Day 96
Twenty-eight years ago this very minute, I was in the car circling Shepherd's Bush roundabout on the way to the hospital, and I had my very first contraction. I mentioned this in passing to my flatmate at the wheel and he damned nearly crashed the car. So my son Joe's life was almost over before it had even begun.
Yes, it is Joe's birthday, my first born, the child who taught me how to be a mother first, a grown-up second, and a child all over again, bless him. No longer my baby, he is tall and stringy like his father but dark-haired and hazel-eyed like me, and someone who is often described as 'walking to the beat of his own drum' like I don't know who.
It sinks in now, if I let it - I have been a mother for twenty-eight years! There was a time when that prospect was so daunting, when I had no clue if what I was doing was right or wrong, if I was up to the task at all. How would I manage when he was a teenager if I couldn't even get him to ride on a bus as a toddler? (Same way as it turned out - grab him by the braces and ignore all the screaming).
Joe used to draw cats. And robots. And sometimes cats in capes flying over the heads of robots. He weighed so little I could pick him up with one hand until he was six. He had huge eyes in a tiny little Oliver Twist face. When he hit the age when boys and girls went their separate ways in the school playground, girls still invited him over to play. "I don't care if I get teased, " one little moppet once said, "he's kind and I like him". Good for you, Laura.
He always had the most alarming imagination. When the teachers played clap-around-the-circle games at school, Joe was the most inventive at being the one in the middle, doing something for every one else to copy. New every time, the teachers said, unlike anybody else.
His favourite Christmas presents were cardboard boxes, sellotape, string, and old yogurt pots. He went through a phase of traumatising our cats by making cat traps that were terrifyingly effective. Once, when he was seven and a friend of mine came to visit with his new baby daughter, Joe requested a box "to make a surprise present for the little baby". Try and imagine, if you will, the look on my friend's face, when Joe proudly produced a well constructed and working model of a guillotine - baby sized!
In more recent years, that imagination has been put to good use filming weird videos with his friend Andy, whose passion as a film-maker is phenomenal. You can catch Joe on You-tube doing 'The Mighty Wow'. Don't ask, just go and look, because really, there is no explanation that I can think of that comes close to explaining either of them.
He's coming round this evening. I'm going to make him a cake. And give him a telly for his new flat.
And remember that I made him, but he made me, too.
Happy birthday, Joe, Love from Mum. xxx
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
"Oh look - Jesus is out of his pond"
Day 85
As a reaction to having no money this Christmas I am going completely over the top with my house decorations. Sadly, I don't mean in the 'lights over everything, council-estate' sort-of-way, (which I think is rather wonderful, but couldn't cope with), but more in the 'lets see how many surfaces of my house can be made to look festive' sort-of-way.
Pride of place is given to my plastic silver glitter Jesus money box. Let me just say that again - a plastic silver glitter Jesus money box. That is wrong on so many levels, which is probably why it appeals to me so much. Well - HE has a very special place, as you will see.
Last year, Steve and the cat were riveted by a TV programme called Bill Oddie's Wild Side, which naturally featured a lot of birds. Often the filming took place in Bill's own garden which is to the RHS what Nightmare Before Christmas is to Schindler's List. The place is crammed full of garden ornaments covering every level of taste imaginable, and some far below. It looks like it was designed by Alice in Wonderland on an acid trip in Bavaria. Fabulous place, honestly, beyond words wonderful, and kitsch as all Hell.
One piece of filming followed the antics of a fox that snuck in there at night and moved things around. The apogee of this vignette for me was Bill Oddie exclaiming "Oh look, Jesus is out of his pond!", and popping him back in his 'rightful place' (?) in the middle of a tiny puddle, surrounded by outsize frogs and turtles etc.
Why this was the perfect spot for him (or why he was there in the first place) was never made clear. There was some sense of baptismal possibility, I suppose, but the garden gnome looking on did rather render this unlikely.
I found this was the image that stayed with me, however, long after the series was over. I'm sure the cat still dreams of flocks of starlings that resemble a whale, but I still see Jesus in his pond, and that, weirdly, has become the right place for him in my mind.
I don't have a pond though. So the nearest thing to that is the toilet cistern on which he now proudly stands, blessing every bit of water that flows therefrom. This pleases me no end. The true spirit of Christmas is alive and well and living in my downstairs loo.
Am going to the woods at the end of the road (when I have the energy), to pick ivy to drape over all the pictures. Why this has become the fashion I have no idea, but it makes more sense seasonally than tinsel does.
Instead of being all chic and themed or colour co-ordinated like I usually am, I have put all my decorations out. For instance, the tree baubles that clash are stacked in bowls or hung in front of pictures, and plastic snowflakes are hanging from the beams. Today the ceiling streamers are going up in the bedrooms so that no room is left un-christmassed. (I know that isn't a word, but it should be).
To my delight, I found I had three tiny Xmas stockings, just big enough to put a carrot in each. These have been hung on the guinea pig cage and are arousing much curiosity. I have become so happily occupied with all this decorating, that if an orange hangs around long enough it will find itself stuck full of cloves and tied up with ribbon, before it can scream for help from the man from Del Monte.
As a reaction to having no money this Christmas I am going completely over the top with my house decorations. Sadly, I don't mean in the 'lights over everything, council-estate' sort-of-way, (which I think is rather wonderful, but couldn't cope with), but more in the 'lets see how many surfaces of my house can be made to look festive' sort-of-way.
Pride of place is given to my plastic silver glitter Jesus money box. Let me just say that again - a plastic silver glitter Jesus money box. That is wrong on so many levels, which is probably why it appeals to me so much. Well - HE has a very special place, as you will see.
Last year, Steve and the cat were riveted by a TV programme called Bill Oddie's Wild Side, which naturally featured a lot of birds. Often the filming took place in Bill's own garden which is to the RHS what Nightmare Before Christmas is to Schindler's List. The place is crammed full of garden ornaments covering every level of taste imaginable, and some far below. It looks like it was designed by Alice in Wonderland on an acid trip in Bavaria. Fabulous place, honestly, beyond words wonderful, and kitsch as all Hell.
One piece of filming followed the antics of a fox that snuck in there at night and moved things around. The apogee of this vignette for me was Bill Oddie exclaiming "Oh look, Jesus is out of his pond!", and popping him back in his 'rightful place' (?) in the middle of a tiny puddle, surrounded by outsize frogs and turtles etc.
Why this was the perfect spot for him (or why he was there in the first place) was never made clear. There was some sense of baptismal possibility, I suppose, but the garden gnome looking on did rather render this unlikely.
I found this was the image that stayed with me, however, long after the series was over. I'm sure the cat still dreams of flocks of starlings that resemble a whale, but I still see Jesus in his pond, and that, weirdly, has become the right place for him in my mind.
I don't have a pond though. So the nearest thing to that is the toilet cistern on which he now proudly stands, blessing every bit of water that flows therefrom. This pleases me no end. The true spirit of Christmas is alive and well and living in my downstairs loo.
Am going to the woods at the end of the road (when I have the energy), to pick ivy to drape over all the pictures. Why this has become the fashion I have no idea, but it makes more sense seasonally than tinsel does.
Instead of being all chic and themed or colour co-ordinated like I usually am, I have put all my decorations out. For instance, the tree baubles that clash are stacked in bowls or hung in front of pictures, and plastic snowflakes are hanging from the beams. Today the ceiling streamers are going up in the bedrooms so that no room is left un-christmassed. (I know that isn't a word, but it should be).
To my delight, I found I had three tiny Xmas stockings, just big enough to put a carrot in each. These have been hung on the guinea pig cage and are arousing much curiosity. I have become so happily occupied with all this decorating, that if an orange hangs around long enough it will find itself stuck full of cloves and tied up with ribbon, before it can scream for help from the man from Del Monte.
The 'Bah Humbug' hat is hanging over the cat's litter tray, naturally - there's no place for that in my Xmas!
Thursday, 12 November 2009
What big ambitions you have, Grand mama
Day 58
I have received the first official rejection of my manuscript, and although I was expecting it, I didn't think they'd get to me quite so soon. They were very nice though - wording it as not able to get enthusiastic enough about it - but definitely "a bit previous", as my old Gran used to say.
Do grans still say things like that? Are there any left that wear lumpy cardigans and have helmet-hard perms? Whatever happened to the grans that speak in old saws and proverbs - "see a pin and pick it up", or "n'er cast a clout til May is out" - (that's a coat, by the way, and I still don't).
My Gran was small and round and cuddly, just the way they're supposed to be. When she smiled she twinkled like a pixie. She smelt of Wintergreen, Eau de Cologne, Vicks Vapour Rub and cabbage water (the latter for her main preoccupation, bowel movement), and I absolutely adored her.
She wore so many layers of clothing that dressing her was a military operation. I remember thinking that if she had another heart attack, then the nurses would be in an exhausted heap on the floor by the time someone got the paddles out and yelled "clear"! To which the answer would probably be "no, not quite, we've still got two vests and a petticoat to go".
I don't quite know what she was arming herself against by all these layers, because it clearly wasn't just the cold (which was already barricaded away by the top five). She once went to church and came home distraught, having realised that she'd gone without her knickers on. How would she even know? And what made her think that the God whom she believed was omnipresent, hadn't already seen her in the bath? She had on her long johns but that, she declared, didn't count.
For the time that my Gran lived with us, we had a terrible cat. Although naming pets in our household was a serious and long thought out business - I put less time into naming my children - this cat had never been sociable enough to merit a proper name. He was just the cat, or sometimes fat cat, and he was a viscious brute of an animal that hated the whole world, and people in particular.
I remember once a local farmer coming to our house to speak to my Dad. "Arthur, can I shoot your cat please, only he's been worrying my dogs again?". My Mum screamed a horrified "No!", and my Dad took the poor guy off and showed him his bees (this is not a euphemism, OK?). Anyway, this dreadful animal also adored my Gran (I think it may have been the heady cocktail of smells - pure cat Heaven).
Every afternoon she took a nap and the cat took this as a signal that it was time to show his fealty and love. We always knew when she woke up because of the piercing scream followed by the utterance, "That bloody cat!". This, in turn, was our signal to go in and remove the two headless, bleeding rabbits, or similar offering, from her lap, and appease her with a cup of tea "and a slice", (that's bread and butter, apparently - why do they always talk in code?).
Nowadays, grans look better than they did when they were ten years younger. They can afford better clothes, good haircuts with slick highlights, and pamper packages at the local spa. They start new businesses 'now that the children are gone', and get loans from Dragon's Den to take them global. They do Pilates and run marathons and go back-packing in Nepal or Peru. My Gran wouldn't fit all her undergarments in one backpack, let alone her pills and crochet.
When we read youngsters stories that feature kindly, little old ladies in shawls, with white hair and gappy teeth, I wonder who they think we're talking about, because it certainly doesn't bear any resemblance to their Nanna. That whirlwind of creativity and energy wouldn't ever be someone you could confuse with a wolf with big teeth and ears.
So, I have decided - if I want to get fit and lose weight, and become dynamic and sucessful, then one of my kids is going to have to get sprogging and make me a new-age, 21st century Gran. It's the only way.
P.S. Welcome Matt (geddit?)
I have received the first official rejection of my manuscript, and although I was expecting it, I didn't think they'd get to me quite so soon. They were very nice though - wording it as not able to get enthusiastic enough about it - but definitely "a bit previous", as my old Gran used to say.
Do grans still say things like that? Are there any left that wear lumpy cardigans and have helmet-hard perms? Whatever happened to the grans that speak in old saws and proverbs - "see a pin and pick it up", or "n'er cast a clout til May is out" - (that's a coat, by the way, and I still don't).
My Gran was small and round and cuddly, just the way they're supposed to be. When she smiled she twinkled like a pixie. She smelt of Wintergreen, Eau de Cologne, Vicks Vapour Rub and cabbage water (the latter for her main preoccupation, bowel movement), and I absolutely adored her.
She wore so many layers of clothing that dressing her was a military operation. I remember thinking that if she had another heart attack, then the nurses would be in an exhausted heap on the floor by the time someone got the paddles out and yelled "clear"! To which the answer would probably be "no, not quite, we've still got two vests and a petticoat to go".
I don't quite know what she was arming herself against by all these layers, because it clearly wasn't just the cold (which was already barricaded away by the top five). She once went to church and came home distraught, having realised that she'd gone without her knickers on. How would she even know? And what made her think that the God whom she believed was omnipresent, hadn't already seen her in the bath? She had on her long johns but that, she declared, didn't count.
For the time that my Gran lived with us, we had a terrible cat. Although naming pets in our household was a serious and long thought out business - I put less time into naming my children - this cat had never been sociable enough to merit a proper name. He was just the cat, or sometimes fat cat, and he was a viscious brute of an animal that hated the whole world, and people in particular.
I remember once a local farmer coming to our house to speak to my Dad. "Arthur, can I shoot your cat please, only he's been worrying my dogs again?". My Mum screamed a horrified "No!", and my Dad took the poor guy off and showed him his bees (this is not a euphemism, OK?). Anyway, this dreadful animal also adored my Gran (I think it may have been the heady cocktail of smells - pure cat Heaven).
Every afternoon she took a nap and the cat took this as a signal that it was time to show his fealty and love. We always knew when she woke up because of the piercing scream followed by the utterance, "That bloody cat!". This, in turn, was our signal to go in and remove the two headless, bleeding rabbits, or similar offering, from her lap, and appease her with a cup of tea "and a slice", (that's bread and butter, apparently - why do they always talk in code?).
Nowadays, grans look better than they did when they were ten years younger. They can afford better clothes, good haircuts with slick highlights, and pamper packages at the local spa. They start new businesses 'now that the children are gone', and get loans from Dragon's Den to take them global. They do Pilates and run marathons and go back-packing in Nepal or Peru. My Gran wouldn't fit all her undergarments in one backpack, let alone her pills and crochet.
When we read youngsters stories that feature kindly, little old ladies in shawls, with white hair and gappy teeth, I wonder who they think we're talking about, because it certainly doesn't bear any resemblance to their Nanna. That whirlwind of creativity and energy wouldn't ever be someone you could confuse with a wolf with big teeth and ears.
So, I have decided - if I want to get fit and lose weight, and become dynamic and sucessful, then one of my kids is going to have to get sprogging and make me a new-age, 21st century Gran. It's the only way.
P.S. Welcome Matt (geddit?)
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