An Easter Gallery

I was in at the very first Gallery, back in March 2010, so it feels only appropriate that after an absence of many weeks, I should be in at the 184th.

Or something.

Anyway Easter.  And L's seventh (yikes) birthday, which was on Monday.   A weekend of brilliance and sunshine and cake and eggs, and broomstick riding and feeling smug because it was raining down South.

 

  

 

 

  

  

 

Not one picture, but many. Choose your favourite and click the link to see more....

The Gallery: Two

Almost exactly two years ago, on 31 May 2011, I took part in the Gallery.

The subject, then, was I am grateful for...

 And, that day,  I was grateful for this:

Now here we are.  Two years later.  And on 31 May 2013 Tara set a new Gallery theme.  It is Two:

And so is my boy:

 

I am still grateful.

PS: He got two cakes, too:

Now click this link to see other people's take on two....

The accidental photograph

Sometimes you just click the button at exactly the right time.

This is not one of those times.

Last week we were in Lanzarote for half term.  I know, lucky us.   My parents are there for six weeks (the heat is very good for my dad's health) and they asked us to join them.

It was beautiful weather, and we spent lots of time on the beach, frolicking in the water and building castles on the sand.

And you know the picture I wanted to get:  the one of S and A, in their same same but different swimming costumes (two for one in Sainsbury's as it happens), bright pink against the blue sea and the white sand.

Click.

I got this:

Tara wanted Boys in the Gallery this week.  I'm not sure this is the photo she was expecting either, so click through to Sticky Fingers for more pictures of boys.  Probably with more clothes on.  And faces.

Identity Crisis

A got sent to her room recently.  She was testing boundaries with great dedication and persistence.   After a while B went upstars to talk to her.

What's bothering you? he said.
Mummy got me wrong.

I don't think I did, although I do occasionally, grasping desperately for a name in a crisis.  In many ways, she's lucky I didn't call her M.  Is being thought a boy worse than being thought your twin?

Yesterday S came into the kitchen in tears.  Her birthday cards (now over six weeks out of date) were in the craft box and she didn't want them to be cut up.   Especially this one. It's from Annabelle.  Annabelle's her best friend.  She wants to go to Annabelle's party next year (Annabelle's party was last week, so we have some time to wait).  The tears flow faster.

But Annabelle won't know who I am then.

I can't empathise.  I'm me.  I've always been me, and aside from the occasional "which one are you?" frustration of every mother as she searches for the right name, I've never been anyone else.

But A and S aren't.  They are different, so different, but they're also the same.  Did you know that the type of identical twin depends on how soon after conception the fertilised egg splits?  If it's within four days you get totally separate twins with two placentas.  If it's more than 12 days after you get conjoined twins:  two people joined in one body. 

My girls must have split between days four and eight.  It's odd knowing that.  Odd too that no-one knows why or how they split; why or how they became two people when I am one, when most of the people they meet are one.

And they are beginning to understand this, to understand that people don't always know who they are, and it is beginning to distress and fascinate in equal parts.  It's partly my fault, of course.  L asked how twins happened, and I gave her the potted version: sometimes two babies grow inside the Mummy's tummy, and sometimes, for reasons no-one knows, one baby starts to grow, but it breaks (and I regretted that word as soon as it came out of my mouth) into two babies and so you get two babies who look the same but are actually two separate people.

Have I made them think they are broken?

I don't think so. I think, I hope, that this is a stage.  They are just four and these early years are (aren't they?) all about identity: discovering who you are.  How much harder must that be when you have a mirror image (complete with matching scar on her forehead) who is both you and not you. 

I can't explain this very well, because I don't understand it.  I don't have a twin.  I don't even have any close friends who are twins, although my father has a non-identical brother.  I don't know how to help them become themselves, separate but still linked. To grow into individuals with their own lives, while retaining the amazing bond that unites them.

Because although they were both so distressed at being confused, they adore each other.  They are separated at school, in different classes, and seem happy to be so, but there are hugs and squeals of delight when they are reunited at lunchtime.  They make a beeline for each other at gym and music, I am told.   They share a room and enjoy closing the door, shutting the world out and just being themselves.    We have our share of bickering - we have two four year olds, a five year old and a toddler in the house, bickering is our standard operating procedure - but more often than not, if it is just A and S, they get on, playing together, chatting together, just being.

Individuality's a process, I suppose, and the fear of losing their separate identities they are beginning to display is just the flip side of the fact that they still haven't, where each other is concerned, got the idea of personal space at all.   Fingers go in noses, tongues in ears: Look at this Mummy!

In a way I am the same: I want them to be separate - my nightmare for them is that they are still living together, dressing the same, probably with cats, at the age of forty - but I also love the special link they share.  I want to encourage their individuality, but I shy away from the idea of separate bedrooms.  Not yet, not now.   Plenty of time for that.

The study of twins is called gemellology; much cleverer people than I spend their lives thinking about twins and the relationships between them.  How best to nurture the individual while protecting the bond.  That's all I want too: I'm just rather less scientifically hoping that we'll get there in the end.

And hoping too that this time next year Annabelle will still know who S is.

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In one of those brilliant coincidences, the subject for the Gallery this week is Bond.  As per usual I've been more wordy than I've been pictorial, but there are pictures, so I hope the Gallery's great and good will forgive me.  Click through to see other Bonds (although sadly not of the Daniel Craig variety).

My house. 8pm

It's now twenty-five minutes later.

It's 8pm. Thursday 27th October 2012.

And I did it:

Time for some telly.

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If this makes no sense at all, click here, and for more like it, click here for The Gallery

After L, A and S, comes baby T!

Well, he was worth the wait.

Baby T (actually M but 'T' still amuses me and I've just given birth very fast so I'm entitled to be indulged).

His official time of birth is 4.29 pm. He weighs 7lb 7oz (3.38 kg) and measures (ish, clearly) 51 cm (they didn't tell us that in inches). He has dark hair and blue eyes and looks remarkably like L did.

He is obviously the most perfect baby boy ever to have been born.

What a difference a day makes! (One for the playlist, I feel)

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After posting this, I realised that this week's Gallery subject was "I am grateful for...".  This post was obviously not written for the Gallery, but I couldn't miss the opportunity.  Click here to see what everyone else is grateful for.

The Gallery - April

April?  April?  What can I say about April?  Particularly now that it's May...

Well, April 2010 has been about picnics and birthdays and Spring finally being round the corner, and castles and walks and visitors, and builders and a new roof, and an ever growing bump, and a world tour of Kent, and Easter and chocolate and eggs, and suddenly getting the point of the Easter Bunny, and endless cups of raspberry leaf tea, and apple blossom, and only having one working loo between five of us and all the builders, and scraping the car again, and discovering that S is scared of ladybirds, and a new wendy house, and picking the spiders off the paddling pool, and some people getting married, and realising it's not as warm as it looks, and tulips and daffodils and deadheading and weeding, and blinking and you missed it and you've got the whole of the Summer stretching before you and a new baby very nearly here.

But that was April 2010, and this is just April.  Because however old she gets, and however much she doesn't need me any more, April will, for me, always be about one thing. My first born. Because it is her month, even four years on.

L.

 

Click here for more Spring-like (and not so Spring-like) pictures in the Gallery

The Gallery - My blog

This is my blog.  It is a friend. Or maybe a cousin.  Or a sister.  But either way, a friend.  One of those friends or relations you have known from childhood, maybe all your life.

The sort of friend who you don't have to explain things to, because she has been there too, and she understands.  The sort of cousin who you can tell anything to, not because she won't judge, but because she will, and although you might hate what she says at the time, and get all defensive and grumpy,  and maybe even a bit teary, you will know she is right and is only telling you because she cares.  The sort of sister who is so much a part of your life and your furniture that your memories are her memories and you have both forgotten why or how she came to be there, but just that she is.

The sort of friend that sometimes you don't really like very much.  Sometimes she embarrasses you. Sometimes you think she doesn't really represent the person you'd like to be, although, in your heart of hearts, you admit, if only to yourself, she represents the person you actually are.   Sometimes you feel she makes you do, or say, things that you wish you hadn't done or said.   Sometimes you feel you hide behind her, letting her take the lead, when you should have the courage to come out and say things out loud instead.

Sometimes you wish you could just walk away. That you could take back the admissions you've made to her; admissions you've made because talking to her is like talking to yourself.  That you'd never met her in the first place. But you can't.

Because no matter how much she irritates, or embarrasses, or is not what you'd always want her to be, you'd miss her if she weren't there.  And your life would be immeasurably poorer without her.

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This post is, as posts often are on a Wednesday, for Tara's Gallery.  Find out what everyone else thinks their blogs are like here.

The Gallery - Time to hit the bottle?

There are many reasons I might hit the bottle. But this week's one is the subject of Tara's Gallery:

Hair.

Now I know Tara's really hoping for dreadful pictures of bubble perms and culture-club-esque rat-tails, but fortunately, by good luck and no management at all, I managed not to hit my teens until the end of 1990, by which time grunge was where it was at.  So my worst crime against hair fashion was probably lank and unwashed, but otherwise remarkably like this:

Fortunately for the sensitive, there are no photos of my late teens, which were most definitely not my most attractive stage, but in this one, I was, guessing by the candles, eleven, and my hair stayed remarkably like that (minus the fringe) until I was about eighteen.

Now, however, it looks more like this:

 

Or this:

B, loyally and lovingly, says both photos are over-exposed and that isn't my hair colour at all. In my defence it's remarkably difficult to take a photo of your own head, especially when your hair is in your eyes, but you see what he's getting at.  I'm not the same colour any more, am I?

Age eleven: pale skin, pink lips, luscious chocolatey dark locks - Snow White in a fetching check shirt.  Now, well, you'll have to take my word for it that I'm just as pale, but the locks are definitely heading for the pepper and salt end of the metaphorical culinary spectrum.

And I'm wondering - is it time to do something about that? Shall I hit the bottle...?

The Gallery - a photographic education

Say cheese!

We bought L a camera for Christmas.  I think we have learned more from it than her. 

She uses it totally differently from how I use a camera - she takes pictures indiscriminately, click, click, click, without reference to view finder or screen.  And while more often than not they're a blur of carpet or wall, every now and then she captures something that not only would I not have taken, but I wouldn't have even seen.

So I am torn between teaching her how to use a camera "properly", to compose, to think, to pause and check,  and letting myself learn from her how much there is in the world to notice, if only you take the time.

But that's not the end of my photographic education.  Because I need teaching, and I'm hoping, shamelessly, that the gifted and enthusiastic photographers of the Gallery can help me.  We've been talking about getting a new camera for over a year now, and not doing so because of the sheer overwhelming nature of the choice out there.

At present we have a Panasonic Lumix DMC FZ5 which was my wedding present from B. It's fine, but it's both too big to slip in a pocket, and too small to take the amazing pictures I take in my head, if not in reality.  It's also pretty rubbish in low light, and I am coming round to the realisation that low light is pretty much all we get up here from October to March.  We used to have a little Nikon too, for the pocket slipping moments, but that's broken.

My sister, who is a semi professional photographer, uses and recommends, some sort of fantastically complicated Canon Digital SLR with a million different lenses and tripods, but I know that however much I'd like to, I'm never going to get my head around exposures, and apertures and all the other things one needs not only to understand (which I do, while she's actually explaining it) but to retain (which I don't; it seems to fall out of my head, as soon as she's safely 500 miles away again).

So, please, lovely Gallery contributors, educate me.  I need a smallish camera that works well in low light and doesn't need too much fiddling with, but still takes good pictures.  Does such a thing exist?  What camera do you use? Would you recommend it?  What would you go for if you were me? 

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Being not on twitter, I hadn't realised that for this week's Educational Gallery, Tara was hoping we'd post old school photos.  And having now realised I can't anyway, because they're all at my parents' house down South. So sorry to anyone who was hoping to see what I looked like at three, or six, or sixteen.  Although, come to think of it, there is one here....

The Gallery - Trees

 

You will not be surprised if I tell you that this is not the Scottish Borders.  Nor it it March 2011.  It's June 2006, B and I have just celebrated our first wedding anniversary, L is a twinkle in our joint eyes and we are at the Pont du Gard.

I could have, or perhaps should have, taken a picture of a tree in our garden, or in the park, or on the way to nursery this week for the Gallery, but I know lots of others (click the Gallery link to see them) will post cheery Spring-like blossomy pictures, and while it remains dreich and miserable (and snowy, at the weekend, although only in that slushy, melt by lunchtime, make a mess of the bottom of your jeans way) and the trees remain resolutely un-photogenic, I thought I'd cheer myself up.

So here you have it.  Self-indulgent trees.  Roll on Summer holidays!

Oh, and if you're not familiar with the adjective "dreich", there's a great definition here.  Needs more usage, I say, because it's definitely not limited to Scotland.

The Gallery (part 2) - Six letter word

Inspired (and egged on) by Trish.  I give you the adult version of this week's One Word Gallery.  I call it How I feel about traffic jams:

 

You can see the rest of the Gallery by clicking the link above, or my official entry by clicking here.

The Gallery - Bubble

I secretly hope it's still out there somewhere.

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This was actually going to be my Simple Pleasures picture for last week's Gallery, but I never got round to posting it. Fortunately, this week Tara has set us the endlessly flexible, almost infinitely possible, One Word.  Click the link to see what others have found in the dictionary.

The Gallery - One ordinary day of astonishing brilliance and banality

I've found this week's Gallery amazingly emotional. 

Tuesday 8th February 2011.  Scottish Borders.

0000*

0736
I know, I know. I'm going.  Out of bed.  B was up and out over an hour ago.  But just ten more minutes, please....? Oh, alright then.

0747
Oh sod it. I'm sure I look fine.

0757
Sunrise over the bypass.   Going to be a lovely day.

0758
First nappy of the day

0810
Wake up L!  She's overslept. Actually, we've all overslept. Now I've got to get them all fed and out in just over half an hour. How bad a parent would I be if I sent them to nursery with no breakfast?

0825
However bad it is, I'm not that bad.  No time for toast though

0854
Everyone out! In the car! Quick, quick, quick!

0915
Back.  Builders have been here since eight.  Pop round to see how they're doing with our new kitchen.

0922
Back inside. Dishwasher loaded. Breakfast table cleared.  What next?  Laundry.

0927
Five minutes for me. Tunnock's teacake and a cup of tea. Who says Scotland doesn't have haute cuisine?  Very proud of my mug too. Lidl's finest.  £2.99 each. Or £5 for two. We decided two was extravagant. Regretting it now though.

0936
Tuesdays are a working day (hence the nursery).  This is my orderly desk.  Aka kitchen table. And yes, I did raid the children's chocolate ten minutes after eating that teacake.  Apparently it's very good for the baby. Or something.

1322

Work half done.  As usual.  Leave it til later.  Meeting with builder and architect about pipes and ducts (eh?  Did they really think I'd have anything to contribute?) fully done. Girls collected, five minutes late as usual.  Right you lot, out. Go and play quietly while Mummy has some lunch. And if I hear any whinging or arguing it's straight to bed. Go!

1328 

Lunchtime. I know it looks disgusting but it was left over and in the fridge and not cheese on toast for a change (Nigel Slater Chicken and Bean Casserole if you're interested).  Actually it was delicious. 

Sneak in ten more minutes work before the fighting starts.  Little ones off to bed. Protesting.

1413

Remember the laundry.  And the dishwasher.

1423

Convince L, briefly, that she wants to play a "game".  Finish playing the "game" by myself.

1542

Play L's game.  She is a bird.  I am, apparently, a caterpillar.  I am required to wear the green spiral thing. Not a good look with a bump.

1601

Accede to a request for "big painting".  Wonder where "big painting" is going to be possible when we have floors we actually like.

1628

Big painting lasts about ten minutes.  Clearing up takes rather longer.  "Ticking" now the activity of choice.

1648

Universal whinging indicates imminent starvation.  I attempt to resist the lure of CBeebies and cook with girls hanging off three of my limbs.  Fail. Give in.  This is happening more and more often.  Feel guilty.

1722

Builders gone. Sneak out to inspect their handiwork leaving children eating, unsupervised. Bad parent. Builders still have a way to go but am unfeasibly excited by a big hole.

1725

Three empty plates equals one happy mummy.

1744

Tidy up time. Allegedly.

1837

B home.  Bathtime.  So much easier with two.

 

1854

Dry, dressed, into bed

1855

B is reading L's story.  I have A&S.  L chooses The House at Pooh Corner.  I have definitely drawn the short straw.

1938

All quiet from upstairs. Supper cooked and eaten. B out rehearsing.  Time to do that work I didn't get done earlier.

Decide I am feeling post-modern instead.

2312

B off to Rome at 3 am tomorrow morning (via Amsterdam as apparently you can't fly direct to Rome from either Newcastle or Edinburgh.  Oddly).  Packing time.  This is everything he needs (minus the sponge bage of course) for three days.

 

 

2359* 

All quiet.  So far.

Dull, wasn't it? Very like the day before, in fact. And, if my sister weren't coming to stay, very like today would be.  Very like most of my days, and, I suspect most of the days of many other women (and a good few men) nation-, if not world-, wide.

So why did I find it emotional?  The problem is, taking the pictures made me think about what I was doing, rather than simply getting through, getting by, getting on.  And I realised how mundane my life is. How full of little, unimportant, repetitive tasks.  How full of "must do this" and "no, not now" and "in a minute". And how, when I do have half an hour to spare, how little time I actually spend interracting with my children, sitting down and playing with them, doing what they want to do when they want to do it.  They asked to do painting, but I can't honestly say I'd have agreed if I hadn't known it would be a good photo.

It makes me want to weep.  I'm not sure how I got here.   I'm not sure I'm being the mother I want to be. I'm not sure, sometimes, that I'm living the life I want to live, even if I'm also not sure that being in London, being a lawyer, being stuck on the tube, or in a meeting, would feel any less dull, less mundane, less banal.

But when I stopped feeling self-pitying, I also realised how happy some of this quotidian life makes me. How amazing my children are.  How lucky I am to live in this beautiful place, in this beautiful house (or it will be).  How incredible it is that I have the choice to work when I want to, and am not tied to the nine to five, Monday to Friday.

So although it was dull, and it was pedestrian, it was, and is, also my 24 hours. My day. My life.

*Actually, that's artistic licence.  It was actually about half past ten, but midnight (or indeed one minute to midnight) isn't a time of day I voluntarily see very often anymore. I can't imagine it looked much different to this though.