Roll on Spring

Today's one of those days where spring seems a long way away.

It's a dark, dank day with wind that seems to be coming from every direction and throws cold rain in my face. The children have been bickering and fighting and I'm digging deep for reserves of patience that I can't find. Our house is particularly wintry today.

Lord - here you are. I'm dumping today in front of you because it's only eleven o'clock and I've had enough of it already. Last night I had one unsettling dream after another - about having experiments performed on me, about everyone laughing at me, about collapsing in front of a crowd of people. Getting up time seemed like the middle of the night, which is never a good thing. 

It's funny how the glass seems sometimes half full and sometimes half empty, isn't it? The other day we were marvelling how some of last years apples are still clinging onto the trees in the garden despite the fierce weather we've had recently. We commented on how they glowed in the light of a low winter sun, looking like little orange lanterns in the trees. Today they just look brown and rotten and even the birds don't want them.  The trees themselves seem more gnarled and covered in lichen than they usually do. I have been reliably informed that there are two snowdrops out in the garden already and it's a sign that Spring is on it's way - but you can't see them from the kitchen window and I can't be bothered to put on a few more layers to go out and have a look. Spring seems a long way away. 

Grump grump grump. 

I've said that the children can do whatever it is they do on their gadgets; some mindless game that causes hilarity and squabbling in pretty much equal measure. I know I should be playing games with them or doing a jigsaw or baking or designing a family mural for the stairwell or finding a cure for world poverty or something, but I haven't the energy. I just need five minutes. Or more. Five years, maybe. 

I've got a cup of coffee here but it went cold while I was adjudicating in the lengthy argument about the blue felt tip pen. I put it in the microwave a moment ago only to find already in there was a coffee from earlier and for some reason I burst into tears. 

Lord, you know what? There are times when I don't want to be with my children. 

There. I've said it. 

I feel very guilty that I said it and even guiltier that I think it from time to time. It's supposed to be different from that, isn't it? I'm supposed to be delighted with them twenty-four hours a day and constantly thinking up new ways to celebrate our family-ness. I don't think I'm very good at that. Sometimes it all gets to me and I want to run away and hide and not come out again. And then I feel guilty for not revelling in the undoubtedly precious gift of my girls. If I'm honest this happens quite a lot. Is there something wrong with me? 

You know that I love them. You know how much I love them. You know my strengths and weaknesses and you'll know that my current state of being is down to a mixture of lack of sleep, a cold, the time of year, hormones and good old self indulgent bad mood. 

I can't do anything about the first four and I don't want to do anything about the last one. It would take too much effort to be cheerful right now. 

I don't suppose it's any co-incidence that I haven't been talking with you much for a while. I find that when I stick close to you, hanging onto you, following in the footsteps like the page following King Wenceslas, then I feel better. Safer. More secure. But maybe gradually I've dropped back until the snow covered the footprints, and then for a bit I tried to find them so I could catch up, and then I stopped trying because it got too hard and so I sat down in the snow and felt sorry for myself. 

So I'm a bit adrift. Help me. I don't think I'm doing so well at anything today. At being a mummy, at being me. At being your child. 

I'm going to see if I can find those snowdrops. 

***

Brr. Cold out there. But there are indeed, just as Mum said, two little snowdrops that are just in bud. They'll flower in the next few days. A little bit of hope in this miserable, colourless season. A little bit of purity and beauty creeping up on us out of the mud and dead plants and fallen leaves of the season left behind. A bit of the future; a bit of promise. 

That's what I'm needing today. A bit of something positive. A little bit of peace.

I feel like a child today. I feel like howling and stamping and saying, 'But what about me? What about what I want?' but I'm a grown up and I'm not allowed to any more. And I probably should have feelings like that under control by now, but they bubble up to the surface sometimes and it's all I can do to sort of squash them so that people don't know how juvenile I can be. How selfish. 

I don't want to be like that. 

Thankyou for letting me get this off my chest. I do feel a bit lighter since I had a moan. 

I'm going to hang onto those little snowdrops. I'm going to go and see them again tomorrow. I shall watch as they unfurl into that tiny intricate little bit of early Spring. I hope that the snow doesn't come and cover them up. I hope that the crocuses and daffodils aren't far behind. I hope that the sun comes out soon.

Lord, I don't know if you ever just got out of bed the wrong side but thank you that you understand the whole range of human emotions and you don't condemn us for experiencing any of them. 

Thankyou that there's always another chance. Thankyou that even when I wallow in self pity for no real good reason you always care enough to help me up and brush me down. Thankyou for forgiving me and loving me all over again. 

I'm going to go and see if the girls will make room for me on the sofa. 

Growing up

Peace.  Ah. 

Right now, everything is quiet apart from the taptaptapping at the keyboard. Outside the sun is shining in a blue sky, the trees and the washing are blowing in the breeze and I have coffee.  Just discovered a new type of Colombian coffee that is just wonderful and I have a cup right here. It's sitting next to me in my new Olympic London 2012 souvenir mug. 

All is well in my world. 

Which is quite an achievement really, considering that it's the first day back at school for both my girls; Elizabeth started Junior School yesterday so it's day two for her, but Katy started in Year One today for the first time. I won't go into the 'how fast they grow up' thing; I imagine you know that. It's all a blink of an eye for you, isn't it?

So it's been a strange sort of week. After the long summer holiday where I have, I confess, on occasion longed for the start of school, by the time it comes to pack them up with book bags, snacks, dinner money, water bottles, PE kits and so on, it sort of feels as if I got used to them being at home and I'll miss them. 

Sort of feels like that. Felt like it for a brief moment, perhaps. Right now with my coffee and the view from the window and the quiet I think that school's probably a good thing. 

Junior School. Grown up girl. 

Did you see them, Lord?  Elizabeth in her new uniform, so proud, standing so straight, having laboured over tying her tie with the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration, never happy until both ends are level when she pulls it up to her collar (where did she get that streak of perfectionism from? Oh dear.)  She organised matching hair bobbles, put on her shiny shoes and did her 'I can't wait' dance before we set off. I was so proud. Proud not only of how beautiful and smart she looked but also of the enthusiasm and optimism and confidence. Thankyou, Father, for that, from the bottom of my heart. New schools can be a source of anxiety and fear and yet my little girl, so often vulnerable and needy and timid was hopping about in eager anticipation.  

Long may it last. She's only seven. Another eleven years to go yet.

And Katy. Looking gorgeous in her new dress and not caring in the slightest that it used to be Lizzie's. Spinning round so that the skirt would fly out and keen to get to school and see her new classroom, built on to the extended school over the summer. New class, new teacher, new classmates, new experience of school without Big Sister. At times in the holiday she had a fret about it, a cry now and then, but today she was all excitement. 

Proud. We have had many tears about school and I'm sure they're not over, but it's a real blessing to have started this year off, these last two days, without trauma. Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou. 

Katy in Year One. Another Grown Up Girl

So new school for Liz, new class for Kate - what's my trauma? You knew there'd be one, didn't you? Because you know me. Well, for me it's a double school run in the morning now. 

Getting Lizzie to one school for 8.45am and then back to Katy's school (ten minutes walk away) for 8.50am. Of course, with my inbuilt Mummy-Warp-Speed button this is no problem until Elizabeth needs a bit of extra settling as she doesn't yet know where her peg is, or where her water bottle should go, or where we should hand in payment for school trips and so on (yes, were you amazed too? On the first day of the school year, they came home with a request for money for a day out?) 

Back to the school run.

So if I could waft past one school, tenderly patting daughter no 1 in the right direction but not breaking stride on my way to the school of daughter no 2, I might be ok. As it is, there is confusion at both ends and so this morning I arrived at Katy's school red in the face and panting heavily. 'Hello, Katy's new teacher, I'm Katy's mum. I'm mostly going to look like this in a morning.'

So, positives:

1. When we're all used to it, it will get easier. So I'm told.
2. Getting up half an hour earlier in the mornings has meant for two days so far that I get to spend a few minutes with you before the day descends on me. It makes so much difference.
3. With a twenty-five minute gallop each morning and again at pick up time, my jeans might get looser as term progresses. 
4. The last two days have been bright and sunny and the walk has been a pleasure (sort of).
5. I get to chat to Lizzie going to school and Katy on the way to pick up Elizabeth, then both of them on the way home.
6. When we got in, ice lollies all round seemed a necessity, not a treat.
7. Both my girls are happy at school (at this point. One day in for Liz and a mere two hours for Kate; I'm hoping so).

[Post script: all well in Katy's world today at school. She got a sticker for listening nicely and there were sausages for lunch. That makes it a Good Day. Thankyou.]

Negatives:

1. Until we're all used to it, I am Sweaty-Heavy-Breathing-Mum as I arrive at Katy's school in the morning. Not good for greeting the intimidating Headmistress on my way in. 
2. Getting up half an hour earlier in the mornings mean I am getting half an hour less sleep. There is no positive spin on this.
3. With a twenty-five minute gallop each morning one knee, both hips and my left thumb ache. (I know the thumb isn't directly involved in a school run but I threw it in anyway in case you were in a healing mood).
4. No idea how this arrangement will pan out in torrential rain or snow and ice. Can't wait.

Still. Good is outweighing the bad. This is good. 

One day at a time, sweet Jesus - isn't that how the song goes? Well, I'm a routine girl and as soon as I can establish a routine the better. I feel safer with predictability. I'm setting out uniform at night and I'm going to try and write cheques and deal with school correspondence and so on the night before so that I can manage the mornings with less screechiness. It's all about organisation (she says, confidently).

Ha. 

So, I give you my new mornings. From twenty-five past eight until nine o'clock I am a blur. Before that, from getting up time until departure time, I am efficiency personified. Contradict me at your peril.

Thankyou for my beautiful girls. Thankyou for their enthusiasm and thankyou that we have local schools that can engender such happy anticipation in little ones. I don't remember it that way from my childhood, and so it amazes and delights me. To be back in my old infant and junior schools as a parent is a strange thing indeed, and I want to be careful not to transfer any of my old attitudes or emotions to squash their enjoyment. Bless their teachers with patience and skill and compassion and perception, Father God. I entrust my precious daughters to these women every day for hours and I ask you that they would show my girls how to live well. 

Keep my little girls safe, Father. Safe from over-confidence or crushing disappointment. Give them each a Good Friend to do school with. Someone they can trust, who'll help them and who they can help. Someone who will be kind and positive, making them more themselves, not less. Let them not be bullied, or bully. May they feel safe and welcome and know how precious and valued they are, just for being the unique and wonderful creations that they are. 

There's something else, Lord. Something struck me as wonderful. When Katy found out who her teacher would be this year, Elizabeth immediately commented, 'Oh, she's lovely. She hasn't got a cross voice.'

What a wonderful thing to say. What a wonderful reputation to have. Katy told a friend of mine this anecdote the other day and my friend said, 'Just like your mummy!' Kate looked confused for a second and looked up at me, and when she saw that I was laughing, she laughed too. 

Hmm. 

Not really a laughing matter. 

What if Mummy could lose her cross voice, maybe just for the mornings, (start small) - before school. Maybe by a feat of organisation and first thing quiet moments I could make those mornings go more smoothly? I'd like to try, because sometimes school morning breakfast times in our house take place under a huge oppressive black cloud of grumpiness that emanates largely from me. 

They're growing up; maybe I could grow up too. There's an idea.

Is it possible? All things are possible for you, Lord, but this is a tough one. 

What do you reckon?

Snowdrops and grumpiness

Morning, Lord

Today's one of those days where spring seems a long way away. 

It's a dark, dank day with wind that seems to be coming from every direction and throws cold rain in my face. I've just taken Katy to her swimming lesson and found the changing rooms noisy and echoey and claustrophobic where normally they don't bother me. Since we got home the children have been bickering and fighting and I'm digging deep for reserves of patience that I can't find. Our house is particularly wintry today.

And I don't feel very well.  

Lord - here you are. I'm dumping today in front of you because it's only eleven o'clock and I've had enough of it already. Last night I had one unsettling dream after another - about having experiments performed on me, about everyone laughing at me, about collapsing in front of a crowd of people. Getting up time seemed like the middle of the night, which is never a good thing. I'm tired and I have a headache and a sore throat and a runny nose. 

It's funny how the glass seems sometimes half full and sometimes half empty, isn't it? The other day we were marvelling how some of last years apples are still clinging onto the trees in the garden despite the gales and fierce weather we've had recently. We commented on how they glowed in the light of a low winter sun, looking like little orange lanterns in the trees. Today they just look brown and rotten and even the birds don't want them.  The trees themselves seem more gnarled and covered in lichen than they usually do. Mum told me earlier that there are two snowdrops out in the garden already and it's a sign that Spring is on it's way - but you can't see them from the kitchen window and I can't be bothered to put on a few more layers to go out and have a look. Spring seems a long way away. 

Grump grump grump. 

I've parked the children in front of the television. I know I should be playing games with them or doing a jigsaw or baking or designing a family mural for the stairwell or finding a cure for world poverty or something, but I haven't the energy. I just need five minutes. Or more. Five years, maybe. 

I've got a cup of coffee here but it went cold while I was adjudicating in the lengthy argument about the blue felt tip pen. I put it in the microwave a moment ago only to find already in there was a coffee from earlier and for some reason I burst into tears. 

Lord, you know what? There are times when I don't want to be with my children. 

There. I've said it. 

I feel very guilty that I said it and even guiltier that I think it from time to time. It's supposed to be different from that, isn't it? I'm supposed to be delighted with them twenty-four hours a day and constantly thinking up new ways to celebrate our family-ness. I don't think I'm very good at that. Sometimes it all gets to me and I want to run away and hide and not come out again. And then I feel guilty for not revelling in the undoubtedly precious gift of my girls. If I'm honest this happens quite a lot. Is there something wrong with me? 

You know that I love them. You know how much I love them. You know my strengths and weaknesses and you'll know that my current mood is down to a mixture of lack of sleep, a cold, the time of year, hormones and good old self indulgent bad mood. 

I can't do anything about the first four and I don't want to do anything about the last one. It would take too much effort to be cheerful right now. 

I don't suppose it's any co-incidence that I haven't been talking with you much for a while. I find that when I stick close to you, hanging onto you, following in the footsteps like the page following King Wenceslas, then I feel better. Safer. More secure. But maybe gradually I've dropped back until the snow covered the footprints, and then for a bit I tried to find them so I could catch up, and then I stopped trying because it got too hard and so I started off on my own. 

So I'm a bit adrift. Help me. I don't think I'm doing so well at anything today. At being a mummy, at being me. At being your child. 

I'm going to see if I can find those snowdrops. 

***

Brr. Cold out there. But there are indeed, just as Mum said, two little snowdrops that are just in bud. They'll flower in the next few days. A little bit of hope in this howling wind and driving rain. A little bit of beauty creeping up on us out of the mud and dead plants and fallen leaves of the season left behind. A bit of the future; a bit of promise. 

That's what I'm needing today. A bit of something positive. A little bit of peace.

I feel like a child today. I feel like crying and howling and stamping and saying, 'But what about me? What about what I want?' but I'm a grown up and I'm not allowed to any more. And I probably should have feelings like that under control by now, but they bubble up to the surface sometimes and it's all I can do to sort of squash them so that people don't know how juvenile I can be. How selfish. 

I don't want to be like that. 

Thankyou for letting me get this off my chest. I do feel a bit lighter since I had a moan. 

I'm going to hang onto those little snowdrops. I'm going to go and see them again tomorrow. I shall watch as they unfurl into that tiny intricate little bit of early Spring. I hope that the snow doesn't come and cover them up. I hope that the crocuses and daffodils aren't far behind. I hope that the wind calms down soon.

Lord, I don't know if you ever just got out of bed the wrong side but thank you that you understand the whole range of human emotions and you don't condemn us for experiencing any of them. 

Thankyou that there's always another chance. Thankyou that even when I wallow in self pity for no real good reason you always care enough to help me up and brush me down. Thankyou for forgiving me and loving me all over again. 

I'm going to go and see if the girls will make room for me on the sofa.