A genius even then

I came across this sorting through my mum’s things. It was a card I sent her one birthday. If you can decipher the writing (and I admit it’s a bit of a job) I’ve no doubt you’ll be dumbfounded by the sheer creativity and humour of my 12 yr-old self. My mother’s name was Rosemary, but growing up her brothers called her Roan. (In fact my eldest bears this as his middle name).

Anyway, the first alien is building up his nerve to introduce himself to Roan, who he’s taken a bit of a fancy to. He’s heard she’s quite clever, and suspects she’s got high standards. So he’s nervous, and getting a bit of advice from his alien friend, Bleep. Unfortunately Bleep does one over on him at the end. Sucker.

Where did this come from? Absolutely no idea – it is wonderfully random. I suspect it came at a time in my adolescence when I was pretty desparate for my mum to meet someone, anyone (even someone not of this planet, apparently), who would take care of her. Unfortunately It wasn’t to be.

The house is full of this stuff. Through all the heartache it’s these kinds of memories, blasts of irredescent sunlight, that keep me going.

That, and remembering just what a genuis I was even then. ;<)

Bored to tears

I don’t think there’s anything worse than being bored. Boredom destroys me.

Incidentally I also can’t stand waiting. I’ve been known to declare the end of a friendship over being kept waiting for 15 mins. Boredom and impatience; not the easiest of bedfellows.

Boredom is the reason I overeat, the reason I make lists when I’ve nothing pressing to do. It’s why I think too much, overanalyse things, invent catastrophic endings for scenarios that haven’t even happened yet. I just have to fill in the gaps, somehow, or all hell seems to break loose.

I’ve had my fair share of jobs where I’ve been paid to pretty much do nothing. In the early years anyway. A working day wiled away with the repetitive click of a mouse – click-refresh, click-refresh – like some OCD computer monkey. Other people would have bitten their hands of for a bit of time as an overpaid primate, but not me. I was utterly miserable. For me, boredom = torture.

I’m a doer, like my mum. She never stopped. Single parent, 2 jobs, dog, cats, big house. I feel extremely uncomfortable when there’s nothing to do. In fact, I’m at my happiest when doing at least 3 things simultaneously. It’s not unusual for me to be found sat on the sofa watching television while tapping away on the keyboard while simultaneously reading a newspaper or texting a long, indepth message to a friend I’ve not seen in ages. It’s like if my whole brain isn’t engaged all at the same time, if any part is left unoccupied, then I start to get very anxious. I get very low very quickly.

I’m not sure if it’s boredom or just the lack of something. But why does a gap, a break in the proceedings, a pause for breath make me so totally and disproportionately anxious? I’ve wanted to figure that one out for a very long time because a bit of relaxation, indulgent “me-time” would be quite nice once in a while. And no more so than now. But unengaged brain or body = boredom = run a frickin’ mile until you find the nearest pile of washing up.

A psychiatrist once told me it was to do with personal drivers, those pesky things that are set in place by the age of 3, are almost always destructive in some way, and seemingly impossible to change. Apparently “being busy” rates quite highly among mine. Nothing to do = bored = waste of space or something like that anyway. It has no value to me.

I think that’s why I’m struggling at the moment. At first there was an unbelievable amount of stuff that needed doing. Funerals, tax forms, property, people to advise, friends to thank. It was even kind of, dare I say it, exciting. Life wasn’t normal, mundane. Every 5 mins had a purpose.

Now, suddenly, there is nothing to do. I am bored out of my skull. I feel empty, rudderless, abandoned even.

I have so many gaps – suddenly – in my life, and I’m just not sure how to fill them.

I am grateful

There has been some anger. Intermittently. Less than I expected. And yet, as I described in The natural order of things, there is nothing so grossly unnatural or twisted about losing my mum now.  Losing her is devastating of course, unfair, paralysing, and the rollercoaster hurtles through panic, fear, inconsolation, desparation, anxiety and more. I shouldn’t be an orphan at 34. And yet, despite how quickly and harshly the progression of the last few months, despite 71 being no age to go, despite 2 months not being in any way long enough to say goodbye, despite all this, there is an awful lot I am grateful for.

I am grateful that I had a mum so utterly dedicated to her children. A mum with a natural instinct to love and protect.

I am grateful that we had 34 years – rich, memory-filled years full of poignant, sometime magical moments.

I am grateful that my mum was here to welcome both my boys into this world. I am grateful for the tears she shed, and the cuddles she gave and received.

I am grateful that my mum saw me married. Watched as my family was built on love and trust, and that she was reassured at the end, that I was in good hands.

I am grateful for the precious few months we had before she went. The time to talk, to tell eachother all the things we needed to, to express our love in moments of enforced clarity.

I am grateful that I was there at the end. That I got to hold her hand as she passed away. That the moment was peaceful, without pain or fear, that she was surrounded by two proud, loving daughters, the air filled with the music that she loved.

I am grateful for that music. That when I listen to it I can feel connected to her in a way that is indescribably perfect,incomparable to any physical thing, spiritual even. A truly wondrous gift.

I am grateful for her strength, pride and devotion; for the lessons she taught me, and the person I was able to become.

I am grateful for all these gifts, and more.

Many people don’t have half of what I have. Some much less. What a lucky girl I am.

Milk retrospective: In praise of my mum

Originally posted May 6th 2010.

I never realised until I had my boys.

Just what you put in. Every day. Every night.

How hard you worked.

What you sacrificed.

Children always dwell on the things you didn’t get quite right.

The things they think you shouldn’t have said.

How much calmer/fairer/more understanding you could have been.

What the “perfect” parent would have done.

Only now that I am that parent do i start to comprehend. You weren’t so short of perfection after all.

Near, yet far away enough to be a friend.

How much you achieved.

How much I have to learn from you.

What we can now share.

It’s so long overdue.

Thank you.

Who needs fathers?

Maybe I’m unqualified to write this post seeing as, luckily, my family are still very much together. However, its something i feel really strongly about, and even more so since watching the fantastic BBC 2 series on fatherhood (Fatherhood Season).

It really pisses me off when some women bash on about fathers being unnecessary. That women can do it all on their own.

I’m not talking about situations where women find themselves on their own (or men) through death or abandonment. Of course both men and women can do brilliant jobs on their own if they have to (and thousands do a great job up and down the country – my mum was an ace single mum).

I’m not talking about same sex partnerships, where a child might have two mothers or two fathers. I’ve seen examples heaped on examples of truly fantastic parenting in “a-typical” family set-ups.

What i have a real issue with is women shutting out willing and able fathers because seemingly their hatred for their ex spouse is stronger than their desire to do the right thing for their children.

I’ve long had real sympathy for those cape crusaders standing about on public buildings. It’s true i don’t know all the backgrounds, and i’m sure there are cases where the woman is (or thinks she is) doing the right thing by her children by not letting them see their father. He is unreliable, lets them down too often. A bad influence. On drugs, or drink.

But where exactly does a flawed father become a better father by being absent? If a father is willing and able is it ever acceptable to shut them out?

Even if he pisses you off. Left you heartbroken for a woman half your age. Is it still not important to nurture your kid’s relationship with him?

In a society that screams for men to take responsibility. Embrace equal parenting. Why do we think it’s acceptable to see them as second class citizens once a relationship breaks down? Socially AND legally.

It just feels like a bit of a crap redundancy policy.

And good dads are really very special. Wait. Even moderately average dads are pretty damn important.

In praise of my mum

I never realised until i had my boys.

Just what you put in. Every day. Every night.

How hard you worked.

What you sacrificed.

Children always dwell on the things you didn’t get quite right.

The things they think you shouldn’t have said.

How much calmer/fairer/more understanding you could have been.

What the “perfect” parent would have done.

Only now that I am that parent do i start to comprehend. You weren’t so short of perfection after all.

Near, yet far away enough to be a friend.

How much you achieved.

How much I have to learn from you.

What we can now share.

It’s so long overdue.

Thank you.