And They Roared their Terrible Roars.....

'Where the Wild Things Are' portrays a boy called Max who is sent to his room without his supper as a result of his naughty shenanigans only to escape into a fantasy world of monsters and mayhem. 

I find this book impossible to read out loud without employing great dramatic gusto. It is one of our favourite books and my son took great pleasure in wearing his Max* costume to world book day celebrations at school this year.  *Ahem, that should in fact read homemade costume. Such a rare event that it merits special mention.

The book was controversial when it was published in 1963 as it portrayed a childhood world which was malevolent and dangerous as well as playful. My son picks up on the inherent tension in the book by showing his concern that Max may be hurt by the monsters and worrying about where Max's mummy and daddy are whilst Max is having his adventures. He revels in the fact that a small boy can enjoy such grown up adventures and display such authority over much bigger creatures, but is also relieved when Max realises that he just wanted to be where someone loved him best of all. Don't we all.

 

"they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled 

their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws"

The author Maurice Sendak died yesterday aged 83. A child of a Polish Jewish immigrant family, the tragedies his family suffered during the depression and holocaust clearly deeply influenced his subsequent work.

"It forced me to take children to a level that I thought was more honest than most 

people did,"he once said. "Because if life is so critical, if Anne Frank could die, 

if my friend could die, children were as vulnerable as adults, and that gave 

me a secret purpose to my work, to make them live. Because I wanted to live. 

I wanted to grow up." (source - The Guardian)

  

He did get to grow up, and he leaves behind a legacy of wonderful books and illustrations for future generations of Maxs, Idas, Mickeys and Rosies. 

Credit: James Keyser/Time Life Pictures/Getty

"and he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost a year 

to where the wild things are."

The Park

What a lovely day in the park with good friends.

Do you know the definition of a true friend? It's someone who totally understands that when you are looking after the kids on your own all night you may well feel a bit panicky when you suddenly realise that you have no wine in the house. So much so that they look after your kids whilst you nip to the local Co-op for emergency rations. Without judgment. 

A Moment to Appreciate

I love our house, but ....... if there was just one thing that I would change it would be the size of our garden. It's somewhat bijou. I can't help but feel that parenting a five year old boy would be far easier if you had at least an acre out back in which he could run himself ragged to burn off some of that irrepressible energy.

Sadly the garden has sometimes been unfairly blamed for some of the frustrations we encounter in trying to contain the excesses of small children. However a few sunny moments spent today in capturing images of the parts of our garden which provide colour, detail and interest has awakened a real appreciation for what our garden is instead of what I would like it to be. I'm sure there is a metaphor for life in there somewhere, but instead I'll just say the obvious - size isn't everything.    

My two year old daughter was very intrigued by the camera as I took these shots. She asked that I show her how to use the camera then promptly pointed it at me and took this. Here is the first photo my daughter ever took of me. Camera shy as I usually am, I have to admit that I couldn't love it more.

Treasure

A recent spring clean of his loft led to my father deciding the time was right to bestow upon me the custodianship of the jewellery boxes which belonged to my mother and my nana, both long departed and still much missed.

As I opened them and started to explore their contents I was overwhelmed with memories. These precious objects are worth so much more than their simple monetary value. I felt such a deep re-connection with these women who were so essential to my childhood and youth, and a huge sense of responsibility to cherish these wonderful legacies

Since the dawn of time jewellery has been used to reflect and enhance woman's inherent beauty. As a gift it can be evidence of love, gratitude, seduction, apology or respect. Alternatively when chosen by the woman herself it is self-gifted as reward, solace, or keepsake. Its value transcends so much more than financial worth and is intrinsically entangled with memory and emotion. 

What mother doesn't treasure a child's first pasta necklace? What woman doesn't smile fondly at frayed and grubby friendship bracelets from their childhood; the accessories which accompanied their goth/indie/clubber/geek teen phase; the bracelet that their first boyfriend saved up for but which turned their wrist ever so slightly green?  

My life, loves, relationships, highs and lows can be traced through my jewellery box. From the pair of earrings which pierced my ears at the age of 9 to my prefects badge of power and the pieces given to me by my parents on my 16th, 18th and 21st birthdays. There is my mother's favourite necklace which is now a physical part of me in the form of a small and beautiful tattoo. There are the pieces my husband bought and designed for me upon the birth of each of our babies. 

As soon as I received these treasure chests I wanted to record my thoughts. I wanted to describe a moment in time where I can in some small way connect myself and my daughter in the present day with my mother and nana in the past, and so this photo represents four generations of my family by way of those items which we each in turn have cherished and held dear.

My daughter's jewellery box.

 She is not yet three years old, but there is nothing she likes better than winding her fairy up, and listening to the music whilst examining her treasures. She has inherited pearls (the finest of fakeries) from her mother, bracelets from her aunt and paternal grandmother and will be able to select something beautiful from her maternal grandmother and great-nana in due course.

My jewellery box.
My memories.

My mother's jewellery box. 

She gave me her engagement ring as a 21st birthday present and after she died (less than a year later) I wore her wedding ring until the day I was married. Since that day I have worn my own wedding ring bought by my husband and I from the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. A new ring with its own special memories. Both my mother's engagement and wedding rings have carefully been returned to her jewellery box. They seem happy there.

 

My nana's jewellery box.

On opening it I was amazed to discover that it still bears a faint trace of her scent. A tiny bird-like woman who was always impeccably coiffed and groomed. Six o'clock was cocktail hour every night and she made the perfect lemon meringue pie. It was my childish delight to be allowed to dress up in her ropes of beads and pearls, sit with her on the stairs reading Beatrix Potter books and on speacial occasions to join her and my grampy in bed for a breakfast of teasmaid tea and pink wafer biscuits.

These are pieces which I have been given by my last remaining grandparent. My mother's mother. The locket is over a hundred years old and was given to her by her mother-in-law. It contains a lock of my mothers hair. The paste jewellery was paid off on a weekly basis when she was a 16 year old chambermaid working in a 'big house' circa 1934.

These are pieces which I have inherited from my mother-in-law and kindly given to me as special mementos by my sister-in-law.

New memories are important too. Whilst looking through my nana's jewellery box I found this cocktail ring. My five year old son was fascinated by it, and asked if he could have it to give it to the girl he loved so he could marry her. For posterity my son's first love is called Penny. I am told that she is very pretty and has nice hair. I thought it may be a bit big for Penny's finger right now but I have given him my word that I will save this ring for him so in due course he can find the girl whose finger it will fit and who satisfies a possessive old mother than she can love my son for the precious jewel that he is.

And so to end this post with a photo that brings a lump to my throat. My daughter playing with her grandmother's jewellery box. They never met but love still echoes through the generations.

Entirely Humble Post

I'm not going to go on about it. I'm simply recording the moment for posterity.

I made these.

*allows herself a small pat on the back*

For The Next 'Fat' Day

The next time I tug mournfully at a too tight waistband or have a 'bleurgghh' moment when looking in the mirror, I am going to lift my head up high, throw back my shoulders and remember that the ideal of female beauty was not always based upon malnourished bodies with their protruding collarbones and hips.

I feel lucky to maintain a reasonably stable level of self esteem. I am neither thin nor overweight, not too small or too tall, not beautiful yet not considered offensive to the eye. My appearance has very little impact on my ability to pay my bills, and my family and friends seem to like me even when I am wearing my fifteen year old tracksuit bottoms. Yet despite this I would still give at least one month's mortgage payment for a pill that would melt away a stone of never-lost baby fat. Oh, to be a size 10 and wear a dress with an actual waistband.

So it was nectar for the soul to see the work of Anna Utopia Giordano and witness so viscerally that skinny does not automatically equate to beautiful.

Consider the ripe, blooming fleshiness of these Old Master's depiction of Venus and then compare this with the version which has been digitally manipulated to conform with the modern idea that skinny is best. No contest. Not only were the original Venuses allowed to carry their voluptuous hips and luscious, plump thighs with pride, but if I'm not mistaken those secret smiles they share can only mean one thing. Sheer satisfaction from the Rennaissance equivalent of a guilt free box of krispy kreme's for breakfast.

School Days and Directorships

I don't know why I stopped blogging just before my son started school, but somehow I lost the blogging mojo.

I wanted to faithfully record my boy's first day at school. Seminal moment as it was I am unlikely to forget the day but in the interests of using this blog to record our family history here's the memory.

The new scholar excitedly put on his uniform whilst I frantically tried to take the definitive photo of him to keep for posterity, my efforts somewhat thwarted by the fact we hadn't managed to buy a school tie in time or arrange the all important start of term haircut. He skipped into school without a backwards glance whilst I struggled to contain sudden hot tears and an apple sized lump which had found its way from nowhere into my throat. Three hours later my husband and I picked him up with over excited interrogation about what he'd done and whether he'd made any new friends whilst he just shrugged and reminded us that we'd promised him a celebratory trip to pizza hut.

On getting back home our tired little boy took himself upstairs to get changed. Whether it was down to the carbohydrate overload or the sheer intensity of the day I cannot be sure, but downstairs he came dressed in pyjamas. He lay down on the sofa, covered himself with the throw and fell fast asleep for two hours. The definitive photo of the day was not of my boy in his shiny new school uniform, but of a little boy worn out by his adventures napping like the baby he was only a heartbeat ago.

I had been hopeful that school would be a good way of calming down his tigger-like bounciness but of course that was the foolish hope of the naive optimist and school has brought its own issues of on/off friends, the gibberish of jolly phonics, and general behaviour issues that arise when you pick up an over-tired, over-stimulated four year old boy from after-school club.

Life for this working mother remains a constant act of balancing the guilts, with the balance tipping a little bit more towards work in the last few months as I have now been made a director at work and therefore find I am having to squeeze more and more work into chinks of my homelife.

I am not normally one to blow my own trumpet but this is my blog and I would be lying if I didn't 'fess up to being totally chuffed at my promotion. The directorship was made official almost a year to the day since I had been made redundant from my last job where, as a part-time working mother, I knew I would never have been able to play the office politics or put in the expected hours which would lead to promotion.

I had a feeling when leaving my last job that I would look back on that difficult time as being a branch in the road which I would never regret taking, and I am delighted to confirm that to be the case. Much like splitting up with a long term boyfriend - it was very hard at the time but meant I had the chance to meet someone a lot more compatible and with whom I had a long term future. My fellow director is also a working mother and it does feel very special to be able to go forward knowing that by still working part-time I can spend quality time with my children yet combine that with ambition and commitment on the work front. The balancing act that is my life is currently finely balanced between family and work. Time for friends and myself has somewhat slipped out of the equation recently (hence the badly neglected blog), but I'm working on it......

The Women We Become After Children

Friday night is a treat for my boy. He gets to stay up later than normal bedtime and invariably falls asleep on the sofa, snuggled up under the red blanket.

I watched him tonight on the sofa as his eyes closed and his breathing became regular. I watched him as wakefulness seeped away and his body eased into stillness, the day's energy finally spent. I watched him with a large lump in my throat and hot tears welling in my eyes.

He starts school in a week and it is another milestone on the inevitable journey towards independence. Whilst I know he is ready in every way for the next challenge in his short life I'm not sure this melancholic mother is.

Being in this frame of mind I was brought up short by the book I have been reading and wanted to record one passage that really resonated with me.

The Women We Become After Children.

We change shape, we buy low heeled shoes, we cut off our hair. We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten rusks, a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We loose muscle tone, sleep, reason, perspective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies. They breathe, they eat, they crawl and - look! - they walk, they begin to speak to us. We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick, every stone, every squashed tin along the way. We get used to not getting where we were going. We learn to darn, perhaps to cook, to patch the knees of dungarees. We get used to living with a love that suffuses us, suffocates us, blinds us, controls us. We live. We contemplate our bodies, our stretched skin, those threads of silver around our brows, our strangely enlarged feet. We learn to look less in the mirror.We put our dry-clean only clothes to the back of the wardrobe. Eventually we throw them away. We school ourselves to stop saying 'shit' and 'damn' and learn to say 'my goodness' and heavens above'. We give up smoking, we colour our hair, we search the vistas of parks, swimming pools, libraries, cafes for others of our kind. We know each other by our pushchairs, our sleepless gazes, the beakers we carry. We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours. We no longer tolerate delayed buses, fighting in the street, smoking in restaurants, inconsistency, laziness, being cold. We contemplate younger women as they pass us in the street, with their cigarettes, their makeup, their tight seamed dresses, their tiny handbags, their smooth, washed hair, and we turn away, we put down our heads, we keep pushing the pram up the hill.

excerpt from 'The Hand That First Held Mine' by Maggie O'Farrell.

I recognise that my heart does indeed exist outside my body in the shape of two sturdy, warm, often mucky bodies and the further those bodies move away from me then the greater the chance of my heart becoming even more bruised and battered by this journey of motherhood.

Denying the inevitability of growing up is to be the mothering version of King Canute. I know it can't be stopped by wishful thinking and I have done all I can to induce a sense of excitement in my son about this new adventure. I just hope that I can hold back that first hot fat tear until after he has waved goodbye to me at the school gate.

Feral Camping and Just So Festivals

So this was the summer I wanted to immerse the kids in the outdoors. Heralding from a suburban cul-de-sac, the concept of total freedom to run around is pretty unprecedented in their young lives.

I took my eldest to a small festival last year which was a great success. I'll never forget his utter joy at being allowed to sit wrapped up in his buggy, eating fish and chips and singing along to Seasick Steve at a time outrageously north of normal bedtime. That time we slummed it in a two man tent whilst taking advantage of a friends superior caravan facilities. This year I needed something a little more plush for the three of us so invested in a larger four man tent which I can just about manage to put up by myself, as it is unlikely that I can tempt my man away from such luxuries as mattresses and running water to join us on a regular basis.

We have had two great trips away with friends and I have been amazed at the speed with which my kids can go feral. Smeared with mud, scooting down hills at terminal velocity and tearing around in packs systematically sniffing through open tents hunting out the next salt or sugar based snack, like National Geographic footage of monkey thieving raids.

It was wonderful to be able to go away with my two closest friends and our six children, and I can't wait for future summer holidays away together. Apart from the tragic loss of an incompetently secured gazebo (RIP - you served us well for the first two days. Stupid wind.) it was a joy from start to finish.

Then hot on the heels of 'Nine Go Away on a Camping Trip' came the bunting strewn joy that is the Just So Festival. We loved it last year, and this year did not disappoint either. The weather was far better for a kick off. The festival is chock full of adventures, curios and activities for the youngsters. Long may it continue. I for one will be definitely be taking the new tent and family to camp there next year. In the meantime here I am showing off my new photo editing software. I have yet to develop any subtlety of touch with this, and the discovery that I can de-wrinkle, airbrush, tooth whiten and thin out all the old horrid photos of me that exist means that any future natural photos of me are going to be as rare as sightings of Alice's white rabbit at the Just So festival.