Author: toughmotheruk

The last weeks have been battering.

I’ve been trying to find a way to describe it without being overly dramatic – perhaps how I imagine it would feel crossing the Pacific in a rowing boat. Not ideal but there would be long stretches of amazing experiences, clear skies and calm seas… and times where you’ll be holding on for dear life as the waves hit.

A friend was killed in an accident. One moment larger than life, the next – not.

Just over a week later, my mother in law died. I was going to say lost her battle with cancer, however, it seems too cliche for the awful but beautiful experience it was to be with her when she died.

And while it feels like “normal” life should stop, it doesn’t.

Homework and work needs to be done.  Shoes put on. Toast may or may not need to be toasted. Now, there are also the holes they have left and the added responsibility of guiding the kids through their grief.  Helping them come to terms with loss and to remember all the things that made up Grandma.

But there has also been lots of joy. Of reconnecting with friends, laughing over horrible jokes, reminiscing, tickles with the kids…

Growing up on a farm, my dad would often say that where there is life, there is death.

Right now, it’s hard to be that philosophical, but the level of support we’ve received has been awesome. I know we have the life vests, flares, and emergency rations at the ready so it will be ok. Even though there may still be some stormy waters ahead.

For the last year I’ve been doing press ups every day. Slightly mad you think?

It was inspired by a motivational talk by “The Burpee Guy“. He was looking for a challenge to raise funds and settled on a 1-365 challenge, increasing the number of burpees by one per day.

One of the guys at work thought it would be a good way to get fit, but wanted to do press ups rather than burpees. I’m easily persuaded to get involved in these types of challenges so signed up for moral support.

I also roped in my husband who made the mistake of saying he’d like to do 40 press ups by Christmas. Queue informercial voice-over of “why stop there, when for just a few extra minutes a day you could do so many more instead”!

Starting with one seemed a bit silly, but it quickly added up to hard. However, it was surprising how if you could do [insert number] yesterday, then what is just one more?

We got to 108 when we decided we might need to modify the challenge – just one more still adds up to a lot of time and sore muscles – so we settled on 100 a day instead.

And yes, it was a bit crazy, but the funny thing is I think it has led to all sorts of changes, including this blog.

Realising you can control one small habit opens up intriguing possibilities…

Particularly when other parts of life remain completely out of (your) control.

We are currently riding the ups and downs of cancer. My mother in law has not been responding to the treatment so now the discussion is what’s next. I can’t do much about the course of that conversation – I’m just part of the support crew on the sidelines.

But, while the rollercoaster makes its giddy descent, I think I’ll be continuing some press ups.

What helps you steer through the twists and turns of life?

Last year, my son covered the Great Fire of London at school. It was very immersive – they went to Pudding Lane, climbed the Monument (almost derailing the day when he forgot to count the steps…), and built model tudor houses.

However, he decided it was possible to take this to the next level. He wanted to re-enact the fire –  under very controlled conditions of course.

He very nicely asked his teacher for the model tudor house template, photocopied it thirty times, asked us to help him painstakingly construct them all… and then left them on the table for about a month.

Of course, as safety supervisor, it was difficult give the go ahead given the warm and windy conditions seen over the summer.

But finally, the weather conditions were perfect. The houses were finally transferred from the table to the barbecue. Everyone had a role – my son was the commentator and background music, my daughter was elected firefighter with hose poised, my husband was the fire lighter, and I was the videographer.

After a few false starts, it was off.

The kids watched in awe, and (I’m glad to report) a bit of fear. It made me realise they’ve not seen a lot of fires. A bit different to my childhood when we had a coal burner (the top of which was a prized spot during the winter), and regularly used to set light to rubbish we had on the farm. I’m in denial over the extent this adds to my carbon footprint.

Part way through, my son thought of a fire break. Unfortunately, we didn’t have any dynamite (accuracy is apparently important), nor any time.

It didn’t take long for there to be just a pile of ash… lesson learned?

Now we’re back into the school routine, I’m looking back at the school holidays with more fondness. Before them, we’d discussed the plan of attack – my husband even drew up the “battle plan”. The kids needed to spend a week in camp, and to our interest and delight, science camp was the winner for both.

As an incentive though, my daughter asked to go horse riding. Putting aside the fear that this is a slippery slope to a very expensive hobby, we found one that promised riding, brushing, and mucking out the stables. Not just glamour – perfect!

My son decided he would have a day with dad so I dropped her off at her first solo all day event. I am not sure she even noticed me leave.

When I went to collect her she came running toward me with a huge smile on her face. So far so good.

As we climbed into the car, I had my best listening face on and I was armed with lots of active questions.

Two in, she looked at me and said “Mum, shall we get this show on the road”.

Independence – tick!

 

How do you teach the value of money?  I’d tried using an app for a while for pocket money. They were very excited to get a star when they completed a job and saw the dial move closer to whatever they were saving for. Then their attention and enthusiasm for making their bed, tidying up, taking out the rubbish, waned. Funny that.

So we ‘cashed out’ from the app and moved to tracking progress on a piece of paper stuck to the fridge. Old school! They both made it to £34, which for simplicity converted to €34 (foreign exchange lesson is next year).

Of course, even before we went away, they were dying to spend it. Any potential opportunity to buy plastic tat (aka junk for those outside the UK) was like a black hole sucking them in…

I was very proud of my son on a couple of occasions, when after much internal and (usually) external debate, he decided to save his money instead of getting something for the sake of it. He’s growing up!

That is until the boat incident. When trying to decide between an inflatable (mildly useful on holiday) and a plastic fantastic boat (awful), the decision was made when the boat was dropped… and broken. €10.

Not long later, an entire bottle of coke was spilt. As this was the fourth occasion and immediately followed a warning from my husband, he had to pay for his almost drink. €4.

We somehow managed to avoid the shops for a time, until the last day of the holiday, when we made the mistake of going into a toy shop. My daughter had long since spent her money, so while she did her best to convince us she would be good for a loan, she was introduced to the concept of ‘browsing’.

In a similar vein, our son found two things he liked. Neither of which he could afford. He attempted his best sales pitch: if he went for the cheaper option, we would save money, he’d get three aeroplanes, a boat that made noises, and it came in a big box…. all for €34.

As he stared longingly at the box, I watched the moment of dawning comprehension as he realised he would have been able to afford it but for the above mentioned events.

I couldn’t have planned a key life lesson better had I tried. Some consolation as we carried both children out in tears?

There has been a lot of discussion in our household recently about our origins.

My daughter, being born in New Zealand, considers herself more Kiwi than her brother. My son’s usual counter is that he lived there for longer, so he is at least as kiwi as she is.

As you can imagine, this gets quite circular and very heated.

However, he must have decided recently that this line of argument did not carry sufficient weight as he has been carrying out additional research.

Going back a few generations, my husband has English and Scottish heritage. There was brief excitement when we thought there was some Welsh as well, but that has since been discounted. While it was disappointing, it has made the maths easier.

The net result – he’s more Kiwi than English.

Everyone likes to find qualities that make them unique, so I can’t help but wonder what his approach would have been had we still lived in NZ. I haven’t wanted to suggest going back even further as it would get much more complicated!

I therefore had a lot of sympathy for the lovely Italian lady we met, while in Lake Como, who got the full breakdown after innocently asking where he was from. I think she may have lost the thread soon after “Well I live in England, but …”

 

School’s out and we joined the annual summer migration of Brits across to the continent.

We tried a Eurocamp for the first time. On the drive through the campsite, I felt a little ripped off to discover there were also ‘local’ campsites. Have we been sucked in? Anyway, that’s beside the point.

The camp was a paradise for kids – extensive swimming pools (my son drooled at the pirate ship), waterslides, swimming lake, fishing lake… which we all felt a lot of love for given the heatwave we were right in the middle of.

It was intriguing watching the kids gain confidence in a new environment, particularly my daughter,

Day one was focused around the ‘little’ pools. Day two, my daughter was keener to try the waterslide – as long as she went down with me. I was more inclined to try reading my book on the lounger we’d managed to snag in a shady spot so tried to bolster her courage to go it alone.  After the first time, she then wore a groove running, I mean walking, up the stairs.

From there, day three, she graduated to the pontoon. My son thought a significant run up was necessary (picture fast bowler, rather than spinner). She too thought this was a great idea. She paced it out, built up speed… and came to a screeching stop at the edge, paused for a look, then jumped in.

I thought next time she might go for it, or at least take a shorter run up. But no, she was adamant. It had to be the entire length of the pontoon. To then stop. And repeat the process.

However, sometime between try three and 10 it all came together – the run up smoothly moving into a dive/belly flop.

Best day ever.

Well, obviously my face cream isn’t living up to its promises!

My defensive response to my son’s question was to point out that the Wright brothers and lesser known Richard Pearse, a Temuka farmer, battled out who was the first to fly well over 100 years ago. (Just in case it comes up in a pub quiz, it appears Richard pipped the brothers at the post, flying in 1902 v December 1903.)

Going back to my son’s question, it made me realise that technology does have a way of ageing us. Generation X, Y, and Z doesn’t mean a lot when you compare it to gramophone, record player, portable stereo, walkman, iPod, iPhone…  A few of those are before my time in case you’re wondering, although I do remember the excitement of being given a walkman for a (to remain unspecified) birthday. They are the tangible memories woven into the every day or the moments of new discoveries that mark our lives.

This was particularly apparent recently when the children were given a disposable camera as part of a birthday party scavenger hunt reward. Almost as one, the kids ripped into the packages, to then stare in some bemusement at the cameras.

“I can’t see the picture.”

“Why isn’t the button working?”

“You can delete them right?”

“How do you get the picture out?”

How things have moved on! While the instructions were pretty straightforward, it was harder to describe the agonising indecision of choosing between the five day (or, for me, more like two weeks as we didn’t get into ‘town’ very often) or, the excessively priced, one hour photo developing. Then the anticipation and crushing disappointment when only 16 of the 24 photos were printed and in focus.

We haven’t finished the film yet, but I’m looking forward to seeing how many photos we get of the sky or my husband’s right nostril!

This morning the kids were awake, dressed in their uniform, and comfortably ensconced on the sofa by the time I was getting ready for work. They put in a breakfast order (politely), which I made them (also politely) assist with. I said goodbye and then walked to the train.

It is only now, hours later, that I realised… how easy it was.

This is in stark contrast to previous mornings where there has been breakfast comedy worthy of a Michael McIntyre show.

A highlight was when my daughter asked for red jam (strawberry) toast about two minutes before I had to run for the train. Feeling virtuous (and happy with our decision to buy a toaster 28 times faster than other toasters on the market), I duly presented it to her – for her to immediately burst into tears and wail “not toasted”!

Explaining with gritted teeth that the definition of toast is that it’s toasted didn’t cut it.

I had a flash back to my brother having a very similar ‘conversation’ with my nephew. In my blissful pre-child state, I had judged him for modifying the toast preparation.

I now realise the waste – in time, tears and toast – that he was trying to prevent.

So an apology to my brother… and to my husband for leaving a wailing child to eat her toasted toast while I dashed to the train.

In case you are wondering, my daughter’s breakfast order became red jam toast, not toasted, buttered, crusts cut off and cut down the middle (the diagonal cut being reserved for special occasions).

Unfortunately, this was after my unsuspecting brother-in-law made the same mistake…

Is the toast order a rite of passage (or is it just my family!)?

As I was doing up my laces the other day, my daughter asked me why I run.

To be honest, it’s not something that I’d really stopped to think about.

I started running when I went to university. Before then, I’d played team sport and walked or scrambled up and down hills and gullies on the farm to round up sheep so there didn’t seem to be any need.

It was then a bit of a shock to move to the city and discover I couldn’t enjoy uni hall food without also upping my activity. Running was cheap, a great way to discover new places, and also gave me the sense of space and movement I missed.

It also gave me a most salutary lesson that has been particularly relevant recently.

On a return visit to Christchurch years ago, I decided to run a loop around the Rapaki Track. It is a pretty brutal uphill climb before meandering around the hills overlooking the city.

I set off well and I was on my way back when I passed an old gentleman also out for a run. Even now, with a few more years under my belt, I would still swear he was at least 90.  I also say run, he was taking the smallest steps so it was more of a shuffle.  I remember marvelling that he was still making the effort.

However, not long after, my lack of training, and perhaps some jet lag, (I’m sure there were lots of other reasons as well!) hit hard. I ran into the ‘wall’ and it wasn’t pleasant. As I was walking home, the elderly gentleman overtook me.

As I had my tortoise and hare moment and watched him disappear over the brow of the hill, I was struck that even the smallest steps in the same direction help to keep you moving forward.