Why does no-one tell you?. I was totally unprepared.
We've just taken our eldest boy to his very prestigious university. We couldn’t be more proud. For the last 2 years all our energy has gone into supporting his efforts, helping with preparations for exams, interviews, making sure he hit all the deadlines, helping with his personal statements. He worked so hard. No-one deserved success more than him. Then, offer secured and exams passed. So exciting. Champagne and celebrations. A lovely summer holiday. Lots of high jinx with his friends. Lots of smug boasting to colleagues at work. At last time to go. Deciding what to take; laughing, teasing about cooking and laundry, the price of food. Piling it all into the back of the car and off we go. Picked up his room key, marvelled at his beautiful college grounds. Chatted with the other mums and dads. So proud. So pleased. He was in his element. Glowing with excitement. Wanting us to go so he could dive right in, soak it all up.
Back in the car. Then it hit us. Out of the blue, a stomach churning jolt of dread. What was going on? I hadn't felt this bad since my first proper boyfriend dumped me when I was sixteen. That was it. We'd just said goodbye to our baby. We've done our bit, it's all in his hands now. Half of me was saying 'For Gods sake, get a grip. He'll be back for Christmas in a few weeks. He's only 2 hours away, we can pop down and see him any time we like. We've still got the other boy at home.' But it didn't make any difference. What I was experiencing, what we both were feeling was real grief. I was quite literally bereft. Welcome to Empty Nest Syndrome.
Quite frankly and to my shame, I think part of the problem is pure green-eyed envy. My university years were some of the best years of my life. I enjoyed every minute of them and he's got it all ahead of him. I'm so jealous!
But mostly, I'm in mourning because that time, the years watching him grow, being the most important person in his life is over and however our relationship develops in the future, it will never be the same again and I miss it.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Happy memory
Based on a diary entry July 2006
How do you record a memory? Why even? By definition there's no need. It's a memory - I won't forget it. It wouldn't be a memory if I did. But anyway, it's a happy memory so perhaps what I really mean is that I want to share it.
A day in May.
I have 2 children, 2 boys, David and Michael. I was going to make up new names for them but I can't bring myself to deny them even by that much. Their own names, ordinary, but so carefully chosen to be just right for them. Against the fashion of the times for unusual, romantic, poetic names, Joshua's and Jakes, Ewens, Connors and Finns. Keep it simple we decided in the end. Good, old fashioned, ancient names.
David, as befits the eldest, is bossy, domineering and, to the despair of his little brother, Good At Everything. To such an extent that Michael will not even bother to compete with the god that is David.
And so it was with learning to ride a bike. He refused to contemplate it.
'I'll be able to do it when I'm 7'.
The power of birthdays, the experience of age. In his child's mind, no effort required, no skills to be learned, practised, developed. David was 7 and he could ride a bike. Ergo, when I'm seven, I'll be able to ride one too. No amount of reasoning could persuade him that his brother had actually had to learn how to do it too. To cling in terror and exhilaration as we pushed him along. To pick himself up time and time again til he 'got it'. No way. In Michael's world view David mastered the skill in a heartbeat, subdued the crazy machine with a contemptuous glance and pedalled off over the hill.
Seven came and seven went but the magic bike fairy never came and waved her magic wand. The bike flatly refused to co-operate, refused to be tamed; lay neglected in the back of the garage. And the years rolled by full of other trials and triumphs. And it annoyed me so much. That he was missing it - the freedom, the speed, the joy of riding a bike on a sunny day. The missed adventures, the reason we'd bought a house right next to a park, for heavens sake.
Then came a sunny day in May. Michael 10, David 13.
We all went to the park and I thought I'll just take his bike along - no pressure. [Yeah, right, you devious, persistent, stubborn, I'll get you on this bike if it kills me kind of mother. And you wonder where he gets it from].
Once in the park he couldn't resist of course. He had a few goes and we clapped and encouraged and showered him with advice so he hardly knew where to turn. Then David stepped in. I held my breath. This could go either way. Michael can spot condescension a mile off. Would he listen? Would he flounce off home in a huff? Would our afternoon walk be spoiled before it began?
But it was perfect. David took charge, we stood meekly by. He took Michael off to a grassy spot - soft landing if you fall off he explained. No teasing, no tricks or scorn, he was very patient for a change. It was very sweet to see them together, working as a team. Then he was off, sailing over the grass. It was fantastic. He was so pleased with himself. A real moment of pure joy and delight.
Perhaps motherhood is not so bad after all. They are growing up so fast and suddenly I want it to last forever.
How do you record a memory? Why even? By definition there's no need. It's a memory - I won't forget it. It wouldn't be a memory if I did. But anyway, it's a happy memory so perhaps what I really mean is that I want to share it.
A day in May.
I have 2 children, 2 boys, David and Michael. I was going to make up new names for them but I can't bring myself to deny them even by that much. Their own names, ordinary, but so carefully chosen to be just right for them. Against the fashion of the times for unusual, romantic, poetic names, Joshua's and Jakes, Ewens, Connors and Finns. Keep it simple we decided in the end. Good, old fashioned, ancient names.
David, as befits the eldest, is bossy, domineering and, to the despair of his little brother, Good At Everything. To such an extent that Michael will not even bother to compete with the god that is David.
And so it was with learning to ride a bike. He refused to contemplate it.
'I'll be able to do it when I'm 7'.
The power of birthdays, the experience of age. In his child's mind, no effort required, no skills to be learned, practised, developed. David was 7 and he could ride a bike. Ergo, when I'm seven, I'll be able to ride one too. No amount of reasoning could persuade him that his brother had actually had to learn how to do it too. To cling in terror and exhilaration as we pushed him along. To pick himself up time and time again til he 'got it'. No way. In Michael's world view David mastered the skill in a heartbeat, subdued the crazy machine with a contemptuous glance and pedalled off over the hill.
Seven came and seven went but the magic bike fairy never came and waved her magic wand. The bike flatly refused to co-operate, refused to be tamed; lay neglected in the back of the garage. And the years rolled by full of other trials and triumphs. And it annoyed me so much. That he was missing it - the freedom, the speed, the joy of riding a bike on a sunny day. The missed adventures, the reason we'd bought a house right next to a park, for heavens sake.
Then came a sunny day in May. Michael 10, David 13.
We all went to the park and I thought I'll just take his bike along - no pressure. [Yeah, right, you devious, persistent, stubborn, I'll get you on this bike if it kills me kind of mother. And you wonder where he gets it from].
Once in the park he couldn't resist of course. He had a few goes and we clapped and encouraged and showered him with advice so he hardly knew where to turn. Then David stepped in. I held my breath. This could go either way. Michael can spot condescension a mile off. Would he listen? Would he flounce off home in a huff? Would our afternoon walk be spoiled before it began?
But it was perfect. David took charge, we stood meekly by. He took Michael off to a grassy spot - soft landing if you fall off he explained. No teasing, no tricks or scorn, he was very patient for a change. It was very sweet to see them together, working as a team. Then he was off, sailing over the grass. It was fantastic. He was so pleased with himself. A real moment of pure joy and delight.
Perhaps motherhood is not so bad after all. They are growing up so fast and suddenly I want it to last forever.
Friday, 20 November 2009
What will it take?
What will it take to make you see?
I feel you just want sex, you don't want me.
A hand reaches out across the bed.
Can't you feel me shrink, roll over, pretend to sleep?
Can't you see that demanding more makes me want it less?
Sleazy gifts of satin and lace? Naughty toys? They're just for boys, they leave me cold.
What does it take to turn me on?
Well.....................
When was the last time you made me smile?
When was the last time you smiled at me?
When was the last time you lingered in a room, just because I was in it?
When was the last time you touched me for no reason at all?
To be greeted with 'Your dinner is ready' rather than 'When will dinner be ready?' would make my day. To be greeted at all even.
When I make lunch, I make yours too. When you make lunch it's just for you.
You live your life, I live mine. In the hurly burly of babies and boys, schoolwork, work-work, homework, housework, there's you and there's me. What happened to we?
Just be nice. How hard could it be? A hug that's just a hug. Not foreplay.
Just be there once in a while. To chat, to pass me a clothes peg or a knife. To listen to a snippet from the paper, gossip about the neighbours, laugh at crap on TV. To tease the boys, tell them how we met, what fun we had when we were young, the places we've been, the things we've seen.
Come out of that office, that retreat. Come live in our world with your boys and me. Let me see you laugh and see you smile, the colour of your eyes, the smell of your skin. The way you slouch in blue jeans. Wear blue jeans, not those old man trousers you've started to wear. Put on some music, play it loud, let me dance.
Stop worrying about the sex. The sex is fine. It's the rest that's wrong.
Why can't you see what it's like to be me?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, that just poured itself onto the page one Sunday afternoon but then I got to thinking- always a bad idea where I'm concerned.
What is it like to be you then? what's it like being married to a bad tempered, grumpy old woman who's always 'too tired'; always making excuses? Do you wish things were different? My friends think I'm mad when I groan about the incessant demands but I can't help thinking that it's not me you want, I'm just convenient, available (Haha, you wish). Or. Maybe it's the only way you can think of to show me you love me?
Yeah, Right.
I feel you just want sex, you don't want me.
A hand reaches out across the bed.
Can't you feel me shrink, roll over, pretend to sleep?
Can't you see that demanding more makes me want it less?
Sleazy gifts of satin and lace? Naughty toys? They're just for boys, they leave me cold.
What does it take to turn me on?
Well.....................
When was the last time you made me smile?
When was the last time you smiled at me?
When was the last time you lingered in a room, just because I was in it?
When was the last time you touched me for no reason at all?
To be greeted with 'Your dinner is ready' rather than 'When will dinner be ready?' would make my day. To be greeted at all even.
When I make lunch, I make yours too. When you make lunch it's just for you.
You live your life, I live mine. In the hurly burly of babies and boys, schoolwork, work-work, homework, housework, there's you and there's me. What happened to we?
Just be nice. How hard could it be? A hug that's just a hug. Not foreplay.
Just be there once in a while. To chat, to pass me a clothes peg or a knife. To listen to a snippet from the paper, gossip about the neighbours, laugh at crap on TV. To tease the boys, tell them how we met, what fun we had when we were young, the places we've been, the things we've seen.
Come out of that office, that retreat. Come live in our world with your boys and me. Let me see you laugh and see you smile, the colour of your eyes, the smell of your skin. The way you slouch in blue jeans. Wear blue jeans, not those old man trousers you've started to wear. Put on some music, play it loud, let me dance.
Stop worrying about the sex. The sex is fine. It's the rest that's wrong.
Why can't you see what it's like to be me?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, that just poured itself onto the page one Sunday afternoon but then I got to thinking- always a bad idea where I'm concerned.
What is it like to be you then? what's it like being married to a bad tempered, grumpy old woman who's always 'too tired'; always making excuses? Do you wish things were different? My friends think I'm mad when I groan about the incessant demands but I can't help thinking that it's not me you want, I'm just convenient, available (Haha, you wish). Or. Maybe it's the only way you can think of to show me you love me?
Yeah, Right.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Mother in law
She adores my children, they adore her, their Grandma. She is unstinting of her time; babysitting, child minding, housework, gardening, never forgets a birthday or Christmas. Our debt of gratitude is huge.
She is also the most bigotted racist person I have ever had to give house room to.
They came over today to help in the garden, despite all my efforts to put them off. Thick skinned doesn't begin the cover the way she can ignore my efforts to turn down her generous offers of assistance.
She brought us a home baked cake apologising that it had sunk a little. I suggested that the flour might be to blame - I sometimes have trouble with bread flour not rising and had read that low gluten content in winter wheat could cause bread to flop. She wondered where the flour came from - bound to be 'foreign' flour that was rubbish. I suggested that most flour was imported - England is not exactly awash in wheat fields after all. She actually looked appalled and then relieved when I said I thought most of our flour came from Canada. "Oh, Canada? That's alright. It couldn't be China or India could it?. I couldn't eat it if it came from there".
Speechless.
She has in the past actually said that she couldn't eat indian or chinese food because 'those people' will have have touched it.
Invited themselves to lunch and Grandad (sweetie) was browsing through a library book on 20th century Britain. He read out a snippet about concentration camps set up in Africa by the British during the Boer war - thousands of women and children died of malnutrition and disease. Without the slightest hint of irony she said "and now we're overrun with immigrants coming over here". And a nice little comment about Muslims / terrorists - interchangeable terms in her view.
Speechless again.
She isn't even ashamed or embarrassed about saying these things. It hasn't even crossed her mind that I disagree with her views let alone find them extremely offensive.
I've told her many times that my family are Irish immigrants - I was born in Dublin but she doesn't even see the connection - I'm white after all so that's different.
I've pointed out that the British occupied India for 300 years before we (we? nothing to do with me, I'm Irish and have plenty to be guilty about without this) graciously allowed them to have their own country back. That's different and no excuse for 'them' coming over here and taking all our jobs. Like. What jobs exactly? All our ambitions to become taxi drivers, work 18 hour days in corner shops or textile sweat shops or open restaurants where we can be abused and insulted by drunken (english) louts til 4am in the morning thwarted by this tide of immigrants 'overrunning' the country?? Give me strength!
Her own niece is married to an African Caribbean man - how can she say these things and get away with it? Why don't I have the guts to tell her that I do not share her views and find them offensive? That would be because of my complete inability to deal with confrontation (of which more another time) and her utter bone deep stupidity and inability to begin to understand what I'm talking about. She simply cannot see it.
She has no books in her house. They gather dust and make a mess. Her husband, a quiet, intelligent, gentle soul, cannot have books except for one or two at a time from the library. Her highest accolade about a hotel / house / country is that it is very clean -"Oooh you'ld like Italy J___, it's ever so clean, I wasn't expecting it (unspoken - a country full of not very white foreigners) to be so clean".
After they had left I had some cake. Her dark brown chocolate cake. I'm a bad person. Bad.
She is also the most bigotted racist person I have ever had to give house room to.
They came over today to help in the garden, despite all my efforts to put them off. Thick skinned doesn't begin the cover the way she can ignore my efforts to turn down her generous offers of assistance.
She brought us a home baked cake apologising that it had sunk a little. I suggested that the flour might be to blame - I sometimes have trouble with bread flour not rising and had read that low gluten content in winter wheat could cause bread to flop. She wondered where the flour came from - bound to be 'foreign' flour that was rubbish. I suggested that most flour was imported - England is not exactly awash in wheat fields after all. She actually looked appalled and then relieved when I said I thought most of our flour came from Canada. "Oh, Canada? That's alright. It couldn't be China or India could it?. I couldn't eat it if it came from there".
Speechless.
She has in the past actually said that she couldn't eat indian or chinese food because 'those people' will have have touched it.
Invited themselves to lunch and Grandad (sweetie) was browsing through a library book on 20th century Britain. He read out a snippet about concentration camps set up in Africa by the British during the Boer war - thousands of women and children died of malnutrition and disease. Without the slightest hint of irony she said "and now we're overrun with immigrants coming over here". And a nice little comment about Muslims / terrorists - interchangeable terms in her view.
Speechless again.
She isn't even ashamed or embarrassed about saying these things. It hasn't even crossed her mind that I disagree with her views let alone find them extremely offensive.
I've told her many times that my family are Irish immigrants - I was born in Dublin but she doesn't even see the connection - I'm white after all so that's different.
I've pointed out that the British occupied India for 300 years before we (we? nothing to do with me, I'm Irish and have plenty to be guilty about without this) graciously allowed them to have their own country back. That's different and no excuse for 'them' coming over here and taking all our jobs. Like. What jobs exactly? All our ambitions to become taxi drivers, work 18 hour days in corner shops or textile sweat shops or open restaurants where we can be abused and insulted by drunken (english) louts til 4am in the morning thwarted by this tide of immigrants 'overrunning' the country?? Give me strength!
Her own niece is married to an African Caribbean man - how can she say these things and get away with it? Why don't I have the guts to tell her that I do not share her views and find them offensive? That would be because of my complete inability to deal with confrontation (of which more another time) and her utter bone deep stupidity and inability to begin to understand what I'm talking about. She simply cannot see it.
She has no books in her house. They gather dust and make a mess. Her husband, a quiet, intelligent, gentle soul, cannot have books except for one or two at a time from the library. Her highest accolade about a hotel / house / country is that it is very clean -"Oooh you'ld like Italy J___, it's ever so clean, I wasn't expecting it (unspoken - a country full of not very white foreigners) to be so clean".
After they had left I had some cake. Her dark brown chocolate cake. I'm a bad person. Bad.
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