Day 5

Another gloriously sunny, day. No photos today. My mission: build a climbing frame. Reality, open two boxes, count out 134 screws and multiple pieces of untreated and only partially pre-drilled wood. Screw in the first three screws. Abandon project, order electronic screwdriver. Forget the flatpack; A and I make flapjacks instead.

One boy supremely happy to be bouncing in the garden and pottering in and out of the house most of the day. One girl willing to leave the house for a quick health walk, swapping dusty inside for ring road traffic fumes, but a wide footpath with few fellow travellers. This works.

One nappy delivery in our absence and another shortly after our return. We may now officially have a nappy stock pile. Does it count if it is as a result of the kindness of friends?

We are living in strange times indeed. I’m reminded of my Grannie, who had a correct and appropriate behaviour for every single social situation. Mostly, I was thinking that I’m glad she is no longer sitting in a nursing home where we would be unable to visit. But then I was wondering what she’d make of this current situation. And I realised she had already taught us exactly what we should do. Her two pieces of advice gleaned from boarding school. No, not “bend from the hips not the waist when drinking soup” but, if you see an acquaintance in the street, your brother and boarder at the boy’s school in town maybe, Smile, Bow, and Pass Along.” Thanks, Grannie.

No photos tonight as they’ve all vanished.

Verse of the day, from a different friend, Matthew 6:34  Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. 

And our hymn for today: one of Imi’s favourites for a change of pace. 

We actually have a timetable for tomorrow, with two planned and structured events, both happening at set times. Strange again to think of Sunday as our more structured day. Not complaining though, very much looking forwards to it. 

Tia 

Day 4.

Day four and I'm pleased to say we are no longer short of nappies. It's the little things which become important.

We have a large freezer, a large 'fridge, and several cupboards full of food. We have online deliveries booked to begin in a couple of weeks (by which time, surely this mad run on the shops will seriously have slowed down?), and we have friends who are willing and able to haunt the shops for us. We shan't starve.

Nevertheless, it is different. We have a freezer full of food, but only 1/3 of it is full of food A would choose to eat. Broccoli has disappeared from the shops. I find myself eating different meals to A, choosing to extend the food she likes by eating the food she is currently rejecting. Calculating how much milk I should put into my hot drinks, or whether I should switch to black coffee, to preserve the milk for D's bottles? None of us are going without, but I have a new appreciation of the value of just being able to head up to the shops should we fancy something different to eat that night. The luxury of being able to ignore the food in the 'fridge and send A to pick up a jar of her favourite pasta sauce. The freedom of being able to eat sandwiches for breakfast and lunch, knowing we can pick up a fresh loaf in the afternoon. It's been four days. I hope that after four months that's a freedom I never forget to appreciate.

It is humbling, to be reliant on the kindness of others. When Imi was so ill at home, I knew I could rely on my friends, but I could reciprocate on days she had nurses at home. Now the whole world seems to be in the same position, and there is no way to reciprocate.

To our hand washing station, we have added a cupboard for outdoor clothing and bags. We are assessing visitors. If carers are allowed to come in, then is there a greater risk in allowing others in?

And our outdoor transformation has begun. Two adults two hours, said the instructions on this trampoline. One adult, one teen passing pieces, and one boy climbing on at every available opportunity. A long pause for lunch, but we did it! So that's an indoor swing and an outdoor trampoline; the climbing frame will need to wait for another day until I am brave enough to tackle it.

But there will be another day. And another, and another. Our world has shrunk, and our time expanded. People don't need to ask if we will be in for deliveries; the assumption is we will be here. The rest of the world seems to be getting busier. Endless queues for food, emergency meetings, whether in person or virtual. People stacking up their homeschooling timetables, planning their days hour by hour. And we potter on. Building a trampoline becomes our education for today. School say they have learning packs on their website, but we can't find them yet. A downloads maths sheets from assorted websites, enjoys tackling them, then uses Siri to check her answers. D uses his talker to tell her to take a break. I check a few emails, and suddenly it is time for another meal and meds and beds, and I'm not sure where the day has gone. I'm not complaining. I'd rather the days slipped away from us than that we were counting every minute. The thought that this might be us for a year or more is both desperately desolate and also strangely ok; we will find a way.

Song for the day as I stretched springs and snapped locking pins, surrounded by birdsong and a strange lack of traffic.

Verse for the day courtesy of my friend Alesha: "The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come..." Song of Solomon 2:12

Tia

The Distancing Diaries: Day 3

The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but the rain in Abingdon falls mainly on the madwoman watching her boy splash around in puddles outside once he can no longer be contained within four walls.

We are waiting for some garden play equipment, but in the meantime Captain Sensory needed some serious stimulation to stop him exploding. Office chair spinning, peanut ball rolling, head squeezing, joint compressions, and he was nearly purring by the time we reached his little fingers. And then we found the best New Thing; tucked away and waiting for a collection which never came, a swing we could sling onto the hoist. One happy bouncy swinging spinning boy and then quietly, one calm and snoozy baby boy. 

We have nappies! Assorted friends and church people have been scouring the shops, and I'm pleased to say we are fully stocked, tick item one of the reasons to lose sleep list. We also have chocolate spread and ketchup, so my girl's world will keep turning. 

And we have a new social worker. When we will meet, who knows? But a name. And not a new social worker, a social worker who was, briefly, responsible for my beautiful golden girl, many years ago. 

And we have the beginnings I think of more formal back up plans. Or at least, we have recognition that plans will be needed. Official recognition from both health and social services that if I am ill myself, there are two very vulnerable children who will need full support very quickly. No idea what that will look like yet but I'm feeling a lot less stressed now that the official bods have acknowledged the fact they are aware of the situation. It's a decent start. Plan A does of course remain stay well and don't break anything, plan B being just don't get too ill. 

It's been a long day. One boy partying from 1-4AM; we attempt to refuse his invitation to join him but he's quite insistent. It's a good job he's cute. One girl who is upset to learn that her school will be remaining open without her, whilst other schools close. And who is determined to have the biggest folder of work completed before she goes back. Which is a good aim, except when it means she gets panicky at the thought of being away from her work station, not only between the hours of 9 and 3 but also up until bedtime, because the others will of course be working so hard at school. I'm hoping they might start sending some work out to her fairly soon, so that she can see what the others are doing rather than simply trying to do All of The Things in an attempt not to miss out. 

The world has shrunk considerably. I haven't seen most of my neighbours for a few days now. If we are out, they are safely behind their shuttered windows. Fewer cars are coming and going. Our delivery drivers are dropping parcels at the door, knocking loudly then running down the drive as quickly as they can. The meter man came to call today; as he moved up our hallway so we retreated to the kitchen, and then back down to shut the door once he was down the driveway. Echoes of some stylised country dance perhaps? Shrinking, but feeling more normal today. 

Verse of the day: Proverbs 18:10 The name of The Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run into it and they are saved (earworm, anyone?) 

And song for the moment:

The Distancing Diaries: Day 2

More phone calls and messages today from assorted health professionals making sure we are officially distancing ourselves.

One girl increasingly reluctant to go out at all, and white faced and terrified at the thought of entering Grannie and Granddad's house because that's inside and she's not allowed. And keen to impose her school routine on the whole household. We now break for 15 minutes at 10.30. Lunch, hot, must be on the table for 12. The dining table becomes her schoolroom, but as soon as the end of the school day happens, she retreats to her bedroom, growling if either of us attempt to join her.

No nappies in Sainsbury's. We have a kitchen full of food (for which I am incredibly grateful), but without nappies this will get rather too interesting.

A letter from the hospice explaining they will be closed except for end of life care for the foreseeable future. A phone call to our respite provider, Amana will also not be going there for the next few months. Contact with our home carers - they will continue to provide care for now but may withdraw at any point. Respite nurses will be busy elsewhere. It's starting to look very lonely in here.

We walk, still. People look at us with suspicion. Are we plague carriers? Are they?

In the evening, a news briefing. Schools will close from Friday. Finally. All exams cancelled. But children with EHCPs will still be able to attend, along with children of key workers. Schools will close to protect the vulnerable. But the most vulnerable children will still attend school. Key workers include not just front line medical staff but delivery drivers and supermarket workers. But not teachers, who will need to be in school providing care and education for those children who need to be there, whilst somehow finding alternative non-grandparent based care for their own children. Bizarre.

School ring to ask if we need a food parcel. Very kind. But no thank you. Some lesson plans maybe? But these are not offered at the moment.

After school we take a praise break. Song for today:

And verse for today, from my very good friend:

Because of The Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning: great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3 22-23.

And we are not alone. I have friends scouring the shops for D's nappies. People I can call on to shop, to help out, just to sit and have a virtual chat if we can't meet over a real cup of tea any more.

There is good happening in this world, and in this town. People in our community are coming together to see what they can do. People care. Plans are coming together for the what-ifs most likely to affect our family.

And I have plenty of tea, and sufficient milk to cool it.

Tia

The Distancing Diaries - Day 1

And a little reintroduction. Been a while, how are you all?

Life here has changed here in the past few years. Amana and I have been joined by the delightful little wild man Dylan.

Wild man very much enjoys washing machines, noisy toys, and anything he can flick or flap. 

Our lives are now lived with a backdrop of Peppa Pig or Charlie and Lola. No level surface is safe from being crawled on or cleared. Eggs belong on the floor, in pieces, not in the 'fridge. Cat food is the most delicious substance on the planet. No door can be locked against him, no night can be slept without him, and life is immensely richer, busier, smellier, and just generally wildly different than it has ever been before. Walking and running is fun! 

So, current update. One amazingly awesome teen, who has gathered numerous extra health complications in the past few years, but prefers to maintain her privacy online - all posts will be approved by her before posting. One very active, currently undiagnosed "but there's definitely something" three year old, who needs many hours running around outside in all weathers and unfettered access to the park and preschool in order to keep all of us sane. And one of me. A bit older than before, a bit more tired, but still essentially me. 

Enter Coronavirus. You knew it would take something dramatic to get me back here, right? Not don't worry, we don't have it. But as of today, we find ourselves out of step with the rest of the UK, having withdrawn both children from school in order to mostly stay home and avoid other people. Social distancing, here we come. 

For any of my non-Brit friends, current situation here is that the general population is advised to work from home if possible, avoid cinemas, theatres, pubs and large gatherings. The Church of England has said that churches should remain open, but not hold public services. All clubs, societies, activities have been paused. Universities have sent students home and many are switching to online lectures for the summer team. Schools, bizarrely, remain open. But students with underlying health conditions can stay home. Strange times. 

So - day one of social distancing. We are supposed to stay 2metres away from anyone else. Outdoor exercise is encouraged. Shopping is not. This morning, I attempted to book an online delivery slot. All delivery and click and collect options for all our local supermarkets are fully booked for the next three weeks. It's a good job we've got a large freezer. Crucially though, we only have 1/3 of a tub of Pringles, Wild Man's only acceptable substitute for cat food. Grolly will not be impressed if the Pringles run out. 

So we take a midday health walk. Picturing blue skies and birdsong? Think again. The boy likes traffic. The girl likes Scania Lorries. We walk around the ring road. It works - many lorries, few people. Every one we meet slithers away so we maintain our 2m distance. Are they ill and attempting to keep us safe? Or do they think we will be the ones to spread the plague? 

A has decided to follow her school timetable at home. More or less. I'm not sure where eating the donut with yellow sprinkles comes into the curriculum - perhaps I'll get her to estimate the number of bites beforehand next time. A bit of maths. A bit of English. A lot of colouring. 

Decisions everywhere. Some being made for us - it's easy to decide not to go to church when church won't be happening anyway. We rather enjoyed the church's first livestream on Sunday; I hope something like this can continue for us all as we stay home. Do we continue to welcome our carers, who will be moving from vulnerable child to vulnerable child, whilst also having their own non-vulnerable children in schools? Can we manage without them if we don't? Visiting therapists? Hospital appointments? Yesterday we cancelled our Easter holiday plans. It'll be the first time in many years we haven't been to Tenby; it'll also be the first time in many years we've spent so long not seeing the friends we were planning to go with. 

Our verse for today: Matthew 28:20b And I am with you always, to the very end of the age. 

Song for the season: 

20 seconds to the chorus. The perfect hand washing anthem for our times. 

So that's us. Day one nearly done. The homeschooling I said I'd never do being partially maintained. The smallest one very unimpressed at the lack of social activities. But so far, all dressed, all fed, all reasonably clean. See you tomorrow maybe. 

Tia

It's starting to look a lot like...

Christmas. 

Tis the season to be jolly. Joy to the world. Peace to all mankind. Happy holidays, merry Christmas, church bells and jingle bells and cinnamon and oranges. Smile, laugh, be busy, spend money, see family, eat, drink, and be merrier than ever. 

No pressure there then. 

This year, I'm thinking of four more families who have entered the club no one wants to join; families facing their first Christmas without their beloved precious child. 

Families asking, how do we do Christmas now? How can we celebrate, with such a big hole? But also, how can we not celebrate, for the sake of our other children? 

Imi died four days before Christmas Eve. That tends to blow a bit of a hole in the whole excitement about the run up to Christmas. We buried her big sister on the last day of November, a whole three months after she had died. That also  has a bit of an effect on Advent. 

Grief runs like words through a stick of rock. Hard, inescapable, but achingly sweet. 

And I'm drawn back to that first Christmas. A tale almost too familiar in its repetition. A girl, pregnant, giving birth miles from home without a proper roof over her head. Angels celebrating. Humble shepherds gathering to worship. Heaven come down. 

Beautiful. Ageless. A miracle. God on Earth. We know the story. 

But I'm wondering about God the Father, God the Holy Spirit. One tiny baby Jesus, naked and vulnerable, entrusted to Mary and Joseph, sentenced before birth to a life none of us would choose for our child. And two thirds of the Holy Trinity stepping back, releasing their son, knowing what would happen, but easing him out of Heaven anyway. There was great rejoicing in the land. But I wonder if maybe there was a great mourning in Heaven? An anticipation of Easter? Things would most definitely never be the same again. 

Fast forward a bit, and whilst Jesus and his earthly parents become refugees in Egypt for a time (and don't tell me that was no loss to their own wider family and friends), Bethlehem weeps for the mass murder of every male baby under one year old. Somehow, I can't see Bethlehem continuing to celebrate that holy birth whilst weeping for their lost generation. 

A visit from wise men, or kings, stargazers certainly. And gifts. Gold, treasure. Frankinsence, for a King. And Myrrh, to annoint the dead. And Mary stored these up. Right from the start, the joy of life, and the forewarning of death. 

Did she dig out that myrrh when Jesus was hanging from the cross? Or was it lost in travels, sold for bread in hard times, or carefully preserved but never used as events took over so fast? I don't know. But I wonder, as she pondered on that visit in the times to come, did she know, as so many of us have come to know, that she would outlive her son? 

I don't know. 

Child death runs through God's story.  How long did Adam and Eve live without Abel? What did Moses' parents' friends and neighbours think, when he survived their great loss? How long did Naomi mourn her sons? The latter part of Job's life may well have been more blessed than the first, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't any compensation for such loss. David and Abigail dusted off their sackcloth, but their son won't have been forgotten. 

Rachel weeps for her children. 

And we weep for ours. 

But we do celebrate too. Because we knew our children, we loved our children, and because we know they are themselves preparing to celebrate with angels and archangels, and all the company of Heaven. 

How do we celebrate, when we have such empty seats around our table? That looks different for everyone. 

For some, it is good to carry on just as before. A friend pulls up an empty seat to her table, with her child's special things on it. Unthinkable to not set a place for him, so that place is set. Another hangs photos on her tree. One visits a grave and reads the Christmas story, another tucks her child up inside her heart, and keeps him there in that private place, a grief too precious to be shared. 

There is no wrong. For us, that first year, we just tagged along to plans made for us. Last year, we changed our traditions and hosted Christmas ourselves - easier to be in control than to be at someone else's beck and call. We decorated some rooms, left others plain, able to dip in and out of Christmas as we saw fit. This year things will be different again. 

But through it all, in every day, in the joyful times when things are going well, and in the ugly bitter times when it seems as though the world has not only forgotten but trodden on my memories in the forgetting, through all of this, I look up at God my Father. And I see Him looking back, and I know he did it too. He watched His Son die, through innocence, through chosen weakness, and not at his own hands. And He is there, He weeps. He mourns. He comforts. He knows. And that's how we do Christmas. 

Tia

A non update.

It's been a while. 

There's lots to say, but unfortunately it's news I can't share on line for another few months yet. Bear with.

We had a Spring, we had a Summer, A had more spinal surgery, and is loving life.  We had an Autumn, we are heading into Winter, we are very busy in a different kind of a way, and life is generally good. 

I'm fostering again, and A adores our little fosling. 

There's a post nagging at me but unwritten yet, but in the meantime, to people who have contacted me checking we are ok, yes, we are, I'm still here, still plodding along, walking this beautiful  road with friends and family around me. 

Thanks for your patience. 

Tia