Family

Raising Readers

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No world book day costumes here today (thank goodness 😜), but two of the small ones headed downstairs and the newest able reader sat and ‘taught’ her smallest brother to read.

And it got me thinking. We are so lucky to now have four out of six now who have fallen in love with books, despite various challenges along the way. How did that happen? We certainly haven’t sat down and taught them to read! I haven’t even (gasp) read with them every day when they started school. Many times we’ve read the school book once. In the car before school on the day it had to be handed in. (Oh the shame 😱). And yet here we are, with children who read whilst walking to school. Who read when they should be asleep. And smallest ones who pretend they can read because it’s the cool thing to do. So here are my thoughts on what might have helped.

📚 We read to them. From tiny babies, we’ve read to them. Every day. We’ve spent nearly 15 years reading the same board books, the ones that last. Dear Zoo. Happy Dog, Sad Dog. The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Books become a comforting part of bedtime routine. When foster babies and children came, stories were a vital part of building an attachment, an important introduction to safe touch and a place of quiet and peace. For all of our children before they wanted to read to themselves, those moments before bed have always been an important part of our routine, they have time with us, they ask questions, they have cuddles, they connect. Or, in Micah and Theo’s case, they might run around in circles and throw things at my head. But it’s still fun. For them. 😆

📚We have books around the house. Small children will grab them and play with them, they’ll learn there’s a world of wonder in those pages. They’ll see them as normal and intriguing and fun.

📚We let them choose. From when they can form an opinion, they’ll have the ones that they want. Now I’ll be honest, this does get annoying, because I would much rather read a story than ‘100 vehicles’ or ‘Lift the flap shapes book’ for the 95th night in a row. And I do occasionally make strong suggestions towards other options. 😆 But they love repetition, they love the familiarity, and they learn so much through it when they’re interested. Megan read the same book for about 3 years when she was younger. I’d offer other things, and she’d dip in and out, but it was where she was happy and felt safe, in her imaginary world in the pages of Enid Blyton.

📚As they get older, we let them try different genres-they’ll read if they’re interested in it! Admittedly I was thrown by not one of my children having a remote interested in my favourite childhood stories, Little House on the Prairie and Anne of Green Gables were strongly rejected in favour of The Magic Faraway Tree, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and moving on to Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. Currently I have one reading about Henry’s Wives, one into Murder Mysteries, one still on Harry Potter, and one who much prefers nature books to any fairy stories. It’s surprising how interesting Mushrooms can be.

📚We ask other people for ideas. I was lucky to grow up in a family of avid readers, and my sisters have given loads of suggestions on books that might interest my kids when it’s not something I’ve had a natural interest in. I scour their Christmas lists for ideas and blatantly steal them. The children’s teachers will have loads of ideas, and I scout bookshops or websites for new releases.

📚We’ve tried to be patient. They learn to read at different ages and stages, it’s really not a competition, no matter how it feels in reception and year 1. My mum taught me to read when she home schooled us, and although I love it now, she said I wasn’t interested for a long time. When Megan started school I was clueless as to what ‘normal’ progression for new readers was, and I’m glad really, because I was pleased at her progress, but it was never a huge deal. It turned out, she actually grasped it really quickly, and was an early free reader. But that’s not been the same for the others, and that’s fine too. By the end of the first lockdown it was a battle to get Maddie to read anything, yet since Christmas she’s flown and is now reading anything. Time, no pressure, and letting her go at her pace seem to have been the answer.

📚We let them see us read. Maisie was greatly spurred on to read because she was desperate to find out what was so addictive about the Rainbow Magic books Megan was obsessed by. Micah is pretending to read because he sees the older kids and us do it. When I had four kids 5 and under including a foster child I definitely wasn’t putting reading at the top of my to do list, so it’s not always a priority-or even fun. But there are lots of books which aren’t heavy word filled books, and they still show the appeal of that paper and ink, of a world beyond the space we’re living in. ‘Coffee table’ books, filled with photos or art, short stories, poems, daily devotionals, travel books (or Winnie the Pooh, if we’re going for Notting Hill references…).

📚Choose attractive books. There are so many gorgeously illustrated books out there. I love reading, but I’m still always more likely to be drawn to a book with a good cover, making me question my judgementalism, yet true nonetheless. Books and their covers can be works of art in themselves, and going into a real life bookshop can become as appealing as a sweet shop. Well, obviously if we could visit both that would be the best of everything. Just ask Micah.

‘When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.’ (You’ve Got Mail).

Keep calm and read on friends.

Forty before Forty

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When I was in school, I had a lot of resentment about being an August baby. I was the tiny one on the desk hidden in the corner. I never turned the next grand age during the school year. My friends were inevitably on holiday for my birthday party, and to top it off I had my 18th birthday and went straight to collect A-level results the next morning.

However this year I’m finally reaping the benefits of being the baby of the year! I’m in a WhatsApp group with several school friends, and couldn’t help feeling a little smug as we started wishing friends a happy 40th way back when I’d just turned 39. But after Christmas was finished it suddenly dawned on me that when we’ve welcomed the New Year in, lockdown party style on Thursday night and celebrating a grateful goodbye to 2020, my fortieth will be in this. very. year.

Well that was it. Suddenly I was wide eyed and sleepless and wondering what I should do with this momentous occasion. I’m ok with the fact in terms of age itself. I’ve had some busy years in adulthood, with more ups and downs than Chessington’s finest rollercoaster. So I feel I’ve earned a fortieth and the grey hairs that declare my wisdom. Or my age, anyway. If anything, I’m aware that ageing isn’t a right or a privilege, it’s a gift that not everyone gets, and for that, I’m okay to welcome my next decade in.

Having said that, whilst the storms blew outside I was lying staring into the dark slightly panicked, pondering what I can still achieve whilst I’m still in my 30’s. I’ve spent the best part of 15 years changing nappies and gaining a chronic neck injury from my poor baby-feeding posture combined with the bedtime hand holding of unsettled babies/unruly toddlers/anxious children. At the beginning of the March 2020 lockdown I was still taking a napping Micah in the pushchair on a walk, and somehow over the last 9 months he’s morphed into a several mile hiking, name-writing school-child. And that’s the part that unsettles me. It’s a new season of life and although I’m keenly aware I am still very much still needed, the question is who am I when I’m not hiding my insecurities behind a cute baby or propping my anxious legs up with a pushchair? (This was the first year I had to go Christmas shopping without a pushchair to carry my bags, and I missed it greatly. Next year I’m hoping to be allowed to shop with a pushchair wielding friend.) So given my vague end of thirties/end of toddler-life crisis, I decided I needed some goals. So I sat up and let the pounding rain on the window inspire a list.

Obviously despite a brand new year, the 2020 hangover is going to stay with us for a while, so my goals have to be achievable within a pandemic and the almost forgotten Brexit. No point aiming for the European city break I had planned – turns out my friend who suggested Blackpool would be exotic enough for the four of us might have been right after all.

So here it is, my Forty before Forty. The organiser in me kind of wishes I’d thought about this somewhere in November so I had forty weeks to achieve it, but there we are, I’ll just have to get a wriggle on. Some I’ll have to do more than one a week, some are one a month, some will be one off specials. Some are personal goals, some to do with others, some to do for others. And some are definitely going to be easier than others! (The backlog of photo books particularly fills me with dread!!!) But if I put it in writing it’s more likely to happen, so here it is:

1. Go for forty runs (a combination of illness and the dark evenings have halted my running for the last couple of months, so now seems a good time to get going again).

2. Start a new course (possibly cheating as I’m already enrolled, but I’m excited to get going)

3. Finish reading or read ten new books

4. Get a tattoo (I’ve got the design and the gift voucher…just need them to be allowed to open again)

5. Start writing a book

6. Use my DSLR to take forty special photos

7. Bake forty things for fun (could do with being allowed to feed them to other people too.)

8. Complete four years of photo books

9. Clean out four rooms

10. Learn a new piece on the piano

11. Start learning Welsh

12. Hike somewhere new

13. Put our little house on the market (and hopefully sell it!)

14. Write down forty prayers

15. Write forty thank you letters

16. Do a four week healthy eating plan

17. Have 8 date nights (going out would be a bonus!)

18. Have 8 family nights in

19. Try a new craft

20. Climb a hill to watch the sunrise

21. Climb a hill to watch the sunset

22. Visit a new beach

23. Start walking the Welsh coastal path

24. Go on a bike ride

25. Write a will (we said we’d do it when we went to matching panel for Micah 3.5 years ago…)

26. Save £X per month

27. Get a passport (Liam looked nervous at this one)

28. Book a holiday (should probably get him a passport too)

29. Write letters to my children

30. Donate forty things to a charity shop

31. Crochet and donate 20 premature baby hats for hospitals

32. Twin a toilet

33. Buy from four new Independent businesses (always happy for recommendations)

34. Pay for fourteen suspended coffees

35. Donate forty items to food bank

36. Plant four bee attracting plants

37. Send 8 surprise parcels

38. Research and support a local charity/cause (again, recommendations welcome)

39. Sponsor an international Cleft Palate surgery through Operation Smile

40. Raise £400 for charities (split between BHF and Barnados)

Writing this list was enjoyable and focussing, and really helped my mood going into the new year. I’m not normally one for New Years resolutions, but the thought having some goals and purposes in the middle of lockdown life certainly cheered me up! I highly recommend doing it, whatever age you’ll be turning in 2021. No doubt there’ll be curve balls and unexpected moments, but if I don’t manage to bake all the cakes I’ll be ok with that. It’s more a motivation to keep looking for ways to make every day count. I’ll keep you updated on my progress, and I’ll be setting up a justgiving account for the fundraiser. I’ve got until August 18th 2021, so please, join me for the ride!

‘So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.’ – Psalm 90:12

Messy Nativity

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Picture the scene:

Friday morning. Not the last day of term, but at the moment the last day has changed four times for three different schools, so who knows – it might be the last day?! It’s the last day in school for our kids, anyway.

Children number 4, 5 and 6 are running around with bed head hair, wet wipe washed jumpers, and still sporting milk moustaches-not for Movember, just from the morning.

Child 3 has had his coat on and been trying to leave the house since 7:45. It’s likely that his hair and teeth are unbrushed and he almost certainly doesn’t have fruit or a drink in his bag.

Children number 1 and 2 are self isolating. They might not be any more actually, I heard a rumour the dates had changed, but that’s something we’re not sure of because it was another one of several hundred emails that landed this week with fresh information. However, they’re still here, I think, ready to roll from bed to laptop in one smooth move.

Child number 3 is finally released in a state of semi order.

Child 1 appears, very excitedly showing me the trailer for the new Marvel film, whilst Child 3 bursts back through the door, having forgotten the teachers presents that he’d been holding for 20 minutes prior to leaving. Child 1 enthusiastically tries to show him the trailer-at least he’s likely to be interested.

At this point I interject. Child 3 is now late, I point out, and you and Child 2 cannot be doing school in your pyjamas. I locate the missing presents, wash three faces, send Child 3 back out of the house hoping he now won’t miss the bus, pack two bags, and am presented with a note that says, simply: £2.00. Child 5 has observed that I have learned to filter out the frequent voices invading my brain and has decided on a new strategy to ensure I don’t forget the payment for the decoration she crafted in school. Requests made in writing are surely likely to be noted?

And off we go, with packed bags and fruit pots, several coins paying for things that may break on the way home, and funny feelings in tummies because change is on the way, again.

After I got home after a typically chaotic Friday morning I found it there, under the tree where the wires tangle and the needles drop, lying between the manger and the angel, a sentimental ornament in broken pieces between the holy.

And when we’ve been around for long enough we know, don’t we? At some point over the years, the broken pieces of memories and ornaments get wrapped up in the tissue with the tales of Christmas past. The family feuds dull the twinkle of the lights, or the money worries marr the magic of Santa on his way. The anxiety of grief pain merges with the excitement of family time, and we reluctantly wonder, is this really the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

In all honesty, there was a morning this week where I was teetering over the edge of sanity’s cliff, and I was googling for answers and emailing the experts and waiting for appointments and there’s another referral for another child and I was snappy and tired and I wondered who was going to refer me for help? It felt more like the bleak midwinter than joy to the world, and I empathised with my little old snowman under the tree, lying broken with the festivities happening around me.

So I wrote a list and I started cleaning the kitchen drawer that’s bugged me for months, and I put on a podcast while I worked. And there amidst the grime on my kitchen floor I was reminded of the Light that has come, and that no matter how dark the darkness, the Light is always brighter.

And I opened the package the postman delivered, the piece I’d ordered weeks ago. ‘In Him was Life, and that life was the Light of all mankind.’ And as I arranged the holly and flicked the switch it lit up the hallway and lit up my soul with reassurance and promise. The Life-bringing Light has stepped into the darkness of a stable and shone hope onto the brokenness around Him.

I’ve delivered newborn babies and laid them in a crib and seen the quiet reverence of a post delivery room. But this one was full of animal waste, not sterile gloves. And the teenage mother had only her supportive young husband as her midwife, and the grubby shepherds for first visitors, outcasts on the outskirts of a city bustling with those who knew their lineage and were writing their name to show they belonged. And this little family were beginning their uncertain journey into parenthood of the One who had made the star that hovered where he lay, lighting the darkness He was being birthed into.

Today an email dropped into my inbox and it held these words:

‘The story of Jesus is the story of God at street-level, raw and routine. Luke shows Jesus’ parents cycling through both amazement and confusion over their son and how best to lead him. We bear witness to the universality of parenting through the ages. First, they accidentally leave a party without him, “His parents didn’t miss him at first” (Luke 2:34.) Later, in verse 48, we eavesdrop as Jesus’ mom, wide-eyed and frantic, basically screams, “We were worried sick about you!”

They might be famous for their leading roles in the Greatest Story Told, but most of their life together was lived within the inhale and exhale of the mundane. Because of their service to God, palpably aware of their human limitations through it all, they would be, and are, blessed. This is meant for our comfort.

As we hold space for the wonder of Christmas in the midst of our own grunge, may we not become so enamored of the Story that we lose sight of this truth: God so loved the world that he sent his son to live. In a body. Among us.

With parents and everything.’ (Shannan Martin)

This week words I’ve listened to and words I’ve read in books and emails and conversation over a phone and laughter on a Zoom have cobbled together to remind me of where in the middle of a messy advent at the end of a year of broken pieces the wonder of Christmas can still be found. The Light that was born to parents who didn’t know what they were doing, into a world that was desperate for salvation from its own mess, He is the same Light that shines gently into my hurting heart and my anxious mind, my mistakes in my marriage and my cluelessness in parenting. The same Light that streams into the darkness of grief and loneliness, of fear and fury. The same Light that lifts me out of my low places and reminds me of all the goodness around me.

As I look at the lights twinkling on my Christmas tree, I’m reminded of the Light of the World who carried His wooden cross and hung on that tree to save the broken world. And even in the middle of the messiness, His Light still shines and His arms of love reach out to us.

So it’s by no small miracle we’ve made it through another Friday and the end of school runs in the most disjointed year there’s ever been, and children have settled into bed with a wide range of emotions, and I’m sitting here just grateful. For the ups and downs, for the answers to prayers, for the teachers who’ve cared, and even for the dark points that have showed how bright the Light is. Whatever Christmas looks like, nothing can steal the joy and hope of the newborn King.

‘The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’ – Psalm 27:1

Adoption Story

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It’s National Adoption Week, and as I was reflecting this morning, it seemed like a good time to write our story. Many of you probably know parts of it, but maybe not the back story to how we began fostering in the first place.

It’s hard to say when the journey began. Was it when I was a child, imagining how I might find an abandoned baby and take it home? Was it as a teenager, when I did work experience in a Special Care Baby Unit, and spent a day cuddling a baby going through drug withdrawal, having my eyes opened to the impact a birth parent’s lifestyle can have, rocking her as she cried a high pitched cry, and I was wondering at the injustice of it all? Or was it as a student midwife, holding the baby of a vulnerable mum, who hadn’t been parented, and didn’t know how to do it herself, and I was praying silently for his protection?

Or was it when Liam worked with looked after teenagers, some coming in and out of youth justice centres, and he watched as some foster carers treated their home like an overnight hostel, where the child was kicked out after breakfast, and not welcome back until bedtime? Where some young people lived lives back and forth between their birth family and the care system, not knowing who they belonged to – or who, if anyone, really cared for them?

The moment that propelled us forwards for me, was when I still worked as a midwife. We had been blessed with our three older children in the space of 4 years, and life was full. We had moved out of our tiny two bed mid-terrace before Toby was born, and had found ourselves in a modest sized four bedroom house, but we both felt this nagging feeling that perhaps we aren’t meant to aspire to a comfortable life as our ultimate goal. Perhaps when we are blessed with extra, we are supposed to look outwards and share what we have. And for some that might even include our home with a spare room, our safe family unit, our ability to love.

During this time there came a day when I was working on the delivery suite, and was asked to attend the birth of a baby who, once delivered, would not be allowed to stay unsupervised in the same room as his birth father. The moment came when the baby was born, and as he opened his mouth and took his first breath, his mother closed her eyes, turned her body away from him, and asked for him to be taken away.

It was up to me then, to take the child up to the Neonatal Unit, to be checked over by the medical staff there. Once they were done, and he was given a clean bill of health, the nurses were keen for the baby to leave the unit and go back to maternity.

Except that the baby was not welcome back downstairs, and now had no place to be upstairs either. And I stood over his crib, looking at him, waiting for phone calls to be made and plans to come into action, and wondering what on earth would happen to him. He had no choice over his arrival in the world, and no control over what would happen to him next. He would wait for a social worker to pack him up in a car seat into her car, and take him to the next available foster carer, where he would spend the next few months, waiting for the court to decide his future. Everything in my body ached for this child, and my heart broke whilst deciding that we had to do something. Perhaps we couldn’t help this one, but this story wasn’t new, it was – and is – repeated time and time and time again throughout hospitals and homes all through the country.

So we talked things through with a few foster families we knew, we prayed, and we approached the local authority. At the time of the initial visit from the social worker, Toby was one year old, the girls three and four. They commented that when our application landed on their desk, they looked at it and wondered what on earth we could possibly be thinking?!

Over the 18 months it took to be assessed, we went on courses, answered question after question, asked the children and our friends and our parents to be interviewed, and moved excitedly and nervously towards the unknown. We were interviewed at panel, 12 people sitting across a desk opposite us, knowing everything that had been written about us in the enormous document they held, questioning our finances, our faith, our family dynamics.

And then they announced that we were approved! We headed home, and before we pulled into our street the phone rang. Could we take an 18 month old baby girl? Hearts racing, palms shaking, we said yes. By the time we were home they had rung again, to say this one wouldn’t be coming to us. But by the end of the week someone was.

Those five years of fostering were the hardest and the best. We learned how easy it can be to love a new child placed in your arms. We learned how hard it can be to watch a child fight against your offered love. We learned how beautiful it is to see a child placed with the forever family that is so obviously perfect for them. We learned how hard it can be to trust the decisions of other humans who are making plans for the child you love. We saw and felt anger and guilt and fear and loss and heartbreak, and laughter and joy and trust and love.

We welcomed little ones at a couple of hours notice, dashing to 24 hour supermarkets for bottles and clothes and bedding. We welcomed them, tiny and broken, older and afraid, and we attended appointments and meetings, kept records, and fell in love.

During those years the flame of commitment we felt towards fostering and adoption grew and grew. There were times that were incredibly hard and lonely, times when we wondered if we could keep doing it. But the time someone else looked on and questioned – ‘maybe you’re not called to it?’, we asked ourselves – is finding something hard the reason to give up? On the days I find my birth children hard, can I opt to quit? These children need the people who are willing to do the hard things for them. When people said ‘I’d love to, but I’d get too attached’, I wondered if they didn’t see my heart breaking at every goodbye, but knowing that these children need someone who is willing to break their heart, so that that little heart has a chance of mending.

The greatest test came with the baby a social worker asked us to consider adopting. And we said yes. And we imagined her in our family, carrying our name, until death us do part.

And then the judge made different plan. A plan that cut us to the heart.

And in that time, in all my praying and crying, and wondering how I could possibly hand her over, came the reassurance that she was never mine – just like Megan, and Maisie, and Toby are not mine. Each little one was chosen and designed before they existed. Their days were planned and numbered before time began. And the One who created them in the secret place is holding them for eternity. Their lives have purpose, but that doesn’t mean that I am the one who needs to fulfil it. It is an honour and a blessing to have been given them, for as long as He calls me to hold them, and to then release them for purposes greater than I can understand. So after 14 months of loving her, we said goodbye, wiped our tears, and welcomed someone new, trusting that the Perfect Father would be holding her as she moved on.

Three years and a few more babies loved and transitioned on later, we found ourselves in a lull from fostering. Not as many children were coming into the system – a good thing, for sure, but unsettling and unnerving when you are waiting on the end of the phone. Calls came, we said yes, then different plans were made. On one day we were anticipating a six month old baby we had been called about over several days – the clothes were washed, the bed was made, then it was decided she would go to another carer.

For three months this went on, over Christmas, all through January. I reluctantly began to look into jobs and work options. And then on the first day of February half term, a phone call. Could we have two little ones tonight?

We could.

Six months later, with another one on the way, the decision for them to be adopted was made.

Offering ourselves to be considered as their adopters was one of the scariest things we’ve ever done. We knew the pain we were risking. They were already part of our family, and although as foster carers we anticipated saying an inevitable goodbye, as foster carers being assessed to adopt, we were opening ourselves to dream, whilst knowing that at any point, without any power to override it, the decision could be made to place them somewhere else. To be someone else’s family. But with a peace that did not come from us, we offered ourselves, and began the assessment process.

And the rest, as they say, is history. You can find the story of Micah joining us on an early blog post, ‘Never a Dull Moment’, – a whole story in itself! In each moment of the journey I can see how God prepared us for it, how He provided finances and houses and faith, when we could never have anticipated it all coming together.

It took 22 months for the legal court order to be declared in December 2017- the same age M was when she joined us, and it has been 22 months since that order was granted. Earlier today I found something that I wrote in the days leading up to the final court hearing, and it rings truer every day. As we live out the day to day of this messy, chaotic, joyful, and challenging family life, of broken people choosing to love each other, this is still how I feel.

‘I feel nervous and excited at the beginning of a journey and a story that will take me to the hard places, the uncomfortable places, and the lonely places. But there is a hope and a peace inside of me that in this story is beauty. In this story is healing and redemption and life. Where there was abandonment and hurt there is now family and security and hope.

This is our story.’ (December 2017)

Defined by an Emoji.

~ savouringmydays ~ 2 Comments

I’m feeling meh today. It turns out that ‘meh’ is actually in the dictionary (thanks to the Simpsons, I believe), and given that it even has an emoji, it is clearly a recognised state of mind. Apparently it is defined as ‘expressing a lack of interest or enthusiasm, unenthusiastic, apathetic’ (Oxford Living Dictionaries).

On a normal day once I’ve pulled myself out of bed and woken up properly, I don’t stop. Until around 9pm when the older kids go to bed, I keep going, busying, organising, moving. But today I got up, got people dressed, made breakfasts and lunches, and that was it. I went up to get dressed but flopped on the bed and decided I don’t want to be an adult any more.

I’m not sure where it’s come from but the fog has been there for a few days now. I think the speeding ticket that arrived last week may have begun it. Then a small person smashed my favourite lamp and violently hammered the wall I’d just painted. Over the weekend I lost my Weight Watchers motivation and drank all the Prosecco and ate all the chocolate. The hall had been my project for last week, and downstairs is looking good, but the half painted stairway that I can’t reach anymore is nagging at me every time I walk up and down it.

Then Monday began badly. This week already felt stressful – Liam away overnight, a day of two birthdays sandwiched between hospital appointments, and a meeting I’m not looking forward to. I was trying to leave to meet friends and had a series of unfortunate incidents including a last minute nappy to change and a child’s fingers shut in the door, cue much screaming and reassuring.

So there was of course an irony in the smoke that started emerging from the bonnet as I drove down the dual carriageway. Accompanied by a rapidly rising temperature gauge in the car, an urgent diversion and parking up at a builders merchants, and all plans for the day being abandoned. So I cried, rang Liam, told the security guard my sob story, and the boys and I were rescued by a kind friend.

But the funny thing about my mood is that the car, which would normally be the biggest of my worries practically and financially, was actually a free and quick repair due to an error at the garage. So in theory, I should feel better today.

But I don’t.

So I started wondering about this as I attempted laundry, mindlessly and demotivated, this afternoon. The speeding ticket seemed to have kick started an emotional reaction in me, which followed along these lines:

I’ve never had one before, so I felt guilty, annoyed, and disappointed in myself. I should know better, be more attentive, be more careful, leave earlier, rush less, and not be distracted. Basically, I let myself down. And broke the law.

And now I can’t even finish off the hall painting job that I started.

Or stick to a diet which I avoided starting for fear of failing.

Or breeze into the week without worrying.

Or confidently manage two birthdays on Valentine’s day, complete with well thought-out gifts and homemade cakes of excellence.

Or be as good a friend as I’d like to be.

Or keep the house as orderly and tidy as Marie Kondo.

Or get myself out of a broken down car situation without feeling helpless and pathetic.

Or know in all certainty what the best way to handle a difficult meeting will be and how to make a wise decision in a seemingly Catch 22 situation.

The long and short of it seems to be this –

I’d like to think I’m superwoman. I place ridiculously high expectations on myself to be everything, do everything, and not make mistakes. And when I do, I wallow in guilt, self-pity, and disappointment at my humanity, and decide I’d like to give up.

The interesting thing is that when I see this in my children, I spend a lot of time reminding them – you’re human, you will make mistakes, it’s okay. We’re not God, we’re fallible creatures who will get it wrong. And we can rest in the arms of a kind God, who gave everything including His own Son for a relationship with us, who chooses not to look on our mistakes but at who He made us to be, and He declares that we are His design, and it is good. And when I remind myself of that, the mood starts to lift, and I can hand over the burden of worry and the pressure of perfection, and know that all I need to be today is me.

So it turns out I don’t need to define my week by an emoji. There is grace – for the mistakes of last week, the disorder of today, and the anxieties of tomorrow. And there is hope, in a new sunrise, a fresh start, and love that never fails.

And Weight Watchers can wait, because it would be downright rude not to eat cake on the birthdays anyway.

Rainy Days and Mondays will not get me down.

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

14/1/19

Dear Diary,

6:15 Alarm goes off. Drag myself downstairs. It can’t only be Monday. Put kettle on. It can’t only be the second week of term. Make cup of tea. Empty dishwasher. Hear footsteps on stairs. Internally pray the person breaking my solitude doesn’t speak to me. Or even worse, ask me a question. Please let them have the respect to wait until I’ve drunk caffeine. Amen.

6:40 Child 5 opens door on his own toes. Comforting Mum mode switched on.

7:00 Husband speed walks to the shop to get change for the bus. Two lots of £1:10 needed four times per day. On no account will the bus driver let Child 1 pay with a £2 and 20p for herself and Child 2. We have used all the coppers and money from the kids money boxes, so times are desperate.

7:20 Remind Child 1 who has lost her dinner card but isn’t intending to make lunch for school that ‘food is more important than foundation’. When you are 12, anyway. At 37 with eye bags this impressive those priorities are reversed.

7:30 First two children leave. Husband leaves. I wrestle two smallest offspring into their clothes. I am sweaty and worn out when finished. Child 3 plays basketball in the hall and Child 4 makes strong objections about going to school.

8:25 At the school bus stop. Child 5 declares he’s done a wee, as the trickle seeps out of his trouser leg and down the hill towards the unsuspecting waiting parents.

9:15 Back home, child in clean set of clothes. Attempt computer type jobs. Child 6 asks for lunch.

9:30 I am feeling motivated despite the ‘wee’ (no pun intended) incident. Months ago I decided to paint a blue wall in the lounge. I tried a tester which the kids all thought was black, so I concluded maybe that was too dark. So those two test patches have been on the walls ever since, all through Christmas, as a little pointer to my unfinished moment of creativity. Today is the day. I paint over the patches with the second tester pot. I hate it.

10:15 In B&Q (not the fire station, despite Child 5’s hopes and dreams) to buy paint. Child 5 announces he needs a wee. Make the long walk with the pushchair from the paint aisle to the secret unlabelled door on the back wall that hides a customer toilet.

10:25 Waiting for assistant to mix a whole tin of paint that I may or may not like when it’s on the wall. Child 5 announces he’s done a poo. It’s true. Wait for paint, head back to the hidden toilet. Didn’t bring bag with change of clothes and wet wipes, so he’s cleaned with wet toilet paper and is going commando. Pay for paint.

10:30 Arrive back at car. Lifting Child 6 into car seat when he announces ‘shoe gone’ in his best speech. It’s true. He has one lonely Converse on his left foot. Given that we’ve already lost his other pair of shoes, I load him back in the pushchair, get Child 5 back out, and we make the long walk back into the shop, down all the aisles we’ve been in, all the way to the very back, through two doors into that same toilet, and there is the offending shoe. We retrieve it, and go back to the car.

10:45 Undeterred by the morning so far, I decide we’ll go and get the boys haircut on the way home. Foolishly tell them the plan. Child 5 likes to say ‘what?’ on repeat, no matter how many times you rephrase what you said, or how loud you say it, he just carries on. ‘What?’ ‘Haircut.’ ‘What?’ ‘We’re going to get your hair cut.’ ‘What?’ ‘We’re going to the hairdressers to see if they will cut your hair.’ ‘What?’ Along with that, Child 6 is in parrot mode, learning new words every 5 minutes. ‘Haircut’, haircut, what, what, what.’
Is it too early for wine? 

11:00 Hairdresser is closed on Monday. Drive to second hairdresser.

11:05 Both boys have fallen asleep. I don’t want them asleep now, or else there’ll be no moment of peace to paint the wall when Child 5 is in playgroup. Wake them up and go into second hairdresser. They can’t do it today. Book appointment for tomorrow. Get back in car to go home.

11:20 Child 5 decides he has a spider on his head. ‘There’s a spider on my head! I need the hairdresser to take it off! We need to go back! The hairdresser needs to take the spider off my hair!’ Me:‘You don’t have a spider in your hair, and the hairdresser can’t cut your hair until tomorrow.’ ‘What?’ Meanwhile from the back seat comes the echo, ‘spider, spider, spider’.

11:30 We go home for lunch, playgroup, painting, and bed. I’m not sure who is doing what or in which order, but it’s good to have goals on a Monday afternoon.

Hot Pots and Commas

~ savouringmydays ~ 1 Comment


This weekend last year we had a girls trip to London-Mum and I travelled from Bristol, Emma came up from Southampton, and we met up with Esther who was living there at the time. For me, that weekend holds really special memories. We had a WhatsApp group going for all the planning, which proved hilarious on the journey as we tracked each other on the way, from Mum’s lost knitting needle, to the unsocial activity of Emma’s coach neighbour who was eating a hard boiled egg next to her, to Esther’s selfie of her morning hair before she got ready to meet us. There was a discussion going on about where we were going to eat, as our girls trips generally involve walking between food stops. Emma suggested we eat at the ‘place with the pots’, which in my head was a garden type cafe with hanging flower pots above it, but it turned out to be EAT, the sandwich shop that serves hot pots of food!

Thinking back on that weekend, where we crammed in sightseeing, a Thames boat trip, Covent Garden, several cake shops including the Hummingbird Bakery (swoon!), Harrods, a meal at Esther’s flat whilst watching the activities of the families who lived in the enormous houses behind hers, and of course the hot pots in Eat, it feels like a comma in my life-a pause for breath, a sabbath rest. Our lives tend to be pretty busy, and Liam and mine often feels a bit relentless. With our own three children plus new little ones coming and going, with all the appointments and meetings that involves, alongside our frequent house moves due to renting and landlords choosing to sell, every year has tended to involve some big changes and a fair amount of stress. In the 6 months before our London weekend, Liam and I had moved house, then moved an 11 month old baby girl we’d cared for from 2 days old to her forever family. And although my preference is to have another little one in our home as soon as possible, on this occasion we ended up with a four month gap between foster children. Whilst I knew I should be enjoying the rest, I was fairly restless and anxious. We depended on fostering as my income, and our tenants in the house we own had just handed their notice in. But that weekend was a place to stop and recoup. To eat cake, and to play Emma’s little game of ‘Best and Worst’-what are the best and worst things that have happened for you recently? It took several tea breaks for us to each have a turn, and quite a few tissues, but it was helpful to be honest, to be acknowledged, and to be loved.

Little did I know that just over a week later we would have not one but two little foster children arrive in our lives, who would fill up our hearts and lives and change our family for good.

I think this is where the memories of that weekend are so precious and encouraging. I went back home and the situations hadn’t changed, but I felt less panicky about it all. In the busyness of the day to day, I need to plan in those commas, to acknowledge that I do need time to stop, to get out of my frantic life and to do something that will bring refreshment. Sometimes that might only be deciding to get out of the house and walk down the river, to read a new book, or to arrange coffee with a friend. But if I don’t plan them, chances are they won’t happen! And the other thing I want to do, for myself and for others, is to play ‘Best and Worst’-to ask the questions that give people space to be honest. To not feel the need to give advice or solutions, but just to listen and acknowledge, to be real, and to love.

And now I’d very much like to plan another cake filled weekend to brighten this February!