I have a dream. My dream is that one day, I will be able to spend the whole night in my own bed, unaccompanied, and undisturbed. It's been a while.
Mog's latest lurgy has brought with it her own brand of sleeping problems - when she has a chest infection she struggles to breathe whilst lying down. Her bed is propped up at all times, but once she gets ill she usually needs hoiking out of bed and into her wheelchair sometime between midnight and 2AM. She'll then spend the rest of the night sleeping very happily in it. I'd leave her in her wheelchair from the start of the night, but it feels wrong somehow. She ought to be able to sleep in a bed. I haven't worked out yet whether that's more my problem or hers.
Little Fish's Nippy has been playing up a little too. In a new and interesting variation, it has started switching itself to continuous pressure, blowing a constant stream of air into her lungs, rather than alternating high and low pressure to allow her to breathe in and out. In fairness, it has only done this once. However I now have visions of it somehow exploding her lungs, and am forced to get up and check. It wouldn't actually explode her lungs; she'd open her mouth and let it out and then she'd rip the mask off and shout for me. But my dreams are slightly more graphic than that.
Then there are the daydreams. The dream that one day Bob will come back and finish working on the house. That one day my deeply pruned to the point of extinction hedge will burst back into flower. The dream that I'll finish all the admin I only remember after office hours, and get everything sorted and organised for our various holidays this summer. We'll not mention the definite-all-hope-of-sleep-destroying dreams about what happens if I don't get everything sorted and organised.
There are the "I've been reading too much and have now entered the world of the book" dreams - choose your books carefully here folks; a night at the Chalet School, or determinedly ignoring Gilbert whilst failing algebra, or sailing around Coniston Water is one thing; a night fighting vampires or sweeping chimneys is slightly less refreshing. And a night spent with The Provincial Lady or Parson Woodeforde is just plain disconcerting. And induces the inability to speak other than in short hand. Awkward.
These though are still better than the dreams which come unbidden in the darkest hours of the night, the dreams where more surgery is required and other complications arise and I am bereaved again. I'm not sure whether those dreams are easier or harder to wake from than the ones where Goldy is back in her bedroom being loud, and I'm getting up in the night as I so often did, to try to muffle her. It always takes a while in the morning to realise that I've been woken by a little voice shouting "Mum", not a loud voice singing and pretending to cough. To adjust to the realisation that the juddering is the ventilator vibrating on a shelf, not Goldy bouncing her bed against the wall. To be annoyed in a dream or desolate awake, which is better?
And then we'll move to the short little intense dreams which come in the five minute intervals between hitting the snooze button. Speed dreaming? Cameos? I'm on a plane with only three engines and we are hitting turbulence and bip bip bip bip it's 6.15, cancel that and I'm suddenly in a meeting in a job I had a decade ago and the phone is ringing and bip bip bippetty bip it's 6.20, cancel that and I'm up and drinking coffee, walking through my garden, taking a while to sit on the swingseat in the corner and enjoyingthe peace of the early morning, having a long conversation on the phone with a friend on her way home from work after a night shift; she's on a payphone so all to soon the pips start going and pip pip bippetty bip it's 6.25 and oh that wasn't a real cup of coffee, just another dream, drag myself out of bed and put the kettle on properly and the noise it makes as it boils is bip bip bippetty bip and now it's 6.30 and I really do manage to wake up this time.
All that dreaming, no wonder I don't have time to sleep.
Night,
Tia
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Monday, 25 February 2008
Playing with fire
I have a plea. Parents, teach your children how to handle certain basic pieces of equipment. It is sensible to tell a toddler "don't play with matches" or "don't touch the cooker". But at some point between toddlerhood and adulthood, those children need to learn.
I'm a Guide Leader. Guides (Girl Scouts for my US friends!) are girls aged between 10 and 15. Tonight we were doing some badgework, in the course of which the girls got to set up and light gas stoves, light barbecues, toast marshmallows and bake bananas with chocolate. All good fun.
I'm 34. Does that make me old? I feel it sometimes. When I was a Guide, toasting marshmallows was a nearly weekly event. We used candles and toothpicks and it was our standard celebration. Birthdays, Trefoils, new girls, you name it, we toasted a marshmallow for it. The Guiders were in th same room but never actively involved. I remember the odd scorched thumb and an occasional burnt mouth - the temptation to eat that liquid lava far too early. But we all survived. I don't remember either that any of us went on to burn our own homes down. Although I'm pretty sure that a couple of girls in my class at school did in fact have an incident after burning their physics books in a rubbish bin after their GCSE exams. They weren't Guides though (or they'd have had a proper bonfire. With buns)!
Today we had to do some basic fire safety first. We had to explain why it was a bad idea to lean over open flames with loose hair. Why it might not be a good idea to run and skip and hop next to the fire. Fair enough; we tend to start any hot things activities with a brief reminder. But we also had to teach the majority of the girls how to strike a match. How to hold the match, even how to blow it out, and how it might be a good idea to blow it out before the flame reached your fingertips. We had to reassure teenagers that "don't play with matches" was indeed good advice for a three year old, but that learning how to strike a match was in fact a useful life skill once you were older. Unless you go camping, you probably aren't familiar with camping gas stoves, and we don't expect them to know how to use them instantly - that's why we teach them. But we don't expect the match lighting to be the complicated bit.
When we take the girls on summer camp now, we have to ask their parents to teach them three things before they go. They need to be able to peel a potato, light a match, and wash up (without a dishwasher). It is surprising to me how many of the girls, even the older ones, don't know how to do these things. I understand you don't want to make a small child into your slave. But are you really doing a child any favours at all by preventing them from taking any kind of responsibility? We also nearly always have one child who has never slept without a nightlight, and whose parents have not twigged to the fact that camping under canvas means no electricity, and therefore no light other than the moon and stars. But I digress.
You may have a dishwasher, but will your child when they leave home? Most student accommodation doesn't come with much more than a cracked sink and a drainer, ditto much first digs. You may not want your child to have to spend every waking hour hanging up wet washing, but it is something they might want to learn how to do before they leave home. And basic cooking skills - do you really want your child to be reliant on readymeals and takeaways?
Playing with matches is probably a bad idea. That's where Little Fish is at the moment. She knows she doesn't touch the matches; I know she's too young to understand why so I make sure they're out of her reach. She does however get to blow them out whenever I use one to light the stove. But she's 2. By the time she's old enough to be a Guide I sincerely hope she'll have been using matches wisely for several years.
Meanwhile, tonight we had the pleasure of teaching about 20 girls how to hold a match, how to light it, and what fun it is to watch marshmallows go from pudgy to oozy-squishous-delicious. We also had to remind them that running around the carpark in the dark is probably not a very wise plan - again, parents, isn't this a sensible thing for you to have taught your children before they reach us? But we'll stick with the cooking. The girls had a great time. The evening flew by, we had volunteers to help with the washing up - they get real satisfaction out of seeing how easy it is once you have a bit of hot soapy water rather than a cold damp dishrag. This is something Little Fish already knows.
So please, parents, teach your children some of life's basics. Yes, schoolwork is important. Yes, enrichment activities are good and valuable things for your child to be doing (although I pity the many girls we have who have fourteen or more separate out of school activities going on; when do they ever have the time to just sit and be?). But learning life is just as important. Not just so that they know how to do these things before they come camping with us, but so that they can do them when they need to. We the Guiders love teaching your girls these things - I love the look of achievement on a girl's face when she has finally skinned that whole potato, when that final bit of black has finally come off the bottom of the pan, when those scared hands have stopped shaking for long enough to strike a match and touch it to a candle wick. That's one of the reasons we enjoy being Guiders. But we do feel bad for you, for what you miss out on by not teaching them yourselves.
I have a friend who has Multiple Sclerosis. Relapsing/remitting, it means that there are times when she can run for miles and times when she is confined to a powered wheelchair. At those times, her four year old daughter is now capable of cooking basic meals. She knows to use oven gloves, she knows how to work the microwave, and she can put fish fingers and oven chips into a roasting pan. Certainly that's not something most children need to be able to do at that age, but neither is it beyond her capacities. It isn't something the child has to do on a regular basis, but it is something she can do when needed. So give it a go, see what your child can do for you. And maybe this Mother's Day you might just get something extra nice delivered to you in bed, not a slice of burnt toast!
I realise I talk about daughters. That's because I have girls, and because as a Guider I spend time with other girls. It isn't because I think boys shouldn't be doing this too. Teach your children, boys and girls. My brothers are fine cooks.
This is sounding preachy. Sorry. I'm not trying to tell you how to raise your children. I hope that I'm giving you something to consider, if you don't already include your children in lessons for living.
Tia
I'm a Guide Leader. Guides (Girl Scouts for my US friends!) are girls aged between 10 and 15. Tonight we were doing some badgework, in the course of which the girls got to set up and light gas stoves, light barbecues, toast marshmallows and bake bananas with chocolate. All good fun.
I'm 34. Does that make me old? I feel it sometimes. When I was a Guide, toasting marshmallows was a nearly weekly event. We used candles and toothpicks and it was our standard celebration. Birthdays, Trefoils, new girls, you name it, we toasted a marshmallow for it. The Guiders were in th same room but never actively involved. I remember the odd scorched thumb and an occasional burnt mouth - the temptation to eat that liquid lava far too early. But we all survived. I don't remember either that any of us went on to burn our own homes down. Although I'm pretty sure that a couple of girls in my class at school did in fact have an incident after burning their physics books in a rubbish bin after their GCSE exams. They weren't Guides though (or they'd have had a proper bonfire. With buns)!
Today we had to do some basic fire safety first. We had to explain why it was a bad idea to lean over open flames with loose hair. Why it might not be a good idea to run and skip and hop next to the fire. Fair enough; we tend to start any hot things activities with a brief reminder. But we also had to teach the majority of the girls how to strike a match. How to hold the match, even how to blow it out, and how it might be a good idea to blow it out before the flame reached your fingertips. We had to reassure teenagers that "don't play with matches" was indeed good advice for a three year old, but that learning how to strike a match was in fact a useful life skill once you were older. Unless you go camping, you probably aren't familiar with camping gas stoves, and we don't expect them to know how to use them instantly - that's why we teach them. But we don't expect the match lighting to be the complicated bit.
When we take the girls on summer camp now, we have to ask their parents to teach them three things before they go. They need to be able to peel a potato, light a match, and wash up (without a dishwasher). It is surprising to me how many of the girls, even the older ones, don't know how to do these things. I understand you don't want to make a small child into your slave. But are you really doing a child any favours at all by preventing them from taking any kind of responsibility? We also nearly always have one child who has never slept without a nightlight, and whose parents have not twigged to the fact that camping under canvas means no electricity, and therefore no light other than the moon and stars. But I digress.
You may have a dishwasher, but will your child when they leave home? Most student accommodation doesn't come with much more than a cracked sink and a drainer, ditto much first digs. You may not want your child to have to spend every waking hour hanging up wet washing, but it is something they might want to learn how to do before they leave home. And basic cooking skills - do you really want your child to be reliant on readymeals and takeaways?
Playing with matches is probably a bad idea. That's where Little Fish is at the moment. She knows she doesn't touch the matches; I know she's too young to understand why so I make sure they're out of her reach. She does however get to blow them out whenever I use one to light the stove. But she's 2. By the time she's old enough to be a Guide I sincerely hope she'll have been using matches wisely for several years.
Meanwhile, tonight we had the pleasure of teaching about 20 girls how to hold a match, how to light it, and what fun it is to watch marshmallows go from pudgy to oozy-squishous-delicious. We also had to remind them that running around the carpark in the dark is probably not a very wise plan - again, parents, isn't this a sensible thing for you to have taught your children before they reach us? But we'll stick with the cooking. The girls had a great time. The evening flew by, we had volunteers to help with the washing up - they get real satisfaction out of seeing how easy it is once you have a bit of hot soapy water rather than a cold damp dishrag. This is something Little Fish already knows.
So please, parents, teach your children some of life's basics. Yes, schoolwork is important. Yes, enrichment activities are good and valuable things for your child to be doing (although I pity the many girls we have who have fourteen or more separate out of school activities going on; when do they ever have the time to just sit and be?). But learning life is just as important. Not just so that they know how to do these things before they come camping with us, but so that they can do them when they need to. We the Guiders love teaching your girls these things - I love the look of achievement on a girl's face when she has finally skinned that whole potato, when that final bit of black has finally come off the bottom of the pan, when those scared hands have stopped shaking for long enough to strike a match and touch it to a candle wick. That's one of the reasons we enjoy being Guiders. But we do feel bad for you, for what you miss out on by not teaching them yourselves.
I have a friend who has Multiple Sclerosis. Relapsing/remitting, it means that there are times when she can run for miles and times when she is confined to a powered wheelchair. At those times, her four year old daughter is now capable of cooking basic meals. She knows to use oven gloves, she knows how to work the microwave, and she can put fish fingers and oven chips into a roasting pan. Certainly that's not something most children need to be able to do at that age, but neither is it beyond her capacities. It isn't something the child has to do on a regular basis, but it is something she can do when needed. So give it a go, see what your child can do for you. And maybe this Mother's Day you might just get something extra nice delivered to you in bed, not a slice of burnt toast!
I realise I talk about daughters. That's because I have girls, and because as a Guider I spend time with other girls. It isn't because I think boys shouldn't be doing this too. Teach your children, boys and girls. My brothers are fine cooks.
This is sounding preachy. Sorry. I'm not trying to tell you how to raise your children. I hope that I'm giving you something to consider, if you don't already include your children in lessons for living.
Tia
Sunday, 24 February 2008
unclean, unclean
Mog has been generous with her lurgy. She and Little Fish seem to be doing nicely now; it's yours truly feeling like something the cat dragged in. 90 minutes until our carer arrives, 2.5 hours until the girls are in bed and I can follow them. And school tomorrow, thank goodness.
Tia
Tia
Friday, 22 February 2008
Mum proposes, Mog disposes.
I had a plan for today. A big, important plan. We all three of us need passports before we go to Florida. Mine ran out in January, Mog's runs out in June and Little Fish doesn't have one at all. We're off in just over six weeks. If we take our application forms to the post office, we should get our passports back in two weeks, which in theory should be plenty of time. But I'm a worrier; I'm stressed about this, and I wouldn't normally book an overseas holiday until the passports were in my hands. So I made an appointment to go to the passports office and get them done that way - several hours in the car and a few more queueing and waiting, more expensive, but three passports guaranteed to arrive in just a week.
To that end, I gathered the necessary documentation. Medical letter excusing Mog from meeting the official standards for passport photographs (she can't close her mouth and look at the camera and hold her head up - actually she can't sit up either but we managed to fudge that with a cunningly disguised hand at the back of her head. Long wild woolly hair helps!). Signatures from a "person of good standing in the community" certifying we are who we say we are. Signatures and information from Mog's other mother to prove I'm not trying to kidnap Mog. Birth certificates, court orders, adoption certificates for Little Fish. All sorted and lined up last night.
Carer booked for this morning, lunches organised, bus refuelled and ready to run, company clothes all laid out and ready to wear. House in a fit state to be abandoned for the day. Etcetera.
And then Mog pulled her ace. She has been coughing mightily from her chest infection, a round of antibiotics has really loosened things up and she's producing nicely. But has not been otherwise ill with it. Until last night, that is. From 1AM Mog has been coughing and spluttering and generally drowning, miserable and uncomfortable, and needing to be sitting upright. She finally settled back to sleep at 6AM. Little Fish woke up at 6.34AM!
Mog woke up an hour later, pale and twitchy and obviously in need of another round of antibiotics. So instead of heading over to the passport agency we're heading into town to the Dr's. Able as Little Fish is, I can't rely on her to help Mog to clear her cough if needed when I'm driving, so I think a 10 minute drive is probably better than a 2 hour one. We'll just have to send the passports through the post - and I'll have to just trust they all come back in good time.
Tia
To that end, I gathered the necessary documentation. Medical letter excusing Mog from meeting the official standards for passport photographs (she can't close her mouth and look at the camera and hold her head up - actually she can't sit up either but we managed to fudge that with a cunningly disguised hand at the back of her head. Long wild woolly hair helps!). Signatures from a "person of good standing in the community" certifying we are who we say we are. Signatures and information from Mog's other mother to prove I'm not trying to kidnap Mog. Birth certificates, court orders, adoption certificates for Little Fish. All sorted and lined up last night.
Carer booked for this morning, lunches organised, bus refuelled and ready to run, company clothes all laid out and ready to wear. House in a fit state to be abandoned for the day. Etcetera.
And then Mog pulled her ace. She has been coughing mightily from her chest infection, a round of antibiotics has really loosened things up and she's producing nicely. But has not been otherwise ill with it. Until last night, that is. From 1AM Mog has been coughing and spluttering and generally drowning, miserable and uncomfortable, and needing to be sitting upright. She finally settled back to sleep at 6AM. Little Fish woke up at 6.34AM!
Mog woke up an hour later, pale and twitchy and obviously in need of another round of antibiotics. So instead of heading over to the passport agency we're heading into town to the Dr's. Able as Little Fish is, I can't rely on her to help Mog to clear her cough if needed when I'm driving, so I think a 10 minute drive is probably better than a 2 hour one. We'll just have to send the passports through the post - and I'll have to just trust they all come back in good time.
Tia
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Cousins
Just one month apart. My niece was born in February 2005, Little Fish in March 2005. Niece was born in hospital, came home with her parents a few days later. Little Fish was born in hospital, had emergency surgery at one day old, spent several months in hospital, before being discharged to fosterparents for palliative care. Niece was an only child, surrounded by loving and delighted parents and grandparents; Little Fish was surrounded firstly by other very sick babies, later by a large fosterfamily, later still by our rather different family.At 18 months old, Niece was chattering about different birds and animals, and able to identify the component parts of flowers and trees (leaves, petals, stamen, even!). Little Fish spoke her first word at 22 months.
Niece dances and skips and hops and jumps and bounces. Little Fish whizzes and whirls and beeps and bumps in her wheelchairs. Here, they are equals.
They are both now nearly three, both starting at pre-school very shortly, both are lucky enough to have a parent at home with them for the majority of the time they spend there. Little Fish has Mog, and has lived through the loss of her older sister Goldy. She gets excited when Heaven is mentioned and says Goldy's name. Niece has a baby sibling on the way, and remembers Goldy and Goldy's funeral, and has the questions of a much older child about the meaning of life and death.
Little Fish had a new word this week -Spider "Pie-Dah". Niece had a new word this week too - "Chlorophyll". She wanted to know what makes leaves green. Little Fish wanted to know when she could next eat apples.
I shouldn't make comparisons. Both girls are loved, much longed for and much appreciated members of the family. Both girls have their faults and flaws and quirks. Neither is better than the other, each has skills the other lacks. But I look at them both, and it is hard not to wonder how they will fare at school, and into adult life, will the world look kindly on them both?
Tia
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
...
It's a scary thing, being without the internet. I forget how much I rely on it. Shopping, admin, nine tenths of all my regular communication, research, reassurance. Full credit to the Tech Guys, they arranged to have my laptop collected the morning after I phoned them, and it was dropped back here again this morning, all fixed and shiny looking (they might have cleaned the screen for me though).
Meanwhile I made the always pleasing discovery that my back up computer won't cooperate with the router. It was not the best time to have an unplanned break from the internet. One sick child, one school holiday, one missing carer and my emergency back up sanity squad (my parents) away visiting my brothers. I should have known - one or other of my girls always gets sick whenever my parents go away.
Thanks go to Lauren for keeping my blog reasonably functional for the past week. And for visiting on Monday. Note to self: work out that mobile blogging thing - it's all very well dicta-blogging but I suspect it gets old fast for the friend pressed into service as secretary.
We've managed the week fairly well so far. Friday and Saturday preparing for Mog's photographer, Sunday with the photographer, Monday with Lauren, and Tuesday with Tina and co. Just need to find things for tomorrow and Friday now.
Little Fish is only normally in school two mornings a week, but she finds missing those two mornings very hard. Every five minutes now she's asking for the school bus. I try not to take it personally. I am not used to this though. I ought to be really; she's been here for a year now. But I am used to Mog's more gentle ways - she likes to be busy but she needs to be peaceful too, and is quite happy to spend time listening to music, having cuddles, and generally living life in the slow lane. Goldy too was perfectly happy to have a quiet day now and then; she did need the routine of school but she could manage up to a fortnight without it quite happily. And now Little Fish wants to be actively entertained every waking minute. It's great, but it's hard work. Mog breathes a sigh of relief once Little Fish has gone to bed for the night; we have a gentle half hour or so most nights just enjoying being still and silent together. It's not that we don't love Little Fish and her busy-ness; it's just that we both appreciate the respite.
I've had to break the news of Goldy's death (in August) to two people this week. Not easy. She's on my mind.
Tia
Meanwhile I made the always pleasing discovery that my back up computer won't cooperate with the router. It was not the best time to have an unplanned break from the internet. One sick child, one school holiday, one missing carer and my emergency back up sanity squad (my parents) away visiting my brothers. I should have known - one or other of my girls always gets sick whenever my parents go away.
Thanks go to Lauren for keeping my blog reasonably functional for the past week. And for visiting on Monday. Note to self: work out that mobile blogging thing - it's all very well dicta-blogging but I suspect it gets old fast for the friend pressed into service as secretary.
We've managed the week fairly well so far. Friday and Saturday preparing for Mog's photographer, Sunday with the photographer, Monday with Lauren, and Tuesday with Tina and co. Just need to find things for tomorrow and Friday now.
Little Fish is only normally in school two mornings a week, but she finds missing those two mornings very hard. Every five minutes now she's asking for the school bus. I try not to take it personally. I am not used to this though. I ought to be really; she's been here for a year now. But I am used to Mog's more gentle ways - she likes to be busy but she needs to be peaceful too, and is quite happy to spend time listening to music, having cuddles, and generally living life in the slow lane. Goldy too was perfectly happy to have a quiet day now and then; she did need the routine of school but she could manage up to a fortnight without it quite happily. And now Little Fish wants to be actively entertained every waking minute. It's great, but it's hard work. Mog breathes a sigh of relief once Little Fish has gone to bed for the night; we have a gentle half hour or so most nights just enjoying being still and silent together. It's not that we don't love Little Fish and her busy-ness; it's just that we both appreciate the respite.
I've had to break the news of Goldy's death (in August) to two people this week. Not easy. She's on my mind.
Tia
Sunday, 17 February 2008
Mog versus the photographer
Money spent on the garden: £60
Hours spent working on the garden yesterday: 4
Hours spent tidying house: endless
Seconds spent here by photographer before deciding to go to local park: 67
Hours spent in park: 2.5
Number of times photographer returned to car for forgotten equipment: 3
Look on photographer's face when upon returning home Mog finally smiles: priceless!
Hours spent working on the garden yesterday: 4
Hours spent tidying house: endless
Seconds spent here by photographer before deciding to go to local park: 67
Hours spent in park: 2.5
Number of times photographer returned to car for forgotten equipment: 3
Look on photographer's face when upon returning home Mog finally smiles: priceless!
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