bells?

Because their horns don't work.

Photo: (c) The University of Waikato 

The one with the graffiti and moonwalk

Little did I know, when I set off on holiday, that the place we were staying was known for its graffiti culture.

Graffiti is illegal and in order to limit the amount around town a 32m long wall was built, known as the 'Wall of Fame'. This is re-painted every year by a collective of graffiti artists known as 'Ga legaal' and is next to a similarly vibrantly decorated skateboard park. Other art is produced around town during certain festivals and for special occasions - and it would be fair to say I saw very little evidence of graffiti anywhere other than by this skateboard park.

Sometimes I am astonished by how life all comes together, particularly when I don't plan it at all. This term my son's topic at school is "Cool stuff" and they started by looking at (you've guessed it) graffiti. They have progressed through spies and onto skateboarding (this week's homework was to create a scale model of a ramp for a skateboard park: I think I made a jolly good job of it...!!)

 Personally I find graffiti a form of art, when it is not simply destructive, rude or obscene - or misspelt (that really bugs me!). So it was great to get a chance to walk around the graffiti centre and see some of the striking artwork.

Not to be outdone, my daughter's topic this term is "Space" ... and we found just out of town was the Space Expo. We spent a happy morning there spying on planets and satellites, the shuttle and the international space station.

It was far too high-brow for my 8-year old to do much more than enjoy the exhibits; and I found it quite depressing when a computer told me how much I would weigh if I stood on different moons and planets. The comparative weight wasn't the issue: what upset was seeing how much weight a holiday full of warme chocolademelk met slagroom can do to you!

The one in which we burnt...

The first week away we were blessed by glorious weather. Holland almost obligates you to cycle everywhere and it was a cloudless day when we cycled over the dunes and around the neighbouring villages for a day. My daughter was in a seat behind my husband; my son had his own bike and I was the packhorse (both rucksacks). I was, also, the only person who conceded at midday that perhaps a bit of sunscreen would be useful.

By the evening, my face was gently browning. My husband had worn a hat and long sleeves, my daughter appeared to have been hidden behind him, and my son wore knee-length shorts. Given all that, we burnt daughter's legs, son's arms, my arms and legs (I only protected my face...) and husband's knees. We hid from the sun for the next 24 hours and re-emerged later in the week, peeling gently...

Our second bike-ride was on a cloudy day, quite cool until after 4pm. It should simply be noted that it is possible to be quite pink even in the late afternoon sun. In four years living in Zambia we only got sunburnt once - at the Kariba Dam where temperatures can reach 54 degrees centigrade. A fortnight's European holiday and we all suffer.

We aim not to do anything by halves. If we are going to burn, we are going to do it in as many ways as possible. Firstly, my daughter drank her hot chocolate as soon as it was placed on the table, only to find it too hot and to drop it all down her front. Screams abounded. Her chest and stomach were bright red but she was saved by a can of Grolsch: straight from the fridge, its cooling effect quickly took away the worst of the burn.

Then later that day, my son catches his hand on a tray hot from the oven. He got a lot less sympathy than was fair, although there were more tears than the glancing burn deserved.

Thankfully, none of our accidents was serious, nor did they impinge on our activities too much. Hopefully we just learnt some valuable lessons. Or how useful it is to have a can of cold beer to hand ...

The one with the cycling...

Our holiday was a fortnight in The Netherlands. As it was all spent in Holland (Nord or Zuid) I feel quite at liberty to interchange the country name but before I get any criticism I am quite aware of the difference between the county and country! A fortnight in The Netherlands was just what the doctor ordered ... and in our house, exactly what the doctor booked and organised. Somehow holidays have always been my husband's job to plan and execute: as usual, it was excellent.

Holland, of course, means cycling. Cyclists get priority at most junctions, which is fantastic if you are on one (and really not too obstructive if you are in a car!) We hired bikes on two days: once to cycle across the dunes near where we were staying (which was about as hilly a cycle-ride as you can get there) and once to visit the windmills near Kinderdijk.

This is a World Heritage Site and there is a point where you can see 19 windmills at once. They are obviously old and one has been turned into a museum. I would never make it as a miller myself, with all those steep stairs, and it must have been so noisy to live there when the sails were turning. Still, I can't get away from the ingenuity of the Dutch to shift so much water around, up and over the dijks they built to reclaim land. Having watched Coast last night I gained even more insight into their engineering prowess and massive land reclamation. How long will they win the battle against the sea? The prospect of them losing is too horrific to think about, for the loss of land, life and livelihood would be immense.

Cycling does give you a different perspective on the countryside you are in. Much of it seemed to be fields (bordered by canals rather than walls or fences) and most of the wildlife we saw - and smelt - was cows. Perhaps the most amazing moment was when we found a pair of coots with their newly hatched young on a nest island in a canal. As we stood and watched we saw the chick leave the nest, and we could hear cracks as one of the other eggs broke open. Driving would never have allowed us to view such a miracle.

Cycling did bring problems with it too. Not least is my ability to wobble (I had to concentrate very hard when we cycled on a bridleway between two canals: I was petrified I'd fall off and into one of them!) My son and I are unused to cycling for long distances and became a little saddle sore. And it was just a little embarrassing to be pedaling away like mad only to be gracefully overtaken by a couple in their seventies...

And of course there was the burning ... but that is tomorrow's post...

A short gap in proceedings...

We are on holiday. I'd hoped to have some Internet connection but this is my chance to grab a couple of minutes in amongst the family mayhem.

So far we have travelled by car and boat and bus and train and bicycles. Withenay wanders indeed.

If I tell you it is a holiday of canals and cheese and bikes perhaps you'll guess where we are.

Then again, we are also spending a lot of time on the beach with buckets and spades, burying the children and paddling in the sea. (We've dug the children up again each time - though sometimes the temptation is strong...)

Writing and family anecdotes will return when we do. Now ... back to that glass of wine ...

Wedding bliss

I persuaded the children to sit on the sofa with me to watch the Royal Wedding.

"It's the dress I want to see," I told them. "10.51: that's when we'll get the first glimpse."

Sure enough, knowing her duty to her future family means sticking to the clockwork timetable, Catherine Middleton emerged from the Goring Hotel on time. I, of course, am engrossed. It looks big, not sleek and slinky. It looks lacy on top. But really, it is impossible to see much in those few seconds, what with the car in the way and a lady running around with a camera.

My son and daughter are less enthusiastic than me. My daughter is excited by her name. "Is it Catherine with a K?" she asks. When told no, her response is that it is like my name.

"Well, a bit," I say, "but mine has an A in it. CathArine, not CathErine."

You see - that's what I am: Catharine with an A.

My son is intrigued by the wedding malarky, but states quite categorically that he is only interested in the kiss. When they said their vows he asked, "Do they kiss now?" (Clearly not.) And when they were on the balcony he was looking away when they first kissed and had to rewind! Thank goodness they did it a second time when he was watching!

But this is leaping ahead. The bride gets into her car, the train follows, and then her father sits by her side. No-one seems too flustered, not even that photographer. Everybody settled in and the car begins to move away.

Then my daughter says, "Is Catherine the one in white?"

Today is the beginning

Today is Day 1.
Today my daughter will have the support she needs to learn.




I have blogged before about my frustrations with my daughter, and all the incomprehensible difficulties she has with comprehension, concentration and learning. Not much more than a year ago she was silent at school: she refused to talk to any adults. I'm delighted to say that this does not appear to be a problem at all now - instead, she is more likely to answer back and tell them they are wrong when they are not doing what she thinks is right. More recently I battled with the NHS, trying to get her seen by the right people. This is more 'on hold' than dealt with.

For my successful battle is with the school. And I mean with. Together we have applied for IPF funding, only for the council to decide to assess her for a statement. Much to my surprise, given these cash-strapped times, she has been successful in obtaining that and has twenty hours of funded 1-1 support. It was the best Christmas present we could have asked for. The school has been fantastic, fully recognising my daughter's needs in order to progress.

And today it began.
Today the teaching assistant (TA) began working with my daughter.

Today the TA sat in with my daughter and the Speech & Language Therapist to see how my girl performs and to be able to carry some of the lessons and activities back into class.

Today my daughter had a TA prompting her to remember the teacher's instructions throughout the morning's lessons.

Today my daughter had a TA prodding her into concentration, into keeping to the task at hand, into trying everything not giving up.

Today is the beginning.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

The world is the size of a pea

Crikey - it has been two weeks since I wrote here. That's the problem with wandering. Over half-term we wandered across the sea: this time, to Northern Ireland to see family. Grannie & Gramps looked after the children for a couple of nights, so my husband and I were able to get away and talk about things - and not just the house/builders/disasters at home!

It is a long time since I have stayed in a B&B: a very British institution, focussing a lot on homely accommodation and a huge breakfast. The first morning we sat down with the only other guests, a couple our parents' age. They were talking about visiting their daughter; about how many times per year they come over to Ireland; about how difficult it is to fly from Norwich now there's no direct flight to Belfast; about the rain (of course: there is a lot of it!) ... then as soon as my husband mentioned his parents in Belfast she said, "Oh - you're the Withenays!"

It was a slightly spooky moment. It turns out they know my in-laws from church in Norwich.

As I said at the time, the world has shrunk to the size of a pea. We can't even get away to somewhere we've never been before without being known.

The Mountains of Mourne are truly stunningly beautiful. Even in the rain. Given the moans and groans I gave throughout my teenage years, I think my parents would be astounded that I chose to go for a walk despite the weather. Most of the walk was through drizzle. It only really began to rain when we reached the dam at the end of the valley and the end of the walk.

Well, the end of the way out. We had a (much quicker!) 3 mile hike back to the teashop and car into which we dripped. I had water squelching around in my hiking boots and was quietly praying for the survival of my mobile phone in my trouser pocket. The tea was essential to warm us through again, but we left pools of water everywhere. Back at the B&B we left our clothes in front of the Rayburn and they were only just dry when we left the following morning.

Ireland isn't the Emerald Isle without reason: year-round rain means year-round green.

*****

I've changed my design background (in case you hadn't noticed!). Do you like it? Is it too brown? I liked the map image - it seemed to go well with my Wandering theme ... although I do now seem to be far more settled. It may all change again as I seek to find the design that suits me and the blog best. All comments and advice are welcome!

Photo of Silent Valley, copyright Awesome Stories

Dear Blog,

Sorry not to have called by for a while. It is quite scary how much time the house refurbishment takes up. Combine that with children that will insist on attention, clothes that pile up demanding to be washed, end of term activities and celebrations and a husband working so, so hard and - well, you get my absenteeism.

Please forgive me. I still love you.

I'm sorry I haven't had chance to tell you about the debacle over my daughter's report. Nor about the magnificent rendition of 'Bright Eyes' on the trombone by my son. Nor the BMB meet-up in Manchester last week. Nor the builders' optimism about finishing the job on time.

I haven't told you about the book's progress: how it is loved by my writing group but nearly annihilated by others. I haven't managed to write about orange albinism (inspired by the story of the black couple who gave birth to a white baby) nor wax lyrical about the beauties of St Andrews (aside from the golf). I haven't entered the writing competitions that I planned too, nor read the books that are piling up in my bedroom.

I haven't shared all the exciting things we're going to do during our summer holidays. We're moving house. We hope. (Well, now I have shared all the exciting things we're going to do during our summer holidays...)

Don't despair: I'll be back imminently with tales of family laughter and woe. Just not last week. And maybe not next week, but who knows?

With love,

Catharine

Nations together for football

As I write England’s World Cup challenge is underway. This is my first and, probably, last post about it – possibly about football at all, given my general lack of interest. Yet every four years the World Cup sets a nation alight. There is so much hype that to have no knowledge of what is going on probably makes you socially less acceptable than sporting dandruff-covered shoulders or having professional triangle lessons. Thus I follow what is going on so that I don’t embarrass my son (or, indeed, myself).

Perhaps unusually, though, I am watching (yes, at the same time as writing this blog!) in church. Some bright spark had the idea of showing the match on the ‘big screen’ usually used to bring up the hymn words. We’re all here, although I think my daughter would be as happy at home having a bath and bed. My husband is busy designing the bathrooms for our house, calculating how many tiles we’ll need. My son has brought his best friend along as well, so they are happily ensconced with bowls of crisps, soaking up the patriotism that reigns supreme.

We have England flags galore, plenty of red and white emblazoned across the room. The popcorn is popped; the cans are opened. A dozen families have settled in for the evening. Out come the teams. Some stand for the national anthem, some sing. All are jocular, excited, full of anticipation.

Then trouble arrives. In walks our minister.

Collective breaths are drawn. How would he react to this English posse? Is this display of patriotism really allowed in church? Can you eat crisps and lemonade in the sanctuary?

He marches down the aisle as the Stars and Stripes is sung. In his hand is a small flag that he waves; on his cheek is painted the same flag; indeed it is emblazoned across his trainers and shirt. He begins singing loudly.

He is American. Bizarrely, he’s not supporting the same team as everyone else. (And he’s less happy that anyone else with the score after the first five minutes…) Thankfully he makes nearly as much noise in support of his team as everyone else in the room put together. (By half-time he’s cheered up a lot!)

South Africa, the rainbow nation, is hosting a magnificent world event. Let's hope every match can be supported with as much good humour and friendliness as this.

Final edit: At the start of church on Sunday morning our minister revealed the power of prayer. He was afraid that no-one would come to his service if the USA won so he’d prayed for a draw…