Month: November 2016

I’m having one of those weeks where you watch your hard-earned cash slowly but surely, being pissed down the toilet.

My trusty Previa, fondly known as: Aunty Al’s Bus for the past many a year, died in quite a dramatic fashion, on the way to work last week. As I watched the smoke bellowing from the bonnet and I was warning my fellow passenger to evacuate with me for fear that it would explode, I thought to myself two things: the first was, ‘oh shit!’ and the second was: ‘this is going to be expensive’. Any minute now I am going to watch it being hauled onto a tow truck and driven to the scrap yard. I think I will run down the road after it, waving a white flag and scattering petals – we’ve been through a lot together.

Trump being elected as President on Wednesday, has done nothing to make this week any better. At the ladies’ Taekwon-do class that I teach on Wednesday morning, our two American students gave each other a hug. I suspect they were exchanging whispers of what alternative accent they should adopt for the rest of the week. It can’t feel good to be American right now. It feels bad enough being English and wondering: how the…? What the…? Why the…? Who the…?

As I sat in total shock that morning, clutching onto my third mug of tea and listening to his victory speech, I thought to myself that the discomfort his son was obviously feeling, standing next to his Dad in full view of millions, was equal to about one thousandth of how many of the viewers were feeling. Uncomfortable would be a terrible understatement. I looked at his family standing on the stage and all I could see were spray tans, Botox, over-coiffured hair and the air of ‘fake’ hung heavily around them. It’s a reality show that has just got horribly real – with all the narcissism  that goes with it. There is a man, I thought to myself, who doesn’t like being told: ‘no’. There is a little boy who is dressed like a man. There is the President of the United States of America and for the second time in a matter of days, I thought: ‘oh shit!’.

Still in shock, daughter 1 caught me off guard last night and I found myself sitting next to her in the car, as she attempted to pull out of our driveway – she’s only had four driving lessons thus far and up until now I have resolutely refused. As we careered around the industrial estate in the pitch dark, I remembered why. ‘Break!’ I screeched at her, as we sped towards a corrugated iron structure at several miles an hour. “Why didn’t you brake sooner?” I asked, once we’d come to a stop, inches from the wall. “Because I had to check my mirror first” she replied, with the voice of someone who is new to something and doggedly follows the rules. ‘Oh shit!’ I thought, not for the first time this week and I have a niggling feeling, as the aroma of cat’s piss is wafting down the stairs, that it won’t be the last.

There goes Aunty Al’s Bus…oh shit!

I came across a post by the Unmumsy Mum, yesterday: An Open Letter to the Mum with the Red Coat. In it, she speaks about feeling judged. It really resonated with me and as I reflected on why, I realised that when my children were younger, I felt judged a lot of the time.

It was at its worst when the girls were all pre-school age. When daughter 4 was born, daughter 1 was 4 years and 8 months, so I had 4 kids under the age of 5. I can clearly remember a mum from a toddler group saying to me when she heard I was having a second baby: but your first child is still a baby! These words have stuck in my head ever since. It was the start of me feeling judged.

When I went shopping in my local town with the double buggy, I would huff and puff my way around the shops – doggedly determined to show everyone that I could cope with a small tribe myself. Which is just as well, because very few people offered me help – in the form of perhaps holding a door open, or squeezing to the side just a little, so that I could get passed. No. Overwhelmingly I felt judged. I was tutted at by other women, mainly older women who might have known better, but whose memories had faded with the years. I was stared at. I would smile back, thinking they were making a fleeting, but kind connection. No. They would continue to stare at me, stony faced. Sometimes when I was feeling particularly sleep deprived or brave, I asked them what they wanted of me and they would always turn away. They had made their judgement, without even wanting to test out my willingness to smile.

I soon discovered that however well behaved my children were, independent cafe owners and pub landlords felt very unnerved by our presence. I ended up using the larger chains, who seemed far more accommodating and kind. The issue was never space – I wouldn’t try to squeeze us all in to a quaint tea shop and expect a hug with my cup of tea. The thing was that because other parents also felt judged, they gravitated to the places they could almost relax. Many independent hostelries should have painted: children not welcome, on their doors.

In fact, I felt unwelcome so often in those early years, that when I occasionally did feel welcome, I would be ridiculously happy: oh thank you so much for showing some kindness to my relatively well-behaved children today and for not giving me, ‘that look’. Please can I give you a hug?

It was pathetic. Why couldn’t people just help, ask, chat, smile, not judge?

We all make assumptions, but they don’t have to lead to judgements. God knows, life as a parent is hard enough.

I love Autumn: those deep reds and golds, reflecting the sun’s warmth. That chill in the morning air, that makes you wish you’d worn a coat. The evenings drawing in, giving you an excuse to light the fire and put on your pj’s at 4.30pm. It’s not as cold or as dark as Winter. There’s a glow to Autumn that is still hanging on to the heat of the Summer.

On our dog walk this morning, the grass looked as if it was covered in frost, but of course it wasn’t. It was covered in tiny spiders’ webs that were glistening with dew. Partner was suddenly the font of all knowledge on spiders and told me that in every square foot of grass, there are hundreds of them busying away. He saw a programme once – I was almost impressed.

I was more impressed than I was with the professional leaf blower, who was shifting leaves yesterday on our estate, with his powerful machine. They billowed up in all their gorgeous, golden glory. A feast of autumn confetti for those who were lucky enough to be twitching their curtains and watching the show. Then they settled back down, a mere few feet from where they started. Perhaps I am missing the point. Perhaps someone who may have seen a programme on leaf blowing can put me right. I have always seen the job of the leaf blower as a thankless task. One undertaken by retired men, who need a purpose while their wife is at pilates. One of those jobs that is further down the list than mowing the lawn and strimming the hedge, but that they eventually get to with a sigh. My mum used to use a rake. Every Sunday in Autumn she would be out in our garden with her woolly hat on and a rake. I can clearly remember asking her why she was bothering, because more leaves will fall during the night. Besides, I liked kicking the leaves up at my sisters and smelling their earthy, rotting smell.

I love Autumn. Especially when we have got through the horror and drama of Halloween and we can look forward to fireworks and huge bonfires. Collecting chestnuts, despite no-one actually liking them when they are roasted.

Autumn has the anticipation of Christmas hanging around it, without the stress. There is a frisson of Christmas excitement in October. It builds-up in November, reaching fever pitch and drunken parties by mid-December: hangovers and too much Camembert. By Christmas day, you are wondering how you actually ever drank mulled wine without feeling repulsed, but in the Autumn it is pure nectar, as it is symbolising the start of something, that like childbirth you have forgotten how it ends.

I love Autumn. I looked at the spring bulbs on offer in the supermarket this morning and I thought how lovely it would be to plant them now and see them spring into life in February, when we are feeling at our lowest ebb. When we are so low that we grab hold of Valentine’s Day by its balls and thrash the hell out of it, because we all need an excuse to drink champagne in the depths of Winter. But today, I resisted the urge to buy. I resisted because I want to be mindful and live in the moment of Autumn. I want to indulge in the richness of the colours and maybe, in December when it is too late, I’ll plant those bulbs.