Wordless, again

It's done. I can't pretty it up yet or wrap the right words around the raw spiky places. As emergency surgery goes it was easy and she's fine now the half-teeth are gone. As fine as a stubborn and extremely miffed five year old can be when she lacks the vocabulary to express discomfort and just howls and howls for hours at a time.

I've been so anxious about this I haven't even written about her birthday, or Christmas knitting, or crafts, or the learning they are all engaged in. I feel really stuck. At least now it's more literally physically stuck what with trying to make her immediate world feel a little less horrible - rather than the emotional stuck of not-really-coping-with-anything and awaiting boiler repairs and surgery and landlord's inspection and more appointments at the same time as getting last orders out and saying goodbye to my mum as she flies out to Estonia to meet my new nephew...

Oh look, a few dozen words. Quick, shut them down before they overflow everywhere.

Seven Days in which I don't have time to remember my own name

1: Advent in full swing, Saint Nicholas Day shoes
2: Crafting
3: And craft fayres (two successful charity events in one week)
4: She might not love board game cafes or board games but she's certainly a fan of attached comic book shops
5: Incredible art at Derby QUAD ("What a Loving and Beautiful World")

I don't know whether I'm coming or going this week. So much going on, and I'm not fully on top of any of it (except posting orders out, I am up to date with that and only have one more bag to take to the post office before Christmas). One out of the two back-to-back birthdays. Two craft fayres. Assorted attempts to get the house chaos back under control. Yeah. My head is a bit of a mess; this year I have found each birthday really emotionally hard. Something to do with not being able to make them perfectly happy and perfectly peaceful any more. Something to do with being afraid that I'm not as good a mother as I used to be (or not as confident a person, or something, I don't know). The elusive feeling of striving for good enough and not being sure I'm ever close.

Seven Days during which I have a birthday and feel sort of lonely and quietly desperate

1: Gradients, because yarn makes things better (always)
2: Changed over Winter decorations in a fit of pique at it being rainy and bitterly cold, having a sick kid on a day I wanted to see people, and generally feeling blue
3: Stacking things
4: Birthday walk
5: The lights in town, photographed by a giddy Jenna
6: Snuggly not-a-baby excited about stickers
7: There's this Christmas fayre we go to every year which I loved as a child and tolerate as an adult. The children adore it, of course. Compensation in the form of vintage tea set.
8: Basically after two huge meltdowns this week (mine) I gave up and we decorated on the first Sunday in Advent. It worked. Prettying things and familiar traditions helped a lot.

I need a calmer week.

Beneath everything this week has been huge painful anxiety about Morgan. She was ill on Monday and better on Tuesday, but continued to refuse any solid food all week. Eventually I told her she had to have a bite of food every hour and her appetite gradually returned. I can't accurately describe the heartbroken sobbing every time I stood over her and insisted she ate something, but goodness, she was so floppy and listless. I'm not yet really able to sort it out into words. And I feel like a failure for coercing her AND for not coercing her sooner. But also so grateful she's perky again and asking for food.

What a week.

Ugly

I want to pour out words here about never feeling enough, about sabotaging good healthy friendships with this damn anxiety, about feeling like I'm always making excuses and ought to just "pull myself together"...

And every time I try to shape passages of real, raw, beautiful, healing, it comes out ugly and self pitying and dark.

Honestly things aren't actually all that dark. I'm as safe and supported as I've ever been, home and family are stable and healthy (bar Winter bugs). My mood has been better (I self-inventory, again, and worry that I'm thinking about it too much, again). 

Then, whahey, darkness from nowhere, petty triggers and insufficient sleep. And I lash out and hide, self protective and small, and what USE is it? I don't WANT small and safe. I want whole. I want to be kinder than I feel.

What does one do with this mess of darkness that clings and pushes and chokes?

I want it to be redemptive. I want to pour it into love and I fail at this over and over. I want it to mean something.

Seven Days of extended holidaying

1: Talia fell asleep like this early on Monday evening
2: Chicken-whisperer Morgan
3: At my mum's house for tea, blue sky through her sycamore tree
4: Making friends
5: Another visit to the Stardisk (spot the Lego!)
6: Fox production line for a dear friend's due-December Peanut
7: Post-swim, wet hair, holding hands on the way back to the car

Martin had the entire week off, post-weekend-away, with our main aim being to pootle around at home a fair bit and get some household chores done to the point of me being less stressed out. At the start of last month when I was feeling quite down and under pressure, I asked Martin if he could take a day so we could work together and get on top of the house chaos. The next available day was this week, so he took the whole week off. Yes the house really was that bad. And a week hasn't improved it all that much. But I'll take what I can get. I'll miss this Mister next week.

In defence of friendship

I wrote this for my children when they were a wee bit smaller than they are now. And on the brink of teenage years aplenty I don't take a word of it back.

I have flipped out, lectured, and bullied my children. I have. I'm not the perfect sweet calm parenting guru, I'm a real messy impossible person. I have unrealistic expectations and selfishness and I honestly think modeling persistent, thoughtful effort is more important than modeling immaculate unruffled psychologically correct behaviour at all times anyway. I'm pretty sure my children are going to mess up, too, and I want them to know that they are not bad people or broken for not meeting some inhuman standard I've arbitrarily set myself. None of this musing is directed at parents who yell, fuck up, or aim for "good enough" because their resources are low.

But why, WHY, does our culture hold up a model of parenting based on disrespect and adult tantrum throwing as the best option we have? Why do we glorify the idea of the parent who stalks their child and harangues them "for their own good"? No! I want to move past my own ego, I want to strive for connection and mutual respect. Society is selling separation and distrust and I'm not buying.

I'm friends with my kids. Why wouldn't I be? I'm a good friend. They are fantastic people. We're friends. 

I'm also their facilitator and resource provider. I'm their negotiator when they lack the words, and their shield on the very rare occasion that they need protecting from something they can't handle or walk away from with a bit of gentle advice. I'm their coach when facing something tricky or new. I'm their tour guide when there are experiences I can bring their way. I'm their ambassador and translator when they need help learning social rules and cultural norms, or when there is danger of conflict escalating without an expert on hand.

I have no idea what I'm doing sometimes. I'm figuring it out as I go along like everyone else. I'm learning with my children.

The big promises I made here challenge the heck out of me. Today I wish this were a pithy little phrase I could write on my arm in biro, or get tattooed on my forehead. I need to remind myself what I'm aiming for every freaking day.

But I don't take it back. Not a word of it.

Me according to Jenna (age almost 12)

Remember the interviews I did with the children a couple of years ago? (Eventually I might manage a link but my computer brain isn't up to much today *edited to add those are now at the bottom of the page!). I messaged it to Jenna again and she filled it in independently.

1. What is something Mummy always says to you?
I love you.

2. What makes Mummy happy?
The sea.

3. What makes Mummy sad?
Fighting.

4. How does Mummy make you laugh?
Bad puns.

5. What was Mummy like as a child?
Like me!

6. How old is Mummy?
31?

7. How tall is Mummy?
Erm?

8. What is Mummy's favourite thing to do?
Talk to her friends. Steal Torin.

9. What does Mummy do when you're not here?
Work or watch Star Trek.

10. If Mummy becomes famous what will it be for?
Singing.

11. What is Mummy really good at?
Singing.

12. What is Mummy not very good at?
I've been sitting here for ages and I have no idea.

13. What is Mummy's job?
Selling her dyed and knitted things.

14. What makes you proud of Mummy?
She's so strong. 💗

15. What is Mummy's favourite food?
Easter cake!

16. What do you and Mummy do together?
Watch science and stuff YouTube.

17. How are you and Mummy the same?
We both like lots of the same things.

18. If your Mummy was a cartoon character who would she be?
Nanny Plum

19. How are you and Mummy different?
She doesn't like How I Met Your Mother. 😮

20. How do you know Mummy loves you?
She needs to work on her poker face.

21. What does Mummy like best about Daddy?
Lots of things?

22. Where is Mummy's favourite place to go?
Anywhere with a beach.

(This is the face of a child whose mother just landed them in Grantham rather than home, by means of getting everyone on the wrong train.)

Previous interviews;
Jenna age 4 (Facebook notes)
Jenna age 7, Morgan age 5, Rowan age 3 (Carried Family blog)
Jenna age 8 (Facebook notes)

In which I set new standards for behaving like a dork in public...

Last night I had the most incredible inspiring experiences. I met one of my all time literary idols and got to shake her by the hand and tell her how much her poetry has meant to me over the years.

Carol Ann Duffy was at Derby Cathedral , opening the book festival with her wonderful poetry reading (and musical performances by Jon Sampson who was also spellbinding). I went alone; I booked myself a ticket in January, part of my newfound confidence in doing things solely for myself.

Afterwards I queued up in the line for book signings, and explained earnestly to the person asking what dedications we wanted I didn't have anything for her to sign, I just wanted to thank her for a poem.

"Prayer" has been stuck firmly in my head for more than half of my life. It has carried me through some desperately wordless times. Her words have profoundly touched me and helped me come to terms with a sort of reverent faithlessness and faith-filled prayerlessness.

She grasped my hand, and I welled up with tears. Aaand then tripped over her table.

Fangirling level: incoherent babbling. It was certainly a memorable end to the night... When I recounted the tale to Jenna she put her head in her hands and then gave me a sarcastic round of applause.

So much for the Continuum Concept **

** I jest. ;)

Yesterday started with a jolt, at half past four I was woken by Martin's alarm and felt Talia's arms around me with profound gratitude. The alarm had interrupted a horrifically graphic dream about my two oldest children dying in an accident, and it took hours to stop feeling sick.

Our day was perfectly ordinary and pleasant. Nothing out of the usual run of things. My anxiety gradually steadied and I got on with laundry, and stories, and meals, and gardening, and discussions about snails and Shakespeare.

At teatime, Talia asked for mushrooms with her chilli and stood on her stool to help cook them. I went off to put the books back on their shelves while Martin supervised. I heard Rowan and Talia downstairs shouting at each other and then screaming. Not sibling screaming, pain screaming. Because Talia had put her hand on the pan whilst yelling at her sister.

Martin held her under lukewarm running water, Martin hugged and comforted her, Martin wrapped her hand in a cold cloth and took her to A&E. Anxiety doesn't paralyse me any more, and I was right there comforting and making sure she had a change of clothes in a bag, popping a cloth in the freezer for the car journey. But I'm not needed in the same way any more. Daddy is the parent who most often is wanted for cuddles. Funny how quickly that happened once she weaned last year!

(Rowan kindly rubbed that in a bit at bedtime when she told me that she wanted to wait up until Daddy got home because, "he's better"!)

The little hand is blistered but will be fine. Today I'm cuddling and playing (and getting a load of laundry away, hopefully) and ignoring the fluttering of my heart that says, "you can't protect them, not by keeping them away from all danger, not by carefully and attentively showing them how things work and supporting them exploring, YOU CAN'T PROTECT THEM ENTIRELY.” Shut up, anxiety. No, really. I'm doing my best.

The path we took to get here matters too, maybe

There's a little park near us that we really like. One route to this park is all main roads and busy crossings. The other is behind the post office and along a shady green walk by the railway bridge. Guess which we prefer?

Yesterday was one of those days when getting the necessary adulting done felt all uphill. The children took two hours of assistance, cajoling, and then tearful pleading on the verge of hysteria, to get their shoes on.

It didn't have to go that way. It didn't even start that way. One choice leads to another leads to another. Another occasion where I only realised I was heading for overwhelm when I was almost tipped over the edge.

The day got so much better from there, from that moment of, "I can't, but I have to," and taking time to calm myself.

I would like to tell myself, it would be easier to think, that the overall niceness of the day is the only thing that matters. I think it's probably all that the kids remember of today after all. I think it's more complex than that, though, and less convenient. The path matters. The moments matter. The habits of choosing matter.

Writing it out like this is odd. It helps me to process. It also often means the overall tone is distorted by my need to work through the small frustrations and mistakes. Maybe I don't dwell enough on the overall lovely and interesting and good facets of mothering?

We spotted five different species of butterfly. We talked about train tracks and railways. We had a picnic under a tree. We talked about nature, and fairness, and books that we're reading, and how to tell what kind of metal something is made from, and what defines classification of materials.

Maybe that's the part that really matters most after all?

Basically, I have no idea what I'm doing

This is no secret, I'm sure. But some days I really don't have a clue.

In the past day (we'll liberally call it one day, it's a bit more than twenty four hours), I have:
- discovered that my green procion dye is in fact turquoise blue (or somehow failed to make the yellow fix properly, one or the other!)
- had to reknit an entire hat because I cast on the wrong number of stitches
- taken half an hour of wrangling with an automatic checkout because it didn't like my canvas bags or the fact that I was purchasing three cucumbers, I'm not sure which)
- forgotten to eat until 3pm
- overpaid for an undyed yarn order because I added the subtotal without tax to the total including VAT...

I completely am a responsible mother and business owner, honestly. Completely.

Storms

We got back from a week's holiday at the weekend. Holiday was sparkly and wonderful in spite of half of us being knocked out for at least twenty four hours each by flu. The weather was wildly changeable and the ocean was healing and vast and perfect. I've been feeling slightly flat about being home again (and had a big row with Jenna a couple of days ago that still has me feeling guilty and strange) so, well I'd really rather be back on holiday right now.

I'm not good at letting things go. I'm still on edge and really, it should have been a little thing we just talked through and got over. I have been doing really well at staying calm when hormonal explosions occur, but my reserves were pretty low. Martin grabbed me to stop me from hitting her. That has never, ever, happened before and I'm glad I have such a gentle, aware, kind co-parent in him.

I was going to keep that explanation vague and get on to talking about the sparkly wonderful happenings, but then I just couldn't perpetuate that myth of me being a perfect, together parent who never messes it all up and then feels sick about it all week.

Jenna is really rather gracious about me having screamed in her face for the first time in years. I'm extending the same grace over the names she called me for turning off music nobody seemed to be listening to, which (in combination with a breakup and not enough sleep) caused the mutual temper tantrum in the first place...

We pick up and do things differently. Next time I'll do better, one choice at a time.

I'd really like to run back to the sea again.

On starting over

I have form in the whole backtracking, mind-changing game. I mean, if you followed the old blog you've also followed bad decisions, flaky flip-flopping, philosophical about-turns, public apologies for being an arse and especially for being an Overly Certain or otherwise preachy arse. That blog was the story of a LOT of years, and all of those years contained small children and flurries of perfectionism, research, and then realising the actual children I had didn't fit my expectations At All.

So, why start over? Why a brand new fresh blog?

Um, I like lists. If you've never met me before, you'll soon catch on. I LOVE a list. I have to-do lists freaking everywhere (and most often they are abandoned after two or three items get ticked off - you were warned about the disorganised bit). Yeah, let's start as we mean to go on, eh?

- The LONG hiatus. Going back to writing on Carried Family would encourage me to put pressure on myself to catch everything up, and likely cause anyone still following that feed to get sick of hearing me whine about it and/or post massive picture-heavy epistles.

- I have no idea if anyone not immediately connected via Facebook remembers who I am any more anyhow. (NOT fishing for sympathy, it's totally okay not to care!)

- The Carried Family name feels like an odd fit now that my youngest child is not breastfeeding any more, no longer likes to ride in slings, and rarely even asks for a hip carry. These guys grew a lot. I'm still attachment parent-ish, but my children are past the cosy carrying-close co-sleeping days.

- When I started writing there was nothing out there on the internet about attachment parenting with more than one child. I had been told by a number of people that I wouldn't be able to do all that "hippy stuff" with a secondborn or I'd have to neglect my first. I wanted to put out there what it was like day to day actually living out my principles. Now not only is there absolutely vast amounts out there about attachment parenting and attachment parenting a handful of children, but I'm likely to be talking about totally different things to the life I was journalling about back then. My audience may well be different. Who knows?

- Although I'm not ashamed of having changed my mind (over and over, on many subjects) and absolutely will have times when I want to do a complete about turn on something I believe strongly right now, I feel like I've changed a lot in the last couple of years especially. Maybe it's my recently *vastly* improved mental health, but I'm emotionally ready for a new space. (Do feel that you have my permission to go and find embarassing posts I wrote way back when to ridicule me with if and when I'm being particularly strident about something, though. I won't be removing or revising anything. I didn't then and I won't now, I'd rather leave it all as a reminder to myself to be a little more humble.)

- If people don't actively want to read I'd rather drop off their feeds quietly. My voice is here because blogging made me so many wonerful connections, helped me learn about myself and my values, and allowed me to reassure parents with younger children than mine that the chaos *absolutely* continues but it does get less intensively consuming.

I am planning to stop philosophising about writing, now, truly. Here, have a picture of the children instead.