One More Thing

Last night was date night/Twin Peaks night.  Neil and I haven’t had one of those in a long time, so Isla spent last night at Dad and Anne’s, playing with their cats and probably having too much sugar.

She left and my heart felt like Swiss cheese. She came back and I touched her face and said I love you.  She gave me her plastic Skye from Paw Patrol to keep until she gets back and out she runs demanding that Campah turn some music on for the ride over the river and through the woods five minutes up the road.

I was nervy yesterday.  Hours before, I’d made Isla a sandwich so big it didn’t fit in her purple lunch box, which goes with her in her teal panda bear school bag to nursery which is another place she goes without me.  But she loves it, and that’s how life goes.

Anyway, she left again for a sugar rush.  And I gave Skye the plastic toy an actual hug.

Neil and I watch Twin Peaks while eating shrimp stir-fry and and at various intervals I’m saying, ‘What the shit are we watching?’  Which is not entirely unlike what I said when we binge-watched it a few years ago.

‘What the shit are we watching?’

‘Twin Peaks?’

‘True.’

We watched and wondered then it was this morning.

We had coffee and thought the house was too quiet without cartoons on, but didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

I was reading and thinking about another coffee when Dad ‘stops in’ as he does, to talk about ALL THE THINGS.

He’d dropped Isla off  at nursery this morning and today’s topics over coffee were:

  1. Siberian kittens
  2. Internet connections and how they are so, um,  temperamental up here.
  3. Isla’s birthday.  Three next month.  How?

 

Dad left several times and then came back, not unlike Isla or Columbo,  for one more thing.

Now.  Y’all know I love my Dad.  You can read about it here.

However.  On the sixth trip back after 1.5 hours, I said , ‘I love you, get out of my house.’ He leaves, but then smooches his face in the kitchen window singing the old version of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme. To which I replied, ‘I love you, FUCK OFF.’

Now.  You might also remember my father doesn’t like when I swear.

He thinks it shows a lack of whatever the hell it is, I forget.

However.  I’ll always remember a conversation with my Grandma, the one who’s Dad’s mother.

When I was a kid, I asked Grandma if I could swear.

‘Creatively.  And only when there are no other words for it,’ she said.

And I’ve kind of thought of it that way ever since.

In related news, I hope Isla and I have the kind of relationship where when she grows up she can always come home for coffee and one more thing.

And I hope she lets me in when I visit and we talk about all the things.  She can even tell me off sometimes.

Like when I smudge her kitchen window with my face.  And I’ll laugh, the same as Dad did today.

Dad, one more thing.  Same time tomorrow?

 

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Coffee and Questions

I’ve been blogging for a long time and you might have noticed I’ve been trying to be more consistent with it.

Since I’ve come off my various hiatuses, I’m curious about why you’ve stuck with me, and other good stuff about you, my groovy readers.

If you would be so groovy, and answer these questions, that would be swell.

1. How long have you been reading my rambles and how did you find me?

2. Are you disabled, a parent, a reader, a writer, a traveller, or a coffee drinker?

3. Are you one of my parents?

4. Are you Neil?

5. Are you an expat, a mover, or a third-culture person?

6. What’s your favourite blog, and what would you like to see more of on mine?

7. If we’ve met, how did we meet? (this could be a lie)

8. What books are you reading at the moment?

Whether this is your first visit, or you’ve been around as long as this blog, thank you.  I appreciate your friendship/support/blunt advice/gentle nudges.

Let’s chat.

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Image from bustle.com

This Is How They Get You

OK, so this actually just happened.

Isla:  I love you.  And your wheelchair.  You’re my wheelchair Mummy.  I don’t want another Mummy.  Mummy, are you sad?

Me: No.

Isla:  Why you crying?

Me: Because I’m happy.

Isla: What?

Me: Because I’m happy.

Isla: What?

Me: Because I love you very much.

Isla: Yeah, I love you, too.  Can I have an ice-lolly?

 

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Sometimes, It Hurts.

And so, after painting all the pictures and doing all the puzzles, Isla and I went out.

We’ve paved around the house so we can have races and stuff, so there’s that. But we live on a hill.

‘Go over the stones and roll down the hill with me, Mummy.’

‘I can’t, baby. I wouldn’t get back up.’

‘Please, Mummy. Just try.’

Which is what we ask her to do.

So, I tried.

And my heart broke a little. Because Isla said, ‘That’s awight, Mummy. I’ll play on my own.’ And she did. And I angled away for a bit so she wouldn’t see me cry. Because she’s seen it before. Not a lot. And yet.

You can be the biggest advocate, with the filthiest sense of humour. You can shout for a living and then come home and just live.

But sometimes, CP hurts.

When strangers think Isla is my much younger sister, and she wants me to run down hills and get on the other end of a see-saw. That’s when it hurts.

Then you come in and you burst. But then you go on. Because there are trains to play with. And a nearly three year-old face to memorise.

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This is how we roll.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paving The Way

And so, I don’t have any excuses for not writing. Except maybe too much furniture blocking the computer.  And a toddler.

But those are really bad excuses.

Because there’s also notebooks. And coffee. And pens. And OK, maybe the pens don’t work. But there’s crayons. Because there’s a toddler.

Anyway. The last day of the year makes you think. Mostly about what you’ve done with the other 364 days.

There’s been a lot of clapping. And crying. And laughing. And being generally amazed by my kid. There’s also the time I said, ‘Isla, please don’t put Mama’s Spanx in the toilet.’ But I only had to say that once.

There hasn’t been a lot of writing.

There’s been moving. And meeting new people. Unpacking boxes. And introducing Isla to the joy of bubble-wrap.

I even found myself using an orange as a stress-ball. But that only happened once.

There’s been lots of hotels. And a few hurricanes. And even more hugs. And while we’re here, I haven’t been very impressed with this season of Homeland.

And I could have been writing. About the time we got caught in a blizzard. Or the time Isla tried to wipe off one of my scars.

Or that time we bought a house.

We’ll be moving into that house, our new home, in 2016.

There will be more boxes. And bubble-wrap. Less furniture. More space. Lots of love. And books.

And I’ll write all about it. For Isla. For me. For everything.

Please stay tuned. And Happy 2016, when it comes.

 

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Isla leading me, happily, into 2016.