growing pains

One day last month I woke up and it was "that time of the month".

(please insert whatever nicety you wish, my favourite is when my best friend told me she'd "got her monkey!")

I was a bit sensitive, a bit weepy and needed a bit of love. I am 43
The night before I had put my eldest daughter to bed and she was still my beautiful Disney princess. She is nearly 11.
 In the night someone stole that version of her away and replaced it with a pre-teen, hormone raging, venom spitting monster. She was up and out of bed for less than five minutes before returning to her room with "I HATE YOU ALL!!!!" and a door slam.
He father and I looked at each other in horror, cups of tea / coffee hovering. The downstairs was a wreckage of her temper, I think one of her younger sisters was weeping, the other was hiding.
"Wwwwhat just happened?" I spluttered.
He gave me a wise nod - a man who has weathered my monthly mood changes for 21 years. "Hormones" he stated and swigged his beverage emphatically.
A moment to register this. My baby! Growing up! Growing pains! What should I do? Should I go to talk to her? Or just open the door and throw chocolate at her?

How could he be so calm and ...smug ! Oh yes, I know he thinks this is purely my territory and my responsibility doesn't he? Well he needed a jolt, obviously. I wrecked my brain for facts about "women stuff".

"Umm..." I said, " Aren't women supposed to synchronise their cycles? Y'know when I was at college we all had periods at the same time in our shared house" ( True story)

Behind the cup his face rearranged his expression as he took into account he lives with four women, even if three of them are still ten and under. I saw him mentally move himself, the cat ( male) and his guitar down to the shed.

An hour later, I fell into a chair in the office at work and announced "my eldest has hit puberty"
We held a minute's silence.
We drank more tea.
We had run out of chocolate.

it never rains but it pours

Those are the words my father spoke to me last night. On Monday my father was taken into hospital because he couldn't get out of bed and was weeping with pain. I had a SOS call from his new, big- buttoned mobile i had bought him for Father's Day. I called work, sent husband to work and children to school, got in the car and drove 33 miles to his home.
He cried.
I requested a visit from the district nurse to come and dress his leg ulcer which hadn't been tended to for a week and I requested a home visit from his GP. We waited. I gave him tea and he took some pain killers. He's not dying, but it feel like it to him, his arthritis flare up is so bad he almost want to die for some relief.
The nurse comes and takes photos of his leg before redressing it. I throw the old dressing out as she tells me, he tells me off after she's gone. "I wash them, " he explains, " you aren't meant to, but they're like gold dust. No one wants to give you any more."
We wait some more, we have tea and i watch him struggle to the door of his bathroom, slower than a snail and weeping. He waves away my arm. I wish i could pick him up and carry him like my children.
The Doctor arrives and clicks his tongue, he looks at his notes. He doesn't recognise dad and dad goes to the doctor's a lot. This is very different to Dad's previous doctor. Doctor Hall was my grandmother;s doctor and my doctor and my brother's doctor. He knew our entire family. He knew that if he had to come to my father's house, dad was very, very ill.
"You're on the strongest drugs we can give you," says the doctor,"how much are you taking? 5ml? Up it."
I explain that more morphine may make dad drowsy, he lives alone and if he gets in a mess there is no one to help him or clean him.
The doctor hmmms for a moment , then ventures that there may be a bed in the community hospital. Dad is silent. I am firm. The doctor rings them. We wait as he is put on hold. There is a bed.
We wait for the community ambulance. Quite quickly someone rings to tell us that they could be up to two hours.
Dad sulks for a bit, then tells me what to pack in his overnight bag, because he wont be staying more than that, there will be no one to water his tomatoes. Another phone call from the community hospital people. We were misinformed, the taxi could be anywhere up to 6 hours.

Either the shock of going to hospital or another dose of morphine makes dad perk up for an hour.

I am dispatched over the road with an envelop to pay his neighbour for the papers he's bought this week and a quick note saying he doesn't need any more this week. I  insist on writing he's going to hospital.

A while later when the neighbour arrives, we watch her go in and out of her house, she cleans the outside and sweeps the drive, she even sweeps the pavement. Its a small town, they like to know what's going on. This lady has a kind, kind heart but needs to know what's going on, not knowing is driving her crazy. Did i see her dust the plants or did i dream it? There is a ring at the door, i answer and she demands to know what's going on with a "I'm not being nosey, I just thought we could visit him as you live far away."

Dad makes me ring the hospital to ask if i can take him, they advise against it and assure me there is still a bed for him.

Dad is supposed to be leaving this house on a stretcher, all his neighbours are home now. The ambulance arrives and parks outside a neighbour's. Two women get out and my heart sinks, no way will dad be lifted by two women. They ask if he can get in a chair and i eagerly agree. He shouts at me to close his bedroom door so he can put his trousers on.

It takes 6 minutes to get to the hospital. There are three other men in the ward. There is only one television and someone else has the remote. I pack his things away and put his phone nearby. I stay for a while then kiss him.
I have seen him everyday this week apart from Thursday. I have been in trouble for telling his cousins and his neighbours, but he has had visits every day from people. The three men have left and dad has the ward to himself and most importantly the remote control.

Yesterday he was asking me to bring things when I came at the weekend, I had to tell him I could come on Monday when my Mum was staying, as she could look after the children for me. My mum who last year I looked after following her operation for colon cancer. She wears a stoma bag and is not as strong as she once was. I also told him my husband was unwell that evening and I had just been told by text that he had been taken to the out of hours clinic. Dad suddenly shrunk and looked small, frightened and above all ashamed.
"Why did you come?" he whispered
"I couldn't leave you without clean pants or pyjamas," I joked.
"Me, your husband and your mum," he muttered.
I think I sort of shrugged in what I  hoped was a "C'est la vie" kind of way.
"It never rains but it pours" he said."go home"

I did go home but I went and watered his tomatoes first.

birthday celebrations

Now I only have myself to blame. I have three children , you think I’d have more sense, but we do tend to throw each child a party for  their birthday. The middle child gets short changed having a birthday in August,  we are often at the seaside. To make up for it last year, she invited a group of girls for an afternoon tea in September.

My youngest had her fifth birthday at a wacky warehouse but previous birthdays  saw me shaking off the January blues and  breaking out in a sweat, cleaning the entire house two weeks after Christmas and decking out the downstairs in a theme of her choosing (pirates and princesses aged 3 and Under the sea aged 4)  We ransacked the costume and set cupboards at school and I begged an art teacher to draw me a pirate for pin- the- parrot- on-the-pirate and a pirate ship, which the children decided to colour in before I got around to pinning the jolly roger on it.

My eldest daughter was told last year , that she was too old for parties. Then I secretly invited five of her friends and a cousin to the bowling alley and pizza place the Saturday before her birthday. A couple of hours before, I bathed all three kids, painted their nails with glitter and put their party dresses and shoes on with a “it’s just nice to dress up sometimes isn’t it?” I actually couldn’t believe they fell for it, it was only daddy who nearly blew it, he was so excited we nearly got there too early and had to side track to Aldi to get a bottle of wine. I am at this point texting everyone to make sure they are there. They were.

We walked through the doors and her friends shouted “surprise!” My beautiful daughter, turned around in panic to see who she was supposed to be shouting “ surprise” at! One of her friends had to explain to her that it was her own party. She loved it, once she got over the shock and I have been smug about it right up until about a week a go when she requested doing the same thing but knowing about it this time. I suddenly thought that she had missed looking forward to her treat. That realisation finally took the shine off my success.

My husband is 50 next week, we are going for a family meal. I didn’t attempt a surprise party. I couldn’t even keep his present a surprise, blurting it out when I thought we had decided on something else, only to find that it would have been a perfectly lovely surprise after all. I do want him to have a really good day, as my memory of his 40^th is that it was over taken by a week old baby, mastitis and baby blues. The hi-light was him taking our screaming infant for a walk while his hormonally deranged wife wept herself to sleep. His birthday tea was interrupted by a trip to the walk in clinic. That’s not the plan this time.

reading at bedtime routine

The bedtime routine used to be so simple and strictly adhered to. CBeebies bed time story in pjs, wash, teeth, snuggle into bed and negotiate the number of bed time stories to be read. Then my eldest children turned into bookworms and, more often than not, I was reading aloud and they were reading something else. I gave up, I gave them 30 minutes reading time before lights out. I thought it would be calming. It certainly calmed me, until I realised that they were insisting on the landing light being left on, not because of fear of the dark but because they were shuffling down to the foot of the bed and squinting at their reading books for another sneaky half an hour. I was cross, but how do you tell a child off for reading?

Our five year old usually picks daddy at bedtime, she can twist the poor man round her little finger and he will reread her stories, I only get to do it if he is out. Then I realised something – I missed it! I tried to reintroduce it, I failed.

I dallied with Little Women and stuck to one chapter an evening, except not every evening. We read about half of it.

I had better luck with Alice in Wonderland, although I did skip The Caucaus race and the Mock Turtle chapters. I started  Through the Looking Glass and someone hid the book. I can take a hint, Thank you.

How did I stray away from the bedtime routine? It’s important! My mother would only read a tiny bit to me and then sidle out of the room leaving me to read to myself, because I was “such a good reader” at an early age, I vividly recalled the loneliness and disappointment I felt. I would even try to choose a book I thought she liked. I’m not criticising my mum at all, she was seeking precious moments of solace in an unhappy marriage that wouldn’t last for many more years. However this has always been in my mind when it comes to reading to my children.

This week I have made another, concerted effort. I was inspired by the fact that the eldest child was selecting books for her younger sister to try, now that Diary of The Wimpy Kid series has finally fallen to pieces. They chose David Walliams’ Ratburger. I am reading two chapters a night in order to get to the end of it before I run out of steam. It’s not bad, it’s just not Roald Dahl, even though Quentin Blake has illustrated it. However by the second night, my eldest child (9 going on 19) put aside whatever Jaqueline Wilson/ Cath Cassidy/ Jean Ure book she was reading and crept down the bunk steps to snuggle up and listen too.

Tonight, their dad is working late. I’m taking youngest to bed and reading her stories until she tells me to “Go!” Then I will snuggle up on the bottom bunk and read Ratburger. Next week: Roald Dahl returns!