The Lockdown Diaries: Keira’s Story

As we enter a second lockdown, remember that not everyone is safe at home.

The Lockdown Diaries: Keira’s Story (A fictional tale.)

I like enclosed spaces. Most people I know feel trapped when faced with four tall walls looming down, but not me. I see them as my protectors, my giant knights in armour if you will. A locked door and four tall walls means he can’t get to me.

A fortress.

It’s been three hours since Mike slapped me around the face so hard my glasses flew off my nose and smashed against a wall. I don’t know what I had done to warrant this attack; I have searched my brain and I don’t think I have done anything wrong today.

It’s week six of the lockdown and I have yet to leave the house. I’m not shielding or self-isolating but I have been told that I mustn’t go out. I don’t need my daily exercise I am told because there’s no reason to look good at the moment. ‘No one’s gonna see that bikini bod this year, Love’ he sneers at me regularly. I want to tell him that I don’t exercise for anyone else but me. Running through fields alone allows me some partial freedom but it’s not worth the argument. ‘You just want others to look at you I am told.’ It’s not true: I would happily disappear in an instant.

It wasn’t always like this, I promise. I met Mike online. He had recently moved to the area having left his wife and two children. Alarm bells should have started ringing as soon as he told me that. He had very little contact with his ex-wife. But he wooed me, he really did. He wore suits to work, he took pride in his appearance, he opened doors for me and brought me flowers. He brought me flowers the day after he shoved me into a wall after I suggested he gave the pub quiz a miss because we were a little short on funds that month.

Six weeks without seeing my friends or family. Six weeks of very little exercise or fresh air. Six weeks of very little self care and I was a mess. My skin greyed and my eye bags looked like they could carry a week’s worth of shopping. My hair hung limp at my shoulders and my eyes were like windows to a black hole. I needed some sun. My doctor once told me I me had a vitamin D deficiency and provided me with ‘pocket sunshine’ he called it. But the vitamin tablets had long since gone. It was, however, going to be a scorcher today, so I decided to go any sit in the garden for an hour.

I must have fallen asleep. I was roused awake by a dark shadow blocking the sun and I could sense him beneath my closed eyelids.

“Two hours!” he said quietly but there was a sternness to it. “You’ve been sat out here on your fat arse for two hours doing f*ck all.”

I remained silent.

“Do you know what I have done?” He voice sounded low and guttural almost like it hurt to talk.

I shook my head slowly.

“A workout, a shower, a conference call and the weekly shop and you have done nothing. Lockdown has made you lazy. It’s made you fat and lazy.”

“I would have done the shop,” I protested. “But you said there was no need for us both to be out of the house.”

It was too late. He had disappeared into the house and all I could hear was the slamming of cupboards as he looked for something hard to drink. Precariously packing up the sun lounger, I returned it to the shed and walked inside. The kitchen was empty and so was the living room. I noticed a piece of paper with numbers and workings out written down in pencil; I then noticed the broken pencil next to the paper. Something had happened during the conference call. I heard a bang upstairs. Slowly, I took the first stair.

I found Mike in our bedroom rifling through our bedside drawers.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” I asked.

“Your bank book.”

I explained that it was in the attic along with a few other precious items I kept up there.

“Well, it’s no good up there is it? Go get it!”

“Why?”

“You’re gonna have to start contributing a little more. The company have gone into administration and I’m out of a job.”

My heart sank.

“My dad left me that money in his will, Mike. It’s not to be frittered away. I’m saving it; I’m saving it for our future.”

That was a lie. I was saving it to escape. Every month I had added to it and I had been just about ready to leave when lockdown happened. And now, like an animal backed into a corner, I was trapped. If he saw that the funds had grown a lot over the last year, I would be in trouble.

“The future is now. Go get it!”

It took all my strength but I refused. I shook my head and took a step away from him. His stride covered the room in an instant and his hands were round my neck. Grasping for air, I panicked and kicked out. It was a glorious kick, right on the money. His grip released as he reached down to hug his crotch. I ran into the spare bedroom. In the other room, I heard him splutter and clear his throat; he was righting himself and he was coming for me. His eyes burned as he marched through the door almost knocking out from its hinges. Once again, he grabbed me but this time his nails dug deep into the flesh of my shoulder.

“You’ll go into that attic and you’ll get that bank book. Do you hear? Otherwise you’ll spend the night locked up there on your own.”

I thought of my dad. Physical grief washed over me. He would be so disappointed in me and the woman I’d become. A submissive mouse rather than the lioness he wanted me to be. I had crawled back into my den the moment I had prematurely lost the only man in my life I had had ever truly loved. I wasn’t going to lose his final gift to me. I stood firm and shook my head once again.
That was when he hit me. The whack resounded off the four walls and reverberated around my head. Blood spots and stars filled my vision as my legs gave out beneath me. I slumped to the floor as a trickle of blood fell from my nose and landed like a stray tear on the cream carpet. I looked up and he stood over me with his fists clenched.

“I’ll go get it myself.”

He stormed off and slammed the door shut and here I am now with my four walls for comfort. I won’t see him again tonight. Not until he comes and drags me up into the attic. I want him dead. Leaving him is no longer enough. I look to my arms and see yellowing bruises. He didn’t want me to leave the house because it meant he didn’t have to be careful anymore. No need for him to plan where abouts on my body he could hit me. I was his canvas now: a canvas filled with purples, reds, faded greens and yellows.

I want him dead.

Silence fills the room.

I will it. Pray for it.

Outside the room I hear the attic ladder being pulled from the ceiling.

More silence follows.

A splutter escapes his throat as he puts the ladder in place. I hear the creak escape from the metal step as he puts his weight onto it.

Silence.

I wish him death.

Still more silence. Why isn’t he ascending the steps?

Suddenly, the hallway erupts with a God awful sound.

He’s having a coughing fit and is struggling to catch his breath.

The Green Eyed Monster

Once upon a time in a land not so far away, there was a minuscule entity that existed deep within most residents that resided there. The entity was dark, twisted and fed off feelings of inferiority and fear. You may call it a parasite because when it latches on, it sucks and it feeds and it grows into something known only as The Green Eyed Monster.

A young princess lived in this faraway land and every day she attended school along with her fellow princes and princesses and she loved it. Now this princess was no angel and she had her flaws, much like all of us. She was known to answer back, sulk, leave her clothes on the floor of every room in the house and she drove her mother mad with her stubborn attitude towards reading. However, despite these imperfections, she knew what it meant to be kind and accepting (more to her school teachers and friends than to her parents) and it was these personality traits that caught the attention of a local King. The princess was told that she was a wonderful role model, someone who could be trusted to look after and care for others and she was offered the role of Town Representative. This important job meant that she would welcome visitors to her fairytale land and show, with pride, the place she called home. She would be a voice to talk to and an ear to listen if any of the town folk needed help, advice and a friend.

Rushing home from school that evening, and being careful not to trip on her dress train, the princess dashed into her mother’s arms as she shared with her the news she was so proud of. Tears welled in her mother’s eyes and she congratulated her daughter. The mother, seeing an opportunity, seized it and told her daughter to go upstairs and read her reading book because that’s what a good Town Representative would do.

“No!” was the princess’ reply.

See, I did tell you she was no angel.

The sense of pride inside the princess’ heart withered like a poisoned apple the following day. She was taunted by some other princes and princesses who weren’t given the Town Representative role this time round. One even threatened to tell the King about the princess’ imperfections so that the role would no longer be hers.

The parasite growing slowly inside the children’s bellies giggled. How it thrived on jealousy.

With the weight of the world laying heavy on her shoulders, the princess cried in her mother’s arms.

“They told me I didn’t deserve It, they said I would be rubbish.”

Now, the mother, knowing that there’s two sides to every story, (she is penning this masterpiece at the moment) simply responded with:

“They’re jealous, darling, that’s all.”

She explained about The Green Eyed Monster and how she too had suffered from it on more than one occasion. She once envied someone who was nominated for an award when she wasn’t; she once lusted after beauty and youth when hers were lacking and she was jealous of those with money who looked to be living their best lives every single day.

“How did you slay the monster, Mummy?” the princess asked.

“That’s easy, my dear. You simply kill it with kindness. You pay compliments, you acknowledge when someone has achieved something fantastic, you congratulate, you accept other’s beliefs and you truly believe everyone to be beautiful.”

The princess’ growing smile faltered a little.

“What if The Green Eyed Monster grows in me someday?”

“It may well try but as long as you accept that in this little far away land of ours, there will be someone who may be able to sing more melodious than you, dance more coordinated than you, solve maths equations quicker than you and achieve their dreams before you, you’ll be okay. If you welcome this, embrace this and tell others how freaking awesome they are, then I don’t think your monster will dare raise its ugly head.”

The princess smiled and told her mother that she couldn’t wait to be the Town Representative.”

“Now, go and read your book because you don’t want to have someone bragging that they’re a better reader than you.”

“Ha, Mum! Good try but no.”

Be kind and remind someone every day that they’re kickass.

Absolutely 100% not based on a true story…)

And That’s All I Have To Say About That

You died on a Friday afternoon – it was the 30th January 2009 and today marks ten years since you left us.  We are taught from a relatively young age that dying is a part of life, but I sure wish it wasn’t.  A couple of months ago I spotted a video being shared on line.  It was amateur footage of a man holding a teddy bear and in that teddy bear was a recording device of some kind and on that recording device was the voice of his mum who had passed away some years before.  It was an old answer phone message she had left him and after she died, he could not bring himself to delete the message.  A friend had managed to take the answerphone message, store it on a device and placed it inside the teddy bear.  Before watching the video, there was a little context given so I knew what was going to unfold and I was certain about my reaction.  The man in the video squeezed the teddy’s tummy and his mother’s voice rang out.  It’s the man’s body language that is etched into my mind now as I think about it again. He doubled over, as if in physical pain, and he hugged that teddy so tight.  I was an emotional wreck ten seconds into that video; the emotion in him was so raw.  It was beautiful but also painful to watch because after the initial exultation over the fact he was hearing his mother’s voice, the realisation that is was just her recorded voice set in and the man stayed doubled over because the pain of her not really being there was a little too much for him to handle and understandably so.

I don’t have a recording of your voice; I don’t have any videos of you stored on my phone. But, I also no longer double over in pain at the thought of you not being a part of my life. I don’t need that constant reminder of your voice to remind me what I no longer have. Just your absence is sizeable enough even after ten years.

And in the ten years that you have been away from us, I can say that we are doing just fine but this is what you’ve missed:

I became a mum. A role that should not but absolutely does define me and every thing I do. I don’t think I am mumsy especially when I turn up to my daughter’s gymnastics wearing biker boots, jeans, a leather jacket and a She-Ra t-shirt and the phrase ‘full time Mummy’ would not sit well both on my Facebook page and on my conscience but first and foremost I am a mum. All of my decisions and choices always come back to the two lives I am trying to raise right. My outlook on life has changed with the landscape constantly evolving; no longer do I dwell upon my dreams and ambitions – I appear to have lost them somewhere in my endless laundry pile – but I dwell upon Grace’s and Zach’s. What type of people will they become and how will they make their mark upon the world because I sure haven’t made mine? My own mortality hangs over me; there’s nothing like having children to remind you that one day you won’t be there for them. I think your illness makes me worry more. Every niggle and every pain that can’t be explained and I’m in the doctors’ surgery. I was asked once by a doctor if I had hit my head after complaining of a headache that had lasted more than a week. ‘Yes,’ I told him with a serious look upon my face. ‘Three years ago I fell off my bike and hit my head on the pavement.’ He scowled, told me it was a stress headache and sent me on my way. Parenting leaves me stressed, anxious and exhausted but also more vigilant, I hope.

It goes without saying that my biggest regret in life is not giving you grandchildren before you died.  I’ve often wondered what kind of grandfather you would be, but I struggle to picture it so I don’t try to.  Why force an image onto something that won’t ever happen?

Your granddaughter at seven appears to have more confidence than I ever did growing up.  Last year I made a decision to move her out of a school she loved and into a new one closer to home.  I cried when I dropped her off on her first day as I knew I had taken her away from her friends, however I also knew that I had made the right decision to move her.  When I picked her up after school, I saw her alone and walking towards one of the ladies from After School Club.  Immediately my heart dropped because she had no friends but as it turned out, she was just asking where the toilets were and she had had a great first day.  She started a gymnastics class alone and she loves it and only three weeks ago she started Brownies.  She walked into a room filled with children she didn’t know, handed me her coat and walked right on in.  She’s good at making friends.  Let’s just hope she keeps them for life, like you did.

Your grandson looks like his dad – there is no getting around that fact.  His ears though – I would say they are yours.  Whether that’s a good thing or not, you can decide for yourself.  He’s just started playing football and when I say playing football, I actually mean that he runs around a field, chases his friends, sits on footballs and doesn’t listen to instructions.  He does all this dressed in the Barnsley kit his dad bought him though so perhaps you wouldn’t be surprised at his footballing antics.  I couldn’t visit your grave yesterday – on your birthday – but your grandson did.

You missed my wedding and didn’t see me finally walk down an aisle.  I didn’t particularly enjoy the run up to my wedding and in the weeks and months beforehand, I left most of the planning to my mum.  I thought I was going to find the day really difficult and felt incredibly anxious over walking down the aisle with my mum and not you.  As it turned out though, I was completely wrong.  Nerves were defeated by perhaps a little too much champagne as I was getting dressed and ready and the day was up there with one of the best.  Your picture hung from my bouquet, you were toasted and remembered and then I just danced and danced and danced.  There wasn’t a shadow hanging over me that day, only light.

However, after the births and the weddings we are left with this: the every day – the normality and you have missed 3650 of those every days.  Age is creeping up on me and sometimes I don’t recognise myself in the mirror.  Granted it’s usually at 6am in the morning, in the harsh bathroom light and without makeup on but I can see the fine lines that no longer disappear when the smile (or grimace) leaves my face.  You saw me as an adult but not as one who carries responsibility around with her daily.  My actions and reactions can impact upon someone’s life whether it be one of my children’s or one of the countless other children who see me and rely on me (and probably moan about me) everyday.  I am accountable and sometimes I miss my younger care free self but at 28, she was a little lost and now despite some inevitable dark days, I do know my self worth.

In the ten years since you have gone, I may not have travelled the world or lived the life I imagined, but I have become someone I think you would be proud of.  I have many, many faults but fundamentally, I am a good person.  Just as you were.

As turbulent and traumatic your final months were, I hope your final moments were anything but.  I miss you; I will always miss you.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

 

Teaching Mum’s Guide to Wellness

So, a fellow blogger and I were contacted last week by The Times magazine and were asked to write an article about wellness.

Hers started like this:

7.45am – I wake up having had, on average, seven hours and forty one minutes’ sleep – I have analysed my sleep over the past few years and I know this is the perfect amount for me.  I turn on the near-infrared light at the end of my bed and sit there for seven minutes meditating, to focus my mind for the day ahead. 

I take shots of probiotics and Quinton Isotonic, a supplement that comes from plankton and contains enzymes that help me stay hydrated, and a glass of water.

Mine, on the other hand…

5.37am – I start the morning filled to the brim with anxiety about the day ahead. I’ve had approximately five hours sleep. I blame this partially on the fact that I was playing on my children’s Nintendo Switch until midnight. The down side is that my eyelids feel like they have 20kg weights attached to them but the upside is that I have over 50 Pokemons in my bag and my Pikachu is at level 34 and almost undefeatable. I could go back to sleep as my alarm isn’t set to buzz until 6.15am but my head is already organising and reorganising my day: have I planned my lessons? Yes. Have I marked my books? Yes. Have I ironed the school uniforms? Yes. Did I pack my daughter’s PE bag before coming to bed last night? No. Sh*t, but I did bag myself a rare Pokemon instead so swings and roundabouts and all that. I pull my arm out from underneath my son; it is numb because he has laid on it all night, so my somewhat stealthy operation has failed before it has even begun as my arm is flopping around like Magikarp out of water. My son will wake and demand his morning kale Fruitshoot and wake the house. I sit in the darkness on the edge of the bed praying that I will one day win the lottery (that I don’t play) before early mornings get ups are the death of me.

I quietly nip downstairs where I take my daily dose of thyroxine, a tablet that is supposed to help my thyroid work properly because having children f*cked it up.  Silently creeping back upstairs, I step on a plastic Plankton from SpongeBob, cry out and wake the house.

8am – Take a shower using natural products, as the chemicals found in shampoo and shower gel can be toxic.  Weigh myself and use a litmus test to measure my urine pH levels.

6:23am – Take a shower in the company of 6547 Mashums and Smashers. Wash myself using a half empty Mr Matey and a unicorn sponge from B&M.  I worry that the chemicals in my hair are now toxic due to the fact that it hasn’t been washed since a week last Tuesday.  Residing myself to the fact that it won’t be washed again today, and feeling confident that perhaps in my dirty hair lies the cure for an underactive thyroid, I climb out, get dried and weigh myself. This is usually followed by crying, swearing or hopping back on the loo in the hope for a poo in order to lose a couple of pounds.

8.20 – I turn on my HumanCharger, a device that looks like an iPod with an ear piece that shines a light into my ear to give me energy, and make my bullet-proof coffee, using a table-spoon of coconut oil, some chaga mushroom powder – a little bit of potassium, colostrum and collagen.  I use a low-mycotoxins, toxic chemicals produced by moulds.

While I am having my coffee, I fill out a spreadsheet on my computer inputting my weight, my urine pH, my hydration and how well I’ve slept.  I then sync my Oura tracking ring, a sleeping and activity tracking device that I wear all day., with my phone and look at the data on how well I’ve slept and how much deep and REM sleep I’ve had.  I get dressed and stand on the balcony in my flat, which clears my mind.  I then feed my mind by reading for 20 minutes.

6:30 – I turn on every charger in the house because I have forgotten to charge tablets and phones the previous evening. In order to look more human than zombie for work, my children need some form of entertainment whilst I apply three layers of foundation and concealer. Unfortunately, and I’m ashamed to say, that the entertainment comes in the form of You Tube where my little ones watch other families acting out scenes from various retro films you used to love. I watch in awe at mums and dads acting out scenes from Ghostbusters – all with special effects and costumes – and all I can think is ‘Where do they find the time?’, ‘What the hell am I doing so wrong?’ and ‘I wonder if I can buy that Slimer on Amazon.’  My husband brings toast up stairs for the children to eat in bed; they attend Breakfast Club at school each morning so technically I’m paying for them to sit in a chair and watch other kids eat their breakfast.  My morning rant falls on deaf ears so I grab discarded crusts where I can and know that if there is a little Lurpak left on the crusts then it’s going to be a good day.  I haven’t had a drink of water in three days and my first cup of tea of the day will be at 11:05 during breaktime at school.  I wonder briefly if my insides look like a prune.

When it’s time to get dressed, I ask my children politely to grab their outfits for the day. Often I am ignored so this is followed by begging, pleading, shouting and the confiscation of all technology. I am then labelled the Worst Mum in the World but at least the cherubs are dressed. Me, however, I’m still in my dressing gown. I meander into my room and contemplate a life where I could stay in my dressing gown all day and yet still have a respectable career. Could I teach ‘Romeo and Juliet’ to my Year 10s via Skype, for example? Yes, I think so.  I feed my mind for 20 minutes with unachievable goals and unattainable wishes.  Then I realise I am running late. Sh*t.

9.15am – I leave the flat and fist bump the concierge.  I’ve fist bumped him every morning for the four years I’ve lived in that flat.  I like to make people smile and feel valued… I stopped reading the article here as I no longer believed the person writing it was a real human being. 

7.30am – I drop my children at Breakfast Club and on my way out through the school gates, I spot another mother – a kindred spirit.  We fist-bump each other and as we pass, I notice she is wearing pyjamas under her coat and Ugg style boots.  Perhaps she has mastered how to have a respectable career whilst staying in her dressing gown all day.  Perchance the dream really is attainable and I find myself both envious and in awe of her.

The definition of ‘well-being’ is ‘the state of being comfortable, happy and healthy’ and despite all of the above, I am.  Who wants to drink coffee made out of some weird mushroom anyway?

Always good for my well-being

**Please note that I wasn’t asked to write an article for The Time magazine, but my guess is that you have figured that out by now.**

Deny yourself nothing.

 

 

The Fortunate Four

You’re twisting my hair as I type this. Twisting hair brings you comfort as it is something you have done since you were a baby. The hair twisting needs to stop because when I brush my hair, I pull out knot after knot after knot and it’s excruciating! However, right this second, as you twist while drinking your bedtime milk, it feels so relaxing. I’m sitting up in my bed wearing my pyjamas and you’re next to me. You’ve just got out of the bath and you’re in your pyjamas too (so is your sister, who is also in my bed.) It’s my favourite time of the day – together we lay reading, chatting, playing with tablets, watching Netflix or You Tube and you snuggle in next to me and lull me into a false state of relaxation with the hair twisting. In the back of my mind I know that in about twelve hours, when I am straightening my hair for work, I’ll be cursing the fifth knot yanked from my scalp. But, we’ll deal with that tomorrow.

Right now, let’s focus on you.

You LOVE opening presents and during the Christmas holidays you have ripped your way through your Dad’s birthday presents, your Christmas presents and my birthday presents. After every present opening session was complete you asked: “Is it MY birthday yet?” And we would reply with “Not yet, but soon.”

When you were born, you completed our little team of four; you’ll always be the baby of the family but tomorrow you turn four.

You’ve been a great three year old and these are the things you have enjoyed at three:

• Fruitshoots
• Hitting your sister
• Running (‘From that day on, if I was goin’ somewhere, I was runnin’!’ – Your Daddy often quotes Forrest at you.)
• Shouting ‘poo’, ‘wee’ or ‘butt butt’ at any given opportunity
• Mooning and saying ‘look at my bum’ (that went down well in a beer garden this past summer…)
• Transformers (although how they transform into a car has beaten us all.)
• Gizzy and the Lemmings (you make us read out the title of each episode and if we don’t do it, you go beserk.)
• Teen Titans Go (the Pee Pee Dance episode was repeated at least 3562 times back in August.)
• Fruitshoots
• Playing with your two best friends
• Climbing on your Dad’s head
• Cuddles
• Hitting your sister
• Ghostbusters 1, 2 and even the universally panned 2016 remake.
• Smashers (we have at least 73 perched around the bath – you may have had 75 but then Mummy got in the bath and they were never seen again…)
• Smelling my hair (you grab it and breathe the scent in – perhaps you learnt that from me because smelling your hair and breathing you in is my morning ritual.)
• Cuddles
• Fruitshoots

There was a cow at the birth of Jesus

You are, without a doubt, a Mummy’s Boy. and give me the best cuddles. Sometimes they are rough cuddles when you clamber all over me; sometimes they are sad cuddles when you’re hurt and sometimes they are mischievous cuddles when you know you have been naughty but you know you can soften the ‘blow’ by insisting on having a cuddle.

Your sister – from day one – was a Daddy’s girl so when you were born, you became my boy. Feeding you as a baby came so easily. I struggled with your sister and gave up breastfeeding after five months. But you? Well, you wouldn’t unclamp for fifteen months! But that’s enough on boobing as you might read this as a 21 year old and think Christ, Mum stop writing about your boobs on a public forum that your friends and colleagues read…😉 The subject, however, brings me perfectly to my next topic: co-sleeping. Oh, it’s a taboo subject and I have been told on a number of occasions: “Ooh *looks at me in a judging manner* you’ve made a rod for your own back there.” I can categorically say, hand on heart, that I do not have a rod in my back (I mean, I may one day because sleeping on the edge of a bed for the best part of seven years will probably have caused some critical damage) but metaphorically there is no rod because waking up next to you nestled in close brings me nothing but comfort. Waking in the dark winter mornings at 6am knowing I have a five lesson day, followed by boosters or a meeting, followed by a swimming lesson or Brownies, followed by umpiring or playing netball, followed by washing or ironing followed by…(oh, the list goes on and on), well that can make a person feel somewhat f*cked off overwhelmed but waking and feeling your body tucked into mine, smelling your hair and taking that moment to appreciate that you sleeping next to your Mummy makes both of us feel safe and loved and protected, well that just makes me happy. And for as long as I am happy and you’re happy, then I guess we’ll co-sleep. You’re little for such a short period of time so as long as you need me, I’m yours.

There is something that your Dad and I worry about.  You’re obsessed – some might say even an addict.  You cannot make it through the day without a Fruitshoot (or three).  Each morning your first words to me aren’t ‘I love you, Mummy’ or ‘Mummy, you look at least five years younger than your real age of 38’ No, your first words are ‘Fruitshoot’ and heaven help us all if your Dad has forgotten to put a Fruitshoot next to my side of the bed.  You have been known to punch bottles of Evian because we – God forbid – denied you that devil in a little orange bottle and told you that you needed drink more water.  Did you know that Evian spells naïve backwards?  Your Dad and I were certainly that when we thought we could end your addiction to Robinsons with a bottle of clear liquid that tastes like nothing, smells like nothing and yet costs twice as much.

Are you looking at him or shaking your head at all the Fruitshoots in the background?

Sometimes I have days when I feel that no one is pleased to see me; perhaps I have had a challenging class, maybe I have had an argument with your Dad or possibly your sister has told me that I am the worst mum in the world.  Whatever the reason, there are days when I don’t feel my self-worth but then I pick you up from after school club or Grandma drops you off at my school after a long day and I see your eyes light up when you see me – you ignite my light that occasionally doesn’t shine as bright as it should. No one loves me like you love me and no one will ever reciprocate that love one hundred times over quite like your Mummy does.

Happy Birthday, son.

I didn’t choose the kit…

An Ode to the Parent & Child Parking Space

An ode to the Parent Child Parking Space. 🚗

I’ll admit, once it wasn’t important to me,

Not when driving round Gran, who aged 93, 👵

Insisted on going to Morrisons to do her big shop,

Into the car she would climb and I would hop,

Off we would go to her favourite place,

And I would park in a parent/child space.

I know, I know, it’s totally shocking,

I’m one of those trolls you should be blocking,

But allow me to try to explain my madness,

You might feel empathy or even sadness,

Gran was frail, weak and rickety,

Stubborn, forthright and a little pernickety,

Walking far was not her forte,

Because at 4ft 10 she was a little shorty,

We searched high and low for a parking spot up close,

A blue badge holder? We were not one of those,

So without looking anyone straight in the face,

I pulled up into a parent child space. 😱

Now I’m am a Mum, I have to apologise for this huge error, 🙋‍♀️

Because plucking children neatly from my car fills me with anxiety and terror, 👩‍👧‍👦

What if they slam into another car door?

Scratch some new paintwork and I’m hauled in by the law? 👮‍♀️

So imagine my anger, imagine my surprise,

When a huge Mercedes parked up by my side,

I glanced over to greet a kindred spirit – another stressed mum, 💆‍♀️

What glanced back was a guy struggling to see over his rather rotund tum,

The back seat was empty – in fact it was pristine,

That leather upholstery, a child’s hand it had never seen, 🍫 🍭

Despicable, disgusting a down right disgrace,

This man had pulled into a parent/child space,

Out he climbed and the Merc gave a sigh of relief,

So we decided to the chase the space-stealing thief,

Confidenly, he strode straight into the shop,

While we followed shouting: “Hey! How many kids have you got?”

Our shrieks and demands he chose to ignore,

While he perused the shelves of the grocery store, 🍅 🥓🍞

“Right that’s it,” I said. “We’ll give it all we’ve got”,

Later on he would find his Merc covered in my son’s snot,

So next time you’re out in your car kid free,

Take some advice and listen to me,

Most people prefer their vehicles polished and clean,

Park in a parent/child space and you might find that your car mysteriously ‘turns’ green!

I Left My Tears in the Ocean

Cala Mondrego Beach wasn’t the beach I had been picturing in my mind on the journey in the taxi. It was considerably smaller than I imagined and wanted, but the view out into the sea was rather breath-taking. Situated in a cove, the small beach invited both holiday makers and exotic yachts to anchor down and appreciate their rather beautiful surroundings.

Only I didn’t do that – not straightaway anyway.

It took a simple act of unadulterated love to pull me out of whatever self absorbed hole I was in danger of being sucked into to make me look up and see the world as it should be seen: right here, right now and most certainly unfiltered.

When we arrived the beach, it was already filling up with couples and families both local and from father a field and an array of languages could be heard floating along in the warm breeze. We made a beeline for a couple of sun-beds only for us to be told that they were already taken. Eventually, we found two that were residing in the shade. We paid our 15 Euros and they were ours for the day. And when I say ‘ours’ I specifically mean my daughter and son because they immediately chose a bed each leaving both my husband and me laying out our towels in the sand. Within minutes, no, actually it was seconds, my daughter wanted her tablet and she cried (actual tears) when I informed her that she would only be able to watch the programmes we had pre-planned and downloaded for her. Yes! We preconceived that something like this would occur and downloaded a number of her favourite programmes. How awful of us!

“There’s no WiFi at the beach,” I informed her.

“No WiFi! But that’s impossible,” she wailed.

Wrapping herself up in a towel, she plugged her headphones in, laid back on the bed and ignored my plea for her to allow me to lather her in Nivea factor 50. My son, on the other hand, had already grown tired of the bed and was now lying in the sand and scooping it up onto the bed. He, bless him, had unknowingly placed himself a little too close to the childless couple on the beds next to us. Seasoned sunbathers, the couple had already moved their beds towards the burning ball of fire in the sky and had the factor two oil lathered on. The Earth must have tilted slightly in its orbit as the lady jumped up from where she lay and moved her bed onto my boy innocently playing in the sand. With her territory clearly marked out, she resumed her place back on her bed without even acknowledging the fact that she had placed her bed millimetres away from being directly on top of a three year old boy.

“Arseholes!” my husband shouted as he picked up his sand laden towel and shook it vigorously in their direction.

Our next task was one we had come to dread: applying sun-cream to children who don’t understand the importance of rigorous sun-cream application. By this time we were quite seasoned at this job and while one of us caused a simple diversion (usually using sweets), the other approached the first child from behind, jumped, grabbed any flailing limbs and lathered and lathered until they resembled a melting white Magnum ice-cream. We would then simply repeat this action with the second child and there you have it – two children ready to stay safe in the sun.

It was finally time to lay down and have a rest, but not before I hounded the husband to take a picture of me in my bikini as I was feeling surprisingly confident having spent the best part of two weeks running before the holiday in a last minute attempt to tone the ‘mumbod’.

“You’re so vain!” he laughed at me before grabbing his mini Magnum ice-creams by the hand and running off towards the ocean thus leaving me to try to take a selfie in the sun which proved impossible with the glare of the sun on my screen and factor 50 dripping from my fingers. How would all the people on my social media accounts know that I was having a wonderful time on holiday if I didn’t post regularly?

Having given up on the selfie, I had just finished applying my sun cream – factor 30 on my burnt bits and 15 on my legs – when I heard the familiar war cry of my children. They were salty and sandy as they launched their little bodies into my arms where they demanded snacks and pop. One visit to the beach shop later and they were munching on the famous Spanish dish we know as Salt and Vinegar Pringles and supping down orange Fanta. My job as this was all happening was batting away the wasps that were intent on getting their fill of the Fanta. As the wasps descended, I may or may not have been screaming and running around the beds much to the annoyance of the childless couple who were wasp-free and sunbathing on sand that was definitely on our territory. (Perhaps I should have scooched on down and had a wee around our beds.)

Since arriving at the beach, I had not spent one minute of my time at the beach laid down so I decided to go in the sea. I’m not a huge fan of the ocean if I am being honest. I like to admire it from afar; preferably from a sun-bed with my Kindle in one hand and a lager in the other but those delicacies were now ancient relics from other holidays past when we were the childless couple lapping up the sun’s rays and staring down the couples who had had the audacity to procreate. The sea at Calamondrego Beach however, was really nothing short of wonderful. The cold didn’t bite at your toes as you entered and the waves didn’t threaten to knock you down. Amiable water lapped up over my toes and the waves were lulling me. They forced me to stop and take a minute. I breathed in and out and in and out as I felt the warmth of the sun hitting my back. I noticed with clarity that my children had left the confinement of their towels and beds and had rushed to be in the ocean with me; their father followed close behind.

Then something in my periphery vision makes me turn around slightly and that’s the moment when I begin to appreciate where I am.

A mother is carrying her child across the beach and they are heading towards the sea. He is laid across her and she is carrying him like he’s a baby, holding him under his legs and supporting his body. Only this child is not a baby – far from it. I guess his age at about eleven or twelve and yet she carries him without burden as though he is as light as a feather. There is a vacant look in his eyes and yet a smile is etched across his face because he knows where he is going. I become acutely aware of the fact that I am staring but I can not tear my eyes away from this woman carrying her disabled child into the ocean. Everything I have complained about in the last few hours hangs around me like the albatross on the ancient mariner and I am a little ashamed of myself for not being there in the present unlike the mother who’s now passing me and entering the ocean. She isn’t deterred by the initial coldness of the sea splashing up against her legs and she continues without hesitation as the water rises up against the boy in her arms. Delicately and with one arm she scoops up water to gently wet his hair and as she does this, his smile grows. I sit in the sand and allow the sea to wrap its arms around me just as this mother is wrapping her arms around her boy and I continue to watch. I can hear my own children shrieking and laughing as their father swims with them in the sea. My admiration for her is great and I see a strength in her that I just don’t see in myself at that moment. Here I am sulking over the fact that I haven’t been able to lie down and top up my tan and filter the hell out of ‘a perfect family moment’ to share online and yet here is this woman whose sole intention is to give her son the best day at the beach. I realise that my eyes are filling with salty tears and they fall down my cheeks and into the water; they join the ocean where they will stay forever. Unintentionally, this mother has given me a small wisdom that I hope to live my life by.

This mother is in the now; she’s living in the moment, as his her son and they are loving every second of it.

I turn my attention back to my own children laughing, playing and splashing in the sea and I stride towards them scooping my son up in my arms as I reach him. My phone is discarded somewhere, the iPad is turned off and my Kindle is sitting unread on the sun-bed.

I’m in the now and it’s right where I should be.

Jay’s Ghost

I started writing this story two years ago and have just found it on an old laptop.  Should I continue it?

Chapter One

Jay

Jay was ten years old when her mother died.

It was on the eve of her thirteenth birthday when she saw her again.

Miss Rose

Every year it was the same. It was the first day of a new term and Miss Rose and all of the other teachers at Seaworth View Secondary Academy were at school whilst the pupils enjoyed the final days of their long summer holiday. Seated at her empty desk (that would not remain empty for long once the new term began), Miss Rose scanned the names of pupils in her new classes. It was a requirement that all teachers familiarise themselves with the pupils in their classes. A simple, but time consuming task because it meant trawling through individual pupil data to find out their grades from the previous year; it meant opening restricted files in the Special educational Needs folder and looking through private documents that could never ever been seen by pupils or parents alike; it meant reading through individual care plans in order to learn as to whether a pupil in your class would need an extra bit of attention from you their teacher this forthcoming year.

This is what Miss Rose was doing when she saw Jay Sumner’s name for the first time.

Jay Sumner? She pondered upon the name for a few moments. It didn’t start alarm bells ringing in her head alerting her to a bothersome pupil one of her colleagues had taught last year nor did it leave her with nothing. There was something there in the back of her mind waving solemnly like an elderly distant relative saying goodbye for what you knew was going to be the final time. Miss Rose noticed that there was a file attached to Jay’s name and it was her duty to read it. She learnt that Jay was a new transfer to the school having recently moved over the Pennines from Lancashire. School transfers were not uncommon though, so why the note? Miss Rose read on. Soon, she learnt that Jay’s mother had died in a car crash when Jay was only ten years old and that if any teachers needed to contact home, then dad would be the first point of contact followed by an aunt who resided in Oldham. Miss Rose felt a slight pain in her heart for the child – it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling – she had taught many pupils over the years that had lost parents, siblings and grandparents. She made a mental note to keep an eye on the young girl. Being a teacher of English meant that, more often than not, some of the topics they covered often revolved around the themes of death and tragedy, and sometimes that meant treading carefully with some pupils in her classes. There had been times when she and her classes could put the world to rights over whether or not Lady Macbeth was a tragic character or not; they would debate over whether they felt sympathy for Curley’s Wife in ‘Of Mice and Men’; she had had girls run out in tears over the untimely suicide of Juliet and she had had boys make inappropriate jokes, because some of them just weren’t quite mature enough to talk about death in a serious manner. Yes, she would keep and eye on Jay.

The day pushed on and the light changed in the silent classroom as Miss Rose put the final finishing touches to the seating plans she had meticulously created using the data she had been given, the knowledge she already had of the child and whether the child was a girl or a boy. The late summer sun had lowered in the sky and had started to reflect upon the computer screen. Pushing back a stray blonde stand of hair behind her ears, Miss Rose decided to call it a day. After all, she would be back in her classroom again in the morning and by 9am, the seats would be filled with fervent pupils, who were well rested after a long summer and eager to learn. Well, that’s what she told herself anyway. (In reality, they would be clock watching and counting down to the end of the school day in order to enjoy the early September weather – anything to hang onto the final remnants of the summer months.) She switched off the computer, grabbed her coat and bag and shut her classroom door on the way out. For the last six years, this room had been her second home and often she preferred it to returning to her actual home. Did anyone really relish the thought of returning to an empty house – especially when it was twenty degrees and still light outside? Ten years ago, she would have been arranging to meet a friend in a near by pub beer garden, but a lot can change in ten years.

*****

Her laptop whizzed into life. Despite being planned for the week, Miss Rose logged into her work email and checked for any updates on the new school year. There were none. She checked what day her Year 8 form had assemblies, she double checked her library lessons and she ensured that she had sent all of her resources to print. There was nothing to be done. The evening before a new school year begins is the only time in a teacher’s working year that the ‘To Do’ list is complete. She knew that as soon as she walked through the door tomorrow, her list would begin and it would grow and expand and almost cripple her, but that was her job. Being a teacher was all consuming; it was emotional and it made her dog tired. The job ate its way into Miss Rose’s dreams and night, filling them with anxiety for the day ahead. Sometimes, she thought about pupils long after they left her classroom because she was worried about them, or they had made her particularly proud that lesson or (although not that often in her lessons) she was angry at their behaviour and that anger just wouldn’t simmer down. The classroom never really leaves you as a teacher, you see and the pupils, well, the pupils, they can imprint on you forever. Miss Rose didn’t mind this though. The all consuming part of the job was the bit she relished because it ensured that it kept her demons at bay. If she didn’t have the time to acknowledge them, then they didn’t have the time to torment her.

********

The all too familiar sound of her digital alarm clock sounded loudly in Miss Rose’s ear at 6am. She was already awake. It was the same at the start of every school year. Her mind had not switched off from the previous evening and, like she knew they would, her anxious thoughts ate their way into her dreams and she had found herself standing at the front of an unfamiliar science classroom surrounded by children she didn’t know and she was screaming at one of them to get out of the room. Only there was no voice emitting from her mouth and the more and more she tried to shout, the more frustrated she became. Soon, she had started gesticulating with her arms in a vain attempt to just get the kid out and then she whacked her hand on a protruding gas-tap next her computer. In these dreams, Miss Jones was always in a science classroom with its high tables and tall stools – she never knew why this was the classroom that haunted her dreams, but it did. Snapping her eyes awake, Miss Rose looked at her clock at saw that it was 5.30am. There was no point in trying to sleep for half an hour more not when each time she closed her eyes, sleep tried to pull her back into that daunting classroom that had forcibly pushed her into silently screaming for help. No, she kept her eyes open and thought about the day ahead. She had Year 8 first period. Jay wouldn’t be in that class. Briefly, she thought that it was strange that she had thought of Jay, but the moment passed in an instant and she laid and watched the clock and in doing so, forgot to turn off the irritating alarm that hadn’t rung in just over six weeks.

6am. She would be out of the house by 7am and seated at her desk at 7.30am. Mornings were easy when you only had yourself to worry about. Miss Rose lived in a quaint three bedroom cottage in the village of Castleton, which was about fifteen miles away from the coastal town of Whitby. Despite living on her own, she found that she needed her three bedrooms. One had been turned into a small office; one was the space she slept in and the third she had turned into a dressing room. Fastening her dress-gown tightly around her, Miss Rose left her bathroom – with the pleasant scent of lavender chasing her – and made her way into her dressing-room. She loved this room. It looked out onto the Dales and beyond that she could see a small railway line that carried the daily commuters into town. Sitting down at her dressing table, Miss Rose pulled open a drawer and pulled out a rather expensive looking makeup bag. Inside was a treasure chest that any teenage girl would give their right eyebrow for. Literally spilling over the top of the bag were foundations, eye creams, lip creams, eyeliners, eye shadows and various contouring kits. Even though Miss Rose’s social life was somewhat limited, she took a lot of pride in how she looked and what she wore, choosing to spend her money on what made her feel and look good in the hope that it would cover up the way she felt inside. No amount of makeup would fill that hole though. Sometimes it grew that huge, she thought it would consume her. Not today though. Today she was filled with hope because it was the start of a new school year and with new years brought new hopes for both her and her pupils. She stared deep into the mirror and pressed lightly at the soft bags beneath her soft turquoise eyes. When had she become this woman? Tiny lines had started to trace their way outwards from the corners of her eyes. Laughter lines her mother called them, but Miss Rose didn’t have much to laugh about these days. “Scowl marks then,” her mother had sneered when Rose had tried to tell her that she had been feeling a little down’. “You’ve been scowling at that computer of yours for too long,” her mother suggested. “You need a holiday; you need to relax.” What she needed, however, was someone to listen to her, someone to tell her that what she was feeling was perfectly normal for someone of her age to experience, but her mother had failed to notice this cry for help. Her mother had failed her at a lot of things over the years, but Miss Rose had always been reluctant to cut ties with her completely, despite what others had said, because she was her family and without family, she had nothing. She picked up a small, but expensive, jar of cream, opened it and dabbed the tiniest amount onto her forefinger. Dabbing under her eyes, Miss Rose hoped to see a difference in the puffiness around her face. She didn’t, so she pulled out the ‘big guns’ as it were: the concealer, the primer, the foundation and the blusher.

Ten minutes later and Miss Rose had started to recognise the woman who stared back at her from the mirror. She smiled. However, it was a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Whether is was because she didn’t want to see the wrinkles she had spend ten minutes covering or whether it was because she didn’t want to admit to being able to see the deep sadness that currently resided in her face, she would never know because she would never allow herself the time to really ponder over that question as the answer, quite frankly, scared her. A sombre mood and swirled its way into the dressing room and the dressing room was supposed to be a place of glamour; that’s what they had decided on anyway when they first purchased the house ten years ago. Shaking off dark thoughts, Miss Rose stepped over to her wardrobe and pulled out a red polka-dot three quarter length flared skirt and teamed it up with a crisp white shirt, skin-coloured tights and red ballet pumps. It was a bright morning outside and she felt she had to dress to reflect the weather because before she knew it, October would be upon her and with dark nights come dark thoughts.

The Boy with the Dinosaur Pyjamas

A little poem about being adventurous, beating bullies and achieving your dreams.  If you think it needs a bigger audience (of course you do!!), please share!

The Boy with the Dinosaur Pyjamas

There was a young boy whose name was Jimmy,
Tall and lean and some might say skinny,
The thing with Jimmy was that when it came to bedtime,
He was like: “Erm, yep, sure, okay, that’s fine.”

Children, you see, usually when it comes to going to their beds,
They spout out every excuse floating around in their heads.
But for our Jimmy, bedtime’s not a chore,
Because when Jimmy goes to bed each night he rides on top of a dinosaur.

I can see you now saying: “Woah, they’re like extinct!”
Let me explain, I’ll keep it simple and succinct.
Once upon a time young Jim hated catching those Zzzzs,
He had his mum and dad down and begging on their knees,
“Oh Jimmy,” they pleaded. “Sleep is good; it’s not here to harm us.”
And that was when they handed over a pair of magic dinosaur pyjamas.

A dazzling green, you might say lime,
Whatever the colour, Jimmy began to love bedtime,
The magic, you see, shush, come here and gather in,
The magic could only be seen by him.

As night would fall, the pyjamas would shake and wriggle,
As they did this, Jimmy would giggle and jiggle.
Now, come on kids, don’t lose focus,
Because on that first night, out jumped a Diplodocus.

Its neck was long and a tail did sprout,
It had a nose with a super smelling snout,
But don’t fret my dears, this beast is not a scary ‘un,
Didn’t you know the Diplodocus is a vegetarian?

Accepting the magic, Jimmy took it all in his stride,
As he struggled to board his new dinosaur ride,
The dinosaur (lets name it Big Dippy D)
Leant a hand by bending a knee

Dippy D was strong, tall and green,
Jimmy wondered how they were going to slip out of the house unseen,
There was a huge window that led out onto the roof,
Nobody had thought to make the house dinosaur proof,

Out they stepped on into the night,
Guiding their way was the moon shining bright,
Onwards they stepped; they moved on in silence,
The dinosaur’s thoughts were not filled with violence.

Seeing a sauropod up close, the chance is quite slim,
Imagine the excitement bubbling up in our young Jim.
Their adventure however, was almost cut short,
They were almost seen and almost caught

By a passing milk van driving slowly through the dawn,
“Was that a dinosaur, I saw?” said the milkman pressing his horn.
“There’s its long neck, its thick curvy tail,
Four sturdy legs, it’s huge, it’s to scale.”

Big Dippy D stopped dead in its tracks,
It whispered to Jimmy “It’s time to turn back.”
Grabbing hold of his neck, Jimmy gripped on tight,
They had to go home before day consumed night,

Huge strides were made to make it home safe and sound,
“Quick! Slide on down my neck and get onto the ground”
Jimmy let go and he flew down in a whizz,
As the milkman pulled up waving his arms in a tizz,

“What was that I saw? Now, don’t you dare call me ridiculous
But did I just see you sliding down the neck of a diplodocus?”
But it was just little Jimmy standing by his front door,
Wearing his green dinosaur pyjamas, that’s it and nothing more.

The milkman no longer believed what he did see,
Because the magic worked just for Jim, you and me
Off came the PJs, a new day had dawned,
Folded neatly on Jimmy’s bed, a tired dinosaur yawned.

A new adventure awaited but for now it would rest,
But stirring quietly on the left leg was the huge, mean T-Rex.
Jimmy, now at school, was with his friends and having fun,
The T-Rex smiled and patiently waited for night time to come.

————————————————————————–

Come on now kids, I know you want more,
You want a visit from an exciting dinosaur,
Well here it comes; it’s time for a bad ‘un
It grew from Jimmy’s fears though, which makes it a sad ‘un.

Now Jimmy had friends but a few days back,
He found himself coming under attack
From some older boys who didn’t like his hair,
They stood over him, belittled him and made others stare,

Their words, they stuck and the insults did sting,
But Jimmy didn’t want to make it a thing,
His anger he breathed in and out through his nose,
His emotions were passed on through his night clothes,

So dusk did fall and Jimmy undressed,
He climbed into the PJs he loved the best,
Stitched onto his left leg, patiently waiting, was the theropod,
Waiting for the household to visit the Land of Nod.

When you’re a T-rex, it’s hard to stay quiet,
Especially when you’re following a meat only diet.
With its tummy grumbling it grew and awoke,
And to Jimmy’s surprise it had a lisp when it spoke.

“Now listen to me, Jimmy, yes siree,
We’re paying a visit to those boys from Class three.”
“I’m not quite sure Mr T-Rex, if you please,
Getting them to apologise, well, it won’t be a breeze.”

“We’ll see about that, I have my own ways and means
Of getting an apology from snotty nosed tweens.”
They sneaked out of the house without waking a soul,
42 Wood Street was their destination and goal.

A dinosaur with short arms can’t knock on doors,
But it makes up for what it lacks with its menacing roar,
Snoozing in bed is a boy we won’t name,
Because rising above them makes them all the more lame.

A sharp tap on the window was all it took,
For the house to shudder, shake and shook,
Opening a window with force and a clatter,
An angry young boy screamed: “My Gosh! What’s the matter?”

He stopped in his tracks and he could scream no more,
When he was face to face with a huge dinosaur,
Standing on his porch and looking right in,
The young boy could see jagged teeth in its grin.

“Now listen here and listen close,
Making people feel sad makes you ugly and gross.
Don’t be the bad guy. Do you understand fully?
Because no one wants to be friends with the school’s only bully.”

“Yes, Mr Rex oh, don’t eat me please,
Or are you just a slice of undigested cheese?”
“I assure you I’m real just look at my teeth,
I’ve been told that young boys taste like a fine cut of beef,

Have you learnt your lesson? Don’t use words that sting,
Your voice should be used to make the hearts of others sing.”
The dinosaur looked at the bully and winked,
“Take my advice or soon you too will be extinct.

The world won’t suffer those who act like you,
Make a change for the better ensure that you do.”
The boy looked to Jimmy perched way up high,
A coy smile he offered, they shook hands and said bye.

The T-Rex and his master headed back to the house,
Where the dinosaur entered as quiet as a mouse,
Jimmy returned to his bed and laid down to rest,
The T-Rex, satisfied, had completed his test.

Sunlight glared through his window so bright,
A new day was here and gone was the night,
His PJs were thrown into the wash,
His fear of school he was ready to squash.

When Jimmy arrived he was utterly spellbound,
Because his bully waved at him as he entered the playground,
“I’m sorry,” he said “I won’t do it again,
It took a dinosaur with short arms to reach into my brain.”

The two eventually became quite good friends,
But this isn’t where Jimmy’s story quite ends,
Magic, you know, is never as it seems,
Next we need to discuss Young Jim’s hopes, wishes and dreams.

—————————————————————————-

Magic exists you just need to know where to look,
Whether it be on pyjamas or in the pages of this book,
Our next dinosaur has wings and can fly,
It will teach you that there ain’t nothing you can’t defy.

The pyjamas were washed, dried and clean,
Airing on the radiator, this pterodactyl sneaked out unseen,
“Hey Jimmy!” it squeaked through a long pointed beak,
“Ever wanted to see Mount Everest’s highest peak?”

“I’ll never reach something so magnificent and high,”
“How do you know,” the reptile asked, “if you don’t even try?
Failure can offer new thoughts or a solution,
Look at us, we were wiped out but then there’s this thing called evolution.”

Our hero, our boy, our adventurer, Jim,
Opened his mind and began listening
To the stories told by the friendly carnivore,
He learnt of places, dates, history and a whole lot more.

“You’re telling me I could be an astronaut and fly to the moon,
Or I could teach young children about a song with a dish and a spoon?”
“Success isn’t money or searching for a big win,
Success is counted by the size of your grin.”

Do what makes you happy and you’ll find that you’ll soar,
You won’t need to fly on the back of a winged dinosaur.”
“I understand, but I admit flying looks pretty fun,
How about just once round the block before up comes the sun?”

Unable to avoid Jim’s irresistible charm,
The pterodactyl offered him a long scaly arm.
So children, look up, look for the magic in the skies,
You might just be in for a pleasant surprise,

There amongst the stars may be a boy in his pyjamas,
With his dinosaur on his way back from the Bahamas,
He chose to believe that nothing is impossible,
And if we all live this way, that makes us unstoppable.

The end.

Dedicated to this guy and his own magic pyjamas.

Illustrations courtesy of Charlotte Gibbens.

Silent Screaming

Invisible behind the clear glass windscreen she screams and it’s guttural, it’s visceral but totally relatable,

Unseen perhaps because the sunlight hits the screen at just the right angle;

Unseen maybe because she’s over 30 and no one truly sees her anymore;

Unseen probably because she’s not the only one screaming. She’s not the only one alone screaming in her car,

She just feels like she is.

Now before you ask, she is fine,

is of sound thought and the owner of a rational mind,

She beared the brunt of just your bog standard tantrum this morning;

she wasn’t yet dressed,

She unloaded and loaded the washing machine, hung herself out to dry as admittedly she’s long past her best,

She’s your port of call in a storm, a bright beacon when you’re lost in the dark,

When needed, she’s your number one,

But. She lost a little chunk of herself when she became a Mum.

A choice was made and the path laid clear,

She went into this decision with wide open eyes,

Imagine her shock and imagine her surprise that when asked if she’s okay, she pours out lies,

Who set the bar so high? I always thought I was quite tall,

Glossy magazines, painted fake smiles? Yeah, actually, I’m really rather small.

Diminished, dishevelled and disappearing into herself,

No longer desirable; too young to gather dust upon that high shelf.

And seated in her car her thoughts close in and whisper…

When suddenly it hits her…

She’s alone. Alone! Finally alone.

Her thoughts are not of school runs, panicked emails, best laid plans but they’re her own,

What to do? What to do? It’s every mum’s dream when wide eyed and staring out comes that scream,

‘I wasn’t my best today; I should have tried harder, I allowed it to get to me – another chink in my armour,

A martyr to motherhood? I’ve let down my team,

Lost patience and a PE kit – I’m every mediocre parent’s dream’,

Left alone too long and your thoughts can turn sour;

guilt hits harder if your ‘me time’ runs over an hour.

Admit it now, it’s called defeat.

It’s okay to throw in the towel as

there’s always your car. It will sit and hum gently while you scream and howl because it understands that sometimes you don’t always want to ‘talk’;

sometimes you don’t need a shoulder to cry on;

sometimes you don’t want your problems shared or halved

or even solved.

Sometimes you just want to scream.

Like a car, we just want to get from A to B and perhaps it takes a scream to allow us to see

that today we couldn’t please everybody; today we let ourselves down; today perfection was far from our grasp,

Like it always is.

But at least we tried.