Water Babes

When pregnant with my son I swam. Weightless in water and glad of the support. And once a week a class -  to stretch and pull and push my way around a pool. To find friends amongst women in the same boat as me.

Mothers. New to the role. As my baby thrived and cried his way through early weeks, I found a lifeline with girls I had - until then - barely knew. Who loved and resented and understood - that the world had turned upside down.

Five years ago. Infants grown now to little boys. Different schools and friends and lives. Each our helping of luck and disaster along the way. But still around. Know me at my worst and at my best. Remember my boy from the time he was born. Memory bound of his earliest days.

Dinner then and a glass of wine. For those with whom I never went to school. Not at my wedding and in no grinning snaps from my youth.

Met in a pool. Five years water under the bridge. I'll drink to you. To me - and to mine - and to yours... x

The Whole Of The Moon

The five year old says Santa isn't real. I tell him this is rocky ground - that Father Christmas deals not with those who disbelieve. Elves - sharp of eye and ear - hear and see it all. Walk the walk and talk the talk - or Christmas morning shall be bleak indeed.

He back tracks then - says it is a joke. Wishes not to put this logic to the test. But my heart sinks, and I wonder how sure he really is - what older, wiser, bloody child, has enlightened my son too soon.

Leave Christmas well alone. Burst not the glittering bubble of a little boy. Keep face before a truth which cannot be untold. A threshold to all that is real - and ordinary - in our world. I overcompensate, in my race to smooth damage already done. May it be enough.

Five and the whole of the moon. Too small - too cruel - and too soon... x

One

Plump of cheek and sideswept lock,

Knitted tights and baby frock.

Blonde of hair and blue of eye,

Gutsy, strong and loud of cry.

Chatter chatter, sweet of song,

Cotton romper'd not for long.

Roll and crawl and reach and pull,

Not your clever brother's fool.

Milk and porridge bunny ears,

Spun of laughter not of tears.

Mother's daughter darling girl,

Brightest light in all the world.

Sing and Sign and Baby Jake,

Jelly tots and birthday cake.

Red and navy tartan dress,

Rosy cheeks and Sunday best.

Little sister pride and joy,

Love you girl and love you boy.

One year old and all of five,

Living, breathing running wild... x

Dancing Queen

My little boy loves Abba. What's not to love when you're 5 years old? The latest in his collection of cds - growing in size now to rival our own - and straight to the top of his chart. A cd player, previously belonging to my Gran, blasts out famous songs we all know - re-recorded in child's voice, packaged in cartoon graphics, and sent with love for the next generation to enjoy.

Early morning - dressed in school uniform greyer than the shade of our pouring skies - he sings and jumps and shouts, the baby floor bound and in awe. No. 1, on repeat, louder than I would allow. Inhibition free and a dancing prince to his mother's queen.

In teens and twenties, in nightclubs in the dark, I danced and twirled and spun. From one to the next until my husband caught - dizzy of head and happy to save the final dance for him. Weddings now, our infrequent chance to drag ourselves back to the floor.

But I dance today with my boy, 5 minutes and babe in arms we spin and twist and sing. A dismal rainy morning illuminated in song. Lost in his music, where - I believe - he belongs. My girl and I approve, this day my son has reminded his mother to sing. To dance and forget to care. I should try to remember more.

And a redundant cd player put again to good use. Gran loved Abba - she would most certainly approve... x

Bunny Ears

The baby girl is one this week. I can hardly believe so soon. A first year of life - gone in the blink of an eye. When born - in a flurry of new baby gifts - we acquired several cuddly rabbits, and I joked to the five year old that we needed a hutch. The largest - pink, green and floppy eared - is now her favourite toy. A happy pair they make, sat together in the cot as she calls to be lifted up.

And my boy - hand in paw with a spotted dog. Black and white and machine washed to grey. Found in a shop in a pretty Welsh town. A holiday prize and love at first sight. A photo - taken moments after we bought the dog - winks at me now from my left hand side.

Family members - these toys. Scraps of fluff and fabric so very loved. Favourite ragged playmates who to lose would be a loss indeed.

I have a rabbit of my own - threadbare in a bottom drawer. Torn and stitched and through the wars. Held in small arms in a million yellowed snaps, a glint in a glassy eye. And a blue jumper, knitted by hands no longer around, to keep him warm.

Not played with, but there. A childhood treasure, too special to send away. And amidst my children's sea of toys, new favourites now emerge. A rocking horse and a wheelie dog. Well worn books not destined for the charity shop.

But a rabbit and a spotted dog. The touch and the smell of those who hold them dear. Cuddled and adventure bound for years. Loved by us all. Special - and favourite - and to keep... x

A Deeper Shade Of Green

The 5 year old is struggling today. This morning, this afternoon, this week. As the baby grasps and pulls herself up, her brother is falling to bits. Tears and tantrums and tightly wound - a face of thunder with a permanent frown.

Jealous. And floundering. No attention lavished can replace what went before - the limelight - and a solo act. But the sideshow now is increasingly stealing the show.

What to do but wait it out. He will come around. I tell him she just wants to join the fun.

But the mood swings are driving me mad. Tales told every minute on a baby who knows no wrong. My little angry boy - indulged since the day he was born.

Their father arrives home. 'I'm sorry darling - we've a bad tempered crew'. Wine then - ten times better chilled - at room temperature will do.

I loathe the strops but I love the boy... 'And your sister - I know - loves you too'... x

Wet Feet

Concrete skies today, laden with rain. A morning walk through shades of grey and smir to dampen the soul. Puddles and hoods and boots. A mild dismal day.

Sudden relief then - of crimson and russet and red. A carpet of fallen flame in a bright enchanted wood. Sodden underfoot and saturated hue.

Beautiful and glossy and wet. A brief riot of red amidst our sea of stony grey... x

King Of The Castle

Speech therapy today - for my boy who calls a cake a 'tate'. We join him, the baby and I - plucked from his class for 20 minutes of 'T' which should be 'K'.

He cannot make the sound. Three therapists between them are running out of ways to try. We are recruited to joining the game at home. A toothbrush held on a tongue and a mouth kept open wide. Cat, kite, king - good try, now try again.

He is growing bored of the wait. Interest lost in a game not so easy as it sounds. From the floor the baby lends a hand. T and D and G. Clever girl.

A sideways glance then, and dark clouds cross the sky. He tolerates these sessions, willing if increasingly bored. Lazy over K and competitive not. But a baby, a sister, a little girl - champion of a game she has not been invited to join...

In earnest then. 'k'.

'Good, better, your best yet.'

I see that it will come. Incentive - blonde and 12 months old - crawls forward and gabbles some more... x

Pandora's Box

The 5 year old has a cardboard box. A purple ribboned silver lid - chocolates long eaten, but their container smart and good as new. A treasure chest of special things, which frequents his room and is not for Mummy to see.

Drinking tea at the kitchen table he slinks past me with his box. Cupboard bound to biscuits, treats and crispy bars. 'Enough already' I say, 'wait until after tea'. In a momentary slip of secrecy, a trait of tender age, he admits his mission - a picnic for the sweet of tooth - chocolate after dark, the stuff of dreams indeed.

A Pandora's Box then - a sea of silver foil and paper wrap, prizes won on kitchen raids when a mothers back was turned. I confiscate the box. Midnight feasts, I tell, are special treats - the tooth fairy deals not in chocolate coated, rotten teeth.

Beaten - lost treasure and a promise to brush extra hard. I feel sorry to spoil the fun. From the mouths of babes - allowing yet the power to protect them from themselves. I scold not too hard, for his counsel I wish to keep.

May my boy remain liberal of tongue. Slugs and snails and puppy dogs tails. And sweets. In a box - under bed - in the dark. A secret worthy of boyhood indeed... x

Cornerstone

A wiper of tears, a holder of hands,

A marching band of pots and pans.

A singer, a dancer, the maker of fun,

Dry from the rain and safe in the sun.

A laundry maid, a kitchen hand,

Full attention on demand.
A teacher, a nurse, a warning bell,

No break for tea in the day from hell.

Corporate world of a kitchen sink,

Charges dressed in blue and pink.

A storyteller day and night,

Cure an ail and stop a fight.

Day shift, night shift never done,

The patience of angels all in one.

A tower of strength, a firm embrace,

Beauty and warmth and love and grace.

Face and hands of criss-cross lines,

Winning tiny hearts and minds.

Investing now these early days,

A future where the interest pays.

A happy child, a mothers work,

Built of love and not of luck.
Bedrock, anchor, cornerstone,

Worth her very weight in gold.

Woman, lover, silly girl,

Keeper now of all her world.

A wife, a daughter, mother duck,

Question not the worth of her work... x

You can find poetry and prose from other bloggers every Thursday over at Prose For Thought

Edinburgh Castle

A train journey tomorrow. Two Scottish cities and a night in a hotel. A university friend and I - pretending for an evening that we are students still. Edinburgh Castle and surrounding mile - cobbled streets and lamplit lanes. Shopping and wandering and wine for two.

Mothers and wives but before that friends. A woman I've known for years, who nowadays can barely hear my voice above our children's shouts. We may speak of loved ones - but they shan't be there. I cannot wait. The early train, a new dress and an overnight escape. A northern city of stone - all the better to wander - in the dark, in the winter, and in pairs... x

This Pretty Face

A new wrinkle today. Under my eye on the right hand side. Like a crease line from sleep which, when awake at 6.45, should have long settled down by noon. Here to stay then, and welcome not, to a face looking gradually older with each passing day.

In hospital - in the weeks and days before she died - Gran squeezed the hand of visitors who brightened her afternoon. I noticed then her hands - almost 91 - had the skin of a woman much younger in years. My own, dry from washing and neglected from lack of time, please me not, so a mental note then, to take more care.

Longer, with each passing year, to shrug the signs of wear. A blemish from a spot is slower to fade and scars take longer to heal. I look at my children - perfect in new skin - and see that I'm no longer the focus of the shot. A frame now - to hold and support and present these early days as best I can.

I accept the role. I admire my girl, I am proud of my son, I'll rub cream in my hands when I can. As the lines multiply around the eyes, I shall pick another mirror - in softer light - to apply more makeup and brush my hair. My husband ages just as me - in laughing photos from before our marriage, we remark that we look so young.

Yet a happier place to be. Stretched and blemished and perfect not. Loved and strong with a place in the world. I should not turn back the clock. My daughter grins a toothy smile, chubby cheeks and the brightest eyes. My darling girl. I'll trade my years of youth to smile upon you. Spring eternal in the face of a child. Welcome compensation for the compulsory price of age... x

Is That The Time?

Winter has arrived. Cold air which chills my feet and whistles through a sore ear to a rough and delicate throat. To the doctor then, to see if more is needed than just a woollen hat and scarf. The 5 year old, in a black and white mindset typical of his age, is keen to neatly arrange these cooler days. 'It is winter now?' he prompts on November 1st when I turn the calender around, anxious to pigeon hole our seasons into months. I agree and choose not to muddy the water by explaining that - in his lifetime - it is likely to change. Multiple shades of grey in a calendar year - weather knowing neither rhyme nor reason, and adhering to no pattern recognised by us.

But a steady chill for now, with bright skies and a notion to be out and wrapped up warm. Late for the bell today, too busy with hats and scarves and baby fists, desiring not the squeeze through elastic to the gloves beyond. We are nearly always chasing the clock - since the day my son was born. A stickler for punctuality in my previous life, I relinquish control - in the face of two children with their own ideas of time. A universal language, it seems, for parents of the young - 'I say half past and I'll do my best, but know - as I do - that we'll be late.'

Time - increasingly running away. Relax then, and urge my boy to panic not when a minute behind the bell. Better late than never - that's us. Hours and weather, speeding ahead at a rate of knots. Patterns, seasons and control - lost - and who knows when to return... x

Steam and Sanctuary

5pm is bath time in our house. Flung together - a mat for the 5 year old and a seat for the babe. It cures all ills this tub of warm water. Cleanses the cares of the afternoon. Squeezy toys, vanishing bubbles and a plastic jug. Wicked children become soapy babes.

No room alas for me - sore back, rough throat and a million things to do. I envy them their bath. I'd climb in if I could - be mother duck. My boy and I sing favourite songs - the baby learning as she grows. Farmers and pigs and cows and sheep. Swung over the ocean and home in time for tea.

From towels they emerge anew - clean and rosy cheeked, perfect in pink skin and pyjamas clean. I'm loathe to open the door. To invite back in the cold air and remainder of our day.

Run wild to their father I tidy the room. Catch pirates, a whale and a shark in a net - open the window and wring out the wet. Steam and sanctuary gone - our bath time bubble burst until another day... x