There’s a lot said about Mothers; I’ve read that Motherhood is boring. Being a Mother is exhausting and tiring. Mothers are dull. Working Mothers, single Mothers, stay at home Mothers…. there’s always an opinion being banded around.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.
Being a Mother and watching your child ride a bike for the first time.
A swell of pride, a broad grin, wanting to cry but knowing that would be ridiculous. Crying a little anyway. Tears and smiles. A feeling of joy at the first tentative wobbles.
Creating a wonderful memory of standing in the Winter’s cold watching your ‘baby’ cycle away from you, finding a confidence with each turn of the pedal; independent, growing up and very proud.
A close confidant looked at these photographs and suggested it was boring landscape photography “I know that” I replied “these are photographs of Iceland”. The landscape is broad, sometimes bleak and often barren. But beneath the land is there is much going on; volcanic movement, shifting tectonic plates, betrayed on the surface by geysers and hot springs, dramatic rock formations and raging waterfalls. Anything but boring.
Outside the capital Reykjavik Iceland is sparsely populated, I travelled with a friend and we found so few people to talk to or even be around that we began talking in funny voices just to amuse ourselves. Two women driving an automatic car, not even the interest of gear change, endless roads in a vast landscape and conversations in funny voices (oh how we laughed!). We sat in geothermal, pools like being in the bath but outside. It was June, in June it never gets dark, night time is a lengthly sunset merging into lengthy sunrise. We drank vodka purchased at duty free as alcohol is expensive in Iceland. The vodka helped with the funny voices.
The day after we arrived we took a boat tour to whale watch. A man with a loud hailer shouted ‘Minke’ in heavy Icelandic accent; ‘MinnKaa‘, he was our voice inspiration. At the command ‘Minke’ the group of tourists aboard the small boat rushed to the side at which he pointed and if quick enough there was ‘Minke’ fin to be briefly seen. Until the next shout of ‘Minke’ and we’d stagger across the lurching boat to the other side for another glimpse of ‘Minke’.
As a child I have a very distinct memories of visiting the Natural History museum for the first time. I remember entering from the Brompton road with my Granddad, being struck by the vast entrance hall and the beautiful vaulted ceiling, the huge centre piece of dinosaur bones. My first school trip as a primary child was to the home of Charles Darwin and there was his statue on the stairs of the museum. I choked on a boiled sweet in surprise and shock at the sight of a stuffed bear.
I recently took Noo to visit and stepping inside brought all these memories back, it was just as I’d remember; full of stuffed animals and dinosaurs against a backdrop of the decorative and detailed Victorian interiors which as I child I’d barely noticed.
Noo’s favourite exhibit was a roaring animatronics tyrannosaurus rex; so life-like we saw children reduced to tears at the sight of it. Animatronics are a development since my last visit, as was the Darwin extension a futuristic cocoon containing a vast collection of plant and insect specimens.
Take the lift to the top and a sloping corridor winds down through the building. We enjoyed the touch screen displays and peeking into laboratories and research rooms; sure to fire the imagination a young explorers. I wondered if Noo would love the place as much as I did and he did, especially the fly and the poo and the fake bit of bread. The Natural History Museum still casts a magic spell.
When I last left my parents house I took a photograph. My mother sitting alone in the back room. She looks anxious. In the background there’s some ironing, hanging on a clothes horse. Someone visiting had ironed. My mother used to iron everyday. Long evenings or afternoons standing at the ironing board. She ironed everything underwear, tea towels, sheets. She kept the house meticulously tidy. Hours dedicated to cleaning and putting things in their place. Often too busy for other things, she would say it had to be done, she didn’t have a choice. Alzheimer’s affords moments of clarity. As I left, she told me she would be OK, she said she didn’t have a choice.
On Friday I went to a funeral with ‘Jean’. Jean is 93, she lives on her own and had taken two buses to get there. As the priest said his final few words, Jean whispered “I’m the only one left”. I squeezed her hand. “I’m fine” she said. It was the funeral of her best friend a friend since primary school. At the wake Jean made plans for lunch dates and birthday meals. We talked about my mother, we talked about how much she cleaned, Jean didn’t understand it. She never much bothers. Neither to do. We drank gin and put names to faces, people we’d both not seen in years, gathered for a funeral. Which made me wonder; why as a family do we gather less for parties and more for funerals?
Last week my mother moved into residential care. At the funeral I was asked how I felt. I don’t want to invest in the negative. I don’t want to dwell. I can’t change it. It’s a case of moving forwards and managing the present.
I don’t know if I’ll live until 93, drinking gin and taking a selection from the buffet home in my handbag, but that’s my kind of life and I need more parties because somethings are a matter of choice.
This is my Grandmother on my Father’s side (she appears to be marrying Herman Munster) the year is 1931, somewhere in Burma. She was born in Burma and her life was privileged. After the second world war broke out she left Burma she lived amongst the expat scene in the foothills of the Himalayas in India, cocktail parties and afternoon tea. Any tales of that time she kept to herself. She was complicated and had secrets, I know a little but time and distance prevents uncovering the truth.
She came to the UK a widow in the 1950s. She never much adapted to life in the UK, living first in hotels and then with my Uncle and Aunt. Granny expected everyone to wait on her, I never knew her to prepare food or a drink for herself. I can’t say I adored her or that she fitted any maternal Granny stereotypes. From a child’s perspective, I remember her as tiny, with expressive hands, often giggling to herself. I remember watching her at a distance, being fascinated. She could be difficult, she would return presents with a derogatory comment she seemed keen to correct people. I don’t think she cared what people thought or thought that they cared.
She would phone our house at odd times with stories that the Russians had bugged her radio, but there was something mischievous about it as if she was amusing herself. I found her behaviour funny, my Mother less so. At some point she gave away her jewellery but no one knows to who. When she died all that was left of a long life lived on two continents was a small suitcase of trinkets and some secrets. I imagine she’d find that amusing, dismissing it with a wave of her hand, I don’t imagine she cared.
Blogging about poverty and the developing world probably isn’t going to win me followers, to be honest, the posts aren’t as ‘read’ as much as other things I might write about. Is it because people aren’t interested? Is it something people feel doesn’t affect them? Is it because tackling poverty appears to be a task to big to comprehend?
‘Charity begins at home’. Does it really? We live in a global economy, weekly we buy food grown and produced in the developing world, we wear clothes made thousands of miles away by people living very different lives to our own. Arguably, our impact on the environment; the resources we use each day have a huge impact across the plant.
A few weeks ago I attended the Action Aid bloggers tea party. Action Aid believe that poverty is something that can be changed, their projects change lives and communities. I’ve blogged before about Sponsoring a Child through Action Aid and appreciate that it’s a financial committment that not everyone can make, it’s not the only way to be involved. Action Aid have a project that encourages schools to get involved in sponsorship. As parents we want to instil values of sharing, understanding and equality into our children. Schools that sponsor children with Action Aid have found it a way for pupils to make a positive contribution within their local and global community. Click here for more information.
At the Bloggers Tea Party I listened to a couple, Lynn and Spencer talk about their experience of visiting the child they sponsored in Lesotho and how humbled they were by the welcome afforded them, how it enabled them to understand the huge impact that sponsorship has.
For me, it’s also very much about awareness, becoming better informed, meeting with Action Aid has broadened my understanding how it’s possible to work with communities to make them sustainable, to provide a positive future for the next generation as a parent that’s important to me. I want my son to grow into a global community that is more sustainable and more balanced. I think it is possible, organisations like Action Aid make it possible. I hope that my son with grow to understand that we don’t live in isolation we are part of an enormous interdependent community.
A step towards change is appreciating that change is possible.
A tag? by JBMumofone? What’s on my MP3 player. MP3 player seems a rather 90′s description, but I assume that’s the generic term, surely everyone powered by that nice fruit product? Apple?
The aim of this game is click ‘Shuffle’ and blog the first five tracks that appear.
Absolutely no cheating.
Can I point, at this juncture, that the itunes library in this house is shared between myself (disco-diva, pop queen and singalong lover ) and Mr Noo, who is a serious musician with proper musical taste (he does not share my enthusiasm for Abba). The itunes library also panders to the needs of a small boy on long car journeys – Grand Old Duke of York anyone? Anything could pop up….. here goes.
The Beatles – She Loves You.
My small boy loves the Beatles. I urge any parent to get 1 by The Beatles. It seems to appeal to small children and is so much easier on the ears than the Wheels on the Bus.
T’Empo – Saturday Night.
This is one of my favourite disco diva songs. It reminds me of happy nights dancing until chucked out of the club. I listen to this a lot. I find it great music for walking to and generally uplifting.
Frank Sinatra. Count Basie – I won’t ask. Don’t ask me.
I do like a bit of Frank Sinatra, as I like things I can sing along to, but this is a Mr Noo choice.
Fleet Foxes – White Winter Hymnal.
Utterly haunting. No idea what it means. I imagine the Fleet Foxes drink Barley Cup or possibly mint tea on a night out. I can listen to this over and over.
Aretha Franklin – Until you come back.
This is something Mr Noo and I agree on. I sing to this, and in my head, I can sing like Aretha.
In conclusion: A fairly good reflection of our music life.
(phew, the Rowan Keating and Will Young tracks didn’t appear).
