Snow days and short fuses

We had two snow days this week brought on, not by the closure of schools or nurseries (though I think most of the local ones closed), but the non-running of the buses. My mum was stuck at home bored and missing R, who she hadn’t seen for almost a week, due to our trip to Wales and C and I were stuck at home with a two-and-a-half-year-old who has inexplicably lost interest in the TV.

The few of you saints who manage without TVs will perhaps not understand how this sudden inability to be entranced by the moving pictures on the little box in the corner of the living room could affect us. But most of you will. It means you can’t get anything done. At all. It means you can’t sit down and rest. At all. And it means your sanity makes a quick escape out of the cat flap. Oh yes, and there’s really no time for writing or reading blogs!

Thursday and Friday were spent playing hundreds and billions of games of Doctors, Dentists, Schools, Shops, Mummies, Daddies and Babies, Goblin Kings, Peppa Pig (yes, she won’t watch it now, but she can still make you alternate between being Mummy Pig, Daddy Pig and George for half an hour) and feeding every piece of plastic food in the house to one or other cuddly toy. There was some snow play (courtesy of her father – she was not interested when I suggested it), some drawing and some book reading and food eating. There was even quite a bit of tidying up and some loading of washing machine and pressing of buttons.

Toward the end of Friday, however, I found myself reaching the end my tether. C had picked up something (so had R, but children have this amazing ability to run around with seemingly more energy than normal, when they are ill) and I had sent him to bed (no deadlines, weekend, snow days, etc. so I didn’t have to do any work; forgot about the whole need for a break, though).

I need to make the (very simple) dinner. So I sit R down in front of Toy Story, with a cup of milk and a biscuit. Two minutes later, she appears asking ‘Can I see?’. I pick her up so she can see the vegetables I am about to chop. ‘Can I help?’ ‘Aren’t you watching Toy Story? Go back and watch Toy Story, and I’ll call you when dinner is ready.’

R drags a chair in from the dining room and climbs up on it, so she can help. I sigh and give in. But I have absolutely no patience. And R knows it, I’m sure. She hands me the vegetables, but in between she bangs the things hanging from the shelf. ‘Don’t do that. You might break something.’ Bang, bang. ‘Don’t do that.’ Bang, bang, bang, giggle. ‘I said, don’t do that.’ Bang, bang, bang, giggle. ‘If you do that one more time, I will put you back in the living room and shut the door.’ Bang, bang, stare.

I put her in the living room and shut the door. She cries. I open the door and sit on the floor to explain calmly why she can’t bang those things and that I need to cook dinner or else we won’t eat and it will be bedtime and she’ll be hungry. She nods and sits down on the sofa. I go back to the kitchen. Within two minutes she is back in again. ‘Can I see?’ ‘No! I said stay in the living room. Go back to the living room. Now!’ ‘Right now! I’m getting very cross!’ ‘I’m getting very cross.’ I pick her up, put her in the living room and shut the door.

I go back to the kitchen and very quickly finish chopping the vegetables and start them frying in the wok. I go to the living room to check she’s OK. She puts her hands up to picked up and (fake) cries. I pick her up and say that I’m sorry I shouted. I put her down on the sofa and go back to the kitchen. She comes back in again. I’m distracted and pour balsamic vinegar into the stir fry instead of sesame oil. I lose it. I screech ‘Go back to the living room, now! I need to cook the bloody dinner and you need to eat it before it’s time for bed!’ Really screech.

She goes back to the living room. Comes back quite quickly, but dinner’s almost ready, so she gets to sit at the table and wait. We sit down to have dinner and have a pleasant time. She eats loads and shares with me, telling me how yummy it is (balsamic vinegar didn’t do any harm, might even have been an improvement). And then it’s bathtime, which is also fun and pleasant with no problems and then it’s bedtime, which goes remarkably well. I am extra nice and cuddly through most of this. Guilt can do that.

And then I go downstairs, sit down and kick myself for not being able to contain my temper, when all she is doing is what is perfectly natural. For making incredibly stupid mistakes. For extraordinary lack of consistency.

And I pray to any deities who might be listening that the no-TV phase will not last long. I need my 3-4pm Peppa Pig fix and my half an hour of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse while I drink my tea and wake up.

It will be fine

As we pull out of the station, my phone rings. It’s my aunt calling to persuade us not to go. I’ve been checking the weather all morning, and for the last few days and it will be fine. She has also been checking the weather and it will be far too dangerous and we should not be travelling. No-one should be travelling. My mother has also been trying to persuade us not to go for the last few days. My sister and I think it will be an adventure. And that it will be fine.

My sister and I alternately shush our mother, who does not quite seem to understand the concept of a quiet carriage, and the fields flash past us, growing slightly whiter. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse some snow circles. Who has gone to the trouble of making these perfectly geometric shapes? The snow doesn’t seem very deep and I can see gaps of green and drips of water, suggesting a thaw. I text my aunt: it will be fine.

We reach Swansea at four to find a city strangely deserted. The streets are awash with slush, though there is still some ice causing me to slip and slide in my sensible-looking Clarks shoes that somehow do not have any grip. Most of the shops are shut, but it doesn’t look too bad. It will be fine.

The flat-screen TV in our hotel room greets us with reports of a country ground to a halt. Six hundred schools closed. Though how many schools actually are there in Wales? For all I know, there could be 6000. Many people couldn’t get to work; others manned deserted shops before deciding, or being allowed to, close early. Farmers had been clearing some of the rural roads, where the gritters could not reach. The country is now facing a night of freezing temperatures that will turn all the thawed snow into ice. The coverage is all about worst-case scenarios. Of course. That’s what people want to see. It will be fine. 

While my mother has a late siesta, my sister and I explore the quiet streets, casing the area for potential places to eat. We find an open Pound Shop, where I buy junk food and my sister gets an exotic 20s-style hat and a jar of Galaxy hot chocolate. We sit in an American Diner and have milkshakes and fries and listen to 50s music.

Later, after much indecision, grumbling and sighing we go to a lovely Italian restaurant called Il Padrino. I have a creamy tagliatelle with sundried tomatoes, white wine and pesto. My sister has a margherita pizza and a side salad drenched in a delicious dressing. My mother has a huge calzone; she cannot eat it all and, when the waitress comes to clear our plates my mum grabs the remainder of her calzone and hides in her napkin, not at all surreptitiously. We really can’t take her out in public.

During the meal, my uncle calls to say that he cannot get out of his road. The main roads are fine, but his road is completely blocked, so they will be unable to join us the next day. In some ways this is good, because we don’t have to be on our best behaviour. But then, not having to be on our best behaviour could mean we snap and bicker at each other, instead of pulling together. R calls as well to say ‘Goodnight’. She seems very unconcerned about my absence. Good for her.

I want a dessert and the waiter tells me about the two desserts (Italian Panna Cotta or Tiramisu), both of which he has made with his own hands. I choose the Panna Cotta, since I really don’t like Tiramisu, though I would much rather have some profiteroles. It is a beautiful dessert, with a lovely chocolate sauce drizzled to make a smiling sun.

We return to the hotel, where my sister has a long bath and I tap, tap, tap on the computer, very disappointed that the only wireless internet available is the very expensive one offered by the hotel itself. My internet usage is limited to occasional forays onto the BBC weather site using my mobile.

Despite not having to get up to a crying child two or three times during the night, my sleep is still restless. My mother wakes in the middle of the night and wanders round the room, stubbing her toes and turning the wrong light on. She goes back to sleep, but has woken my sister who, sharing the double bed with me, tosses and turns for some time before falling back to sleep. When I do wake up properly, I am pleasantly surprised to find that it is 8.15; more than an hour’s lie-in! And almost all the snow has gone and there is no ice. There are cars and buses on the roads.

Much bickering and grumbling on the part of my mother follows, while she tries to get herself together enough to go outside and have a cigarette. Meanwhile, my sister and I use a teaspoon to transfer some of my father’s ashes into a freezer bag, which we then place in a pretty tin, to give to my Gran.

We manage to miss two buses: the first because we just leave the hotel and then look to see what time it is; the second because the timetable I printed out from the internet is wrong and the bus goes ten minutes earlier than we had thought. This gives my sister the opportunity to go and look at lots of shoe sales. She is strong and manages not to buy any, though does persuade herself that The Body Shop is still a good place, despite being owned by Loreal, thus enabling her to buy a new (and thoroughly gorgeous) lipstick. I get five minutes to tap, tap, tap on the netbook and my mother gets the chance to smoke a few more cigarettes.

The bus journey is beautiful, even though most of the snow has disappeared. I love bus journeys, especially in areas I don’t know. If you drive, you have the tendency to go directly from A to B. You might look in a guide book and pick a scenic route, but that is not the same as being on a proper country bus, which winds its way through villages, taking detours down cul-de-sacs and showing the real world.

We are dropped off at a lovely pub, where they very kindly draw us a map and allow us to leave some of our bags. We set off down the road, doubling back on some of the journey we had just made on the bus. We pass five bus stops then turn off at a post office, after my sister buys some postcards of the bay.

The road starts off as a small, but car-friendly bendy road, but gradually thins out until it is just a mud track. There may not be any ice or snow now, but the mud is enough to make me wish I had popped into Shoe Zone and bought some cheap shoes with actual grips on them while we were waiting for buses.

We do not walk together. My sister rushes ahead, taking on my dad’s place (he always walked about 100 yards ahead of us, wherever we went). I follow, slipping and sliding and grateful that my sister has taken the rucksack with the incredibly heavy urn in and my mother struggles on behind.

My mother and I veto my sister’s idea of going down what looks like a very steep and treacherous path and we continue on the main route instead. But then we come across a river with no visible crossing, so we have to turn around and take my sister’s way. And it’s not really treacherous, just a little bit challenging.

We reach the bay and sit down on the pebbles. The sea is rough and grey and beautiful. The salty wind stings our faces and nobody wants to say anything. My mother had some music that she wanted to play, but the sea and the wind is too loud for us to be able to hear it, so we don’t try. My mother grabs a handful of ashes and puts them in the bottom of her camera bag to take home. If she had asked in advance, she could have had them in a nice receptacle like Gran. As I said, though, you can’t take her anywhere.

My mother goes first and takes a handful of ashes and throws them into the sea. While she is gone, my sister cries and I hug her. I don’t cry, though I am relieved that my sister is crying and I can comfort her and therefore have more purpose than just being the very inept organiser of this strange, strange trip.

It’s my turn and I shake about half the ashes out of the urn. Some of them land in the sea and briefly form a grey sludge; many of them blow back onto my coat and I wipe them off. I feel nothing. There is no connection to my dad. I can see why he liked the bay and it pleases me that we are finally here, though it would have been better to have come with him. But really, I feel nothing.

My mother throws another handful and then my sister finishes off. I watch her hopping about at the water’s edge, shaking the plastic bag and the urn, trying to get all the ashes out and it makes me think of a trip to Weston with R and my dad; my sister hopping back and forth among the waves while she videoed me; my dad taking over the videoing, so we could all be in it. One of my sister’s feet gets wet and we all laugh a bit. Which is nice.

That’s it. It’s all done. I’ve been putting this off for over a year, finding excuse after excuse not to do it. But the actual act is so much of an anticlimax that I wonder why I was avoiding it. My gran is right. There was nothing of my dad in those ashes. My gran believes he is up above. When I speak to her I concur, though I don’t think so. To me he is here all the time, in our memories and our tears and laughter when we think or talk about something he did or things he used to say.

It’s not until I’m going to bed, after the uneventful journey home, after the big hug R gives me, after reading her her stories and listening to her fall asleep, after eating the lovely warming stew that C has made, that I look at the picture of Papa on the mantelpiece and remember that it is his birthday. I kiss my finger and touch it to his lips and say ‘Happy Birthday, Papa. Rest in peace.’

It will be fine.

Absent mum

Today, I will be staying away from home without R.

For some reason, this feels like a big moment. A milestone, if you will. It’s not as though we haven’t spent nights apart before; she quite often stays over at my mum’s so we can have a night out, or just so she can stay over with her Granny. It’s not as though she’s not going to be in safe hands. She’ll be with her dad. It’s not as if C hasn’t put her to bed many times before and bathed her and cooked her dinner. it’s not as though he doesn’t collect her from nursery school all the time. While I do tend to do the morning getting up, breakfast, getting dressed and so on, it’s not as though he’s never done it.

There is no reason to worry. And I’m not worried as such. But I do feel weird. Weird because R will be going to sleep in her own bed without me in the house. Weird because when she wakes up in the middle of the night, I will not hear her and go through to her. Weird because when she wakes up in the morning when the light manages to peak under the black-out lining on the curtains, it will be C getting her to greet her, not me.

I also feel quite excited about the prospect of a child-free train journey. The prospect of reading the paper and a book, of playing multi-player brain training games with my mum and sister, of maybe drinking a beer in the hotel bar. And then I feel a little guilty, because the purpose of our journey is to scatter my father’s ashes, not have a fun night away.

It's carnival time!

If you need a bit of reading to keep you warm amid the snow, or something to keep you amused while you wait for the washing machine to finish its cycle, or something to help you procrastinate, or if you just want to find some new Mummy and Daddy bloggers to add to your blogroll, then head on over to the witty and wonderful Jo Beaufoix's blog, where it's Carnival Time!

Money, money, money

Today, I have mostly been sorting out finances. Juggling money in order to pay the taxman. Phoning credit card companies and asking them what interest rate deals they would like to offer me to dissuade me from transferring all my money *cough*debt*cough* to another card. Telling them that, no, I really, really, really do not want payment protection insurance. It is a complete con. They might as well stop the sales pitch. I will not be swayed. I am a strong, confident woman... Changing the Sky package from the all-singing, all-dancing, stupidly expensive one to the Children's Pack and Variety Pack. (Not giving it up entirely, thank you - it is essential for R to be able to watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Dora the Explorer. Essential, I tell you.) Cancelling the ISA payments and pulling the money out of it (oops, should have done that before the stock market went kabloom). Moving money around to pay off teeny tiny loan that is costing silly money every month (monthly payment more than decimated). Already got the tracker mortgage payment lowered in line with the interest rate falls (you'd think it would be automatic but, no, you have to call and tell them to do it). And probably some other stuff, too.

None of this is down to the credit crunch. We did have some quiet months at the end of last year, but are going to be very busy over the next few months and things are already being booked in for the summer months. Last year was a bit under on average than usual. The problem was, I had been 'managing' the finances. And I'm completely and utterly useless at it. We're not entirely sure how I ended up being the one doing this, but it was a combination of the business being mine to start with, my having set up most of the utilities, my having officially had the mortgage to start with (though it's been in both our names for a fair while now) and C having a tendency to panic about money. The thing is, though, his tendency to panic about money isn't and wasn't a thing to avoid. It is not a thing to hide away and cower from. It is a thing to embrace. To love and to nurture. Because then, perhaps, we will live nicely within our means, instead of some way without them.

Don't worry (if you were at all inclined to, of course), we're not about to declare bankruptcy or anything. Though it's possible that if I'd continued for a few years like that without calling help to C, we might have ended up at that point. We're not going to starve. Or lose the roof over our heads or anything like that. So we're doing very well compared to many people. This is more of a belt-tightening exercise (put carrots and mushrooms in the pasta sauce instead of courgettes and aubergines) but also an exercise in judicious money management.

Be systematic in paying off debts - in order. Make sure good safety nets are in place. Don't use overdrafts in the wrong way. Don't use credit cards in the wrong way. Know how much money you need to make each month and chase new work in plenty of time, even if you're really busy. It might take an extra fifteen minutes to send out a similarly-worded (check carefully you change the names and the details!) email to a number of contacts, but if it means you make the money you need to the next month (or more), rather than dip into the safety net, it's worth it. Pay the safety net back first when the money does come in. All these things are things I know, but I somehow fell out of practice with them over the last couple of years (perhaps it's down to the Total Fuckwit Chip they installed when R was born).

So, from now on, the money management in the household is being shared (though R's part in it will be limited to not being allowed to make money out of the coin jar and post it through the floorboards anymore). There will be some of that there communication.

And can I suggest, if any of you do not share the financial decisions, maybe talk about it occasionally. If you're bearing the burden on your own, ask for help. If t'other half is, check in with him/her and make sure they're not sinking. And if they are don't blow up. A problem shared and other clichés. I'm pretty sure (and if I could be bothered to look it up, I could probably find some evidence to back it up) that money troubles are one of the biggest catalysts in marriage (and relationship) breakdown. Don't become a statistic.