Life on a Pedestal

When my dad was alive, he was the only man in my life whom I could ever respect wholly. Even being married to my first husband did not make me feel differently as I continued to look up to the one man I knew would always be there.  My dad and I did not have many words between us; I would drive him to a function and the only words spoken were, "see you later".  He would close the car door and I would drive away, wishing I had told him about my day, beating myself up for not asking him how his day had been.  I remember taking him to the airport once, and for forty minutes the only sound I heard was that of the car engine.  Yet our silences were comfortable.  Words were unnecessary whilst in each other's company.

Some of you know how sensitive I am to his visiting soul, I speak to him more now than I ever did back then; I tell him about my day, about Amy's progress, about the Farmer.  I tell him because I feel he would have wanted to know should he have been stood on our earth plain.  This short note came into my head the other night, and I decided to write it down:-

"If I had two hearts, one would belong to you.  If I had four arms, two would be permanently wrapped around you.  If I could fly, I would soar above creation until I reached the pedestal on which you will always rest."

I wrote this piece in November 2007, it was a very emotional moment of which I wish to share with you.

Before, or After?

Many years ago, it was almost unheard of for a woman to bear a child out of wedlock. In some cases, the mum-to-be was cut off from her family and placed in a home for the improper act of having sex before marriage, thus resulting in the birth of a child.  Even though it had taken two people to make that baby, the woman would be the one at fault, whilst in a lot of cases, the man would walk away without needing to face up to his responsibilities.  Of course back then, the organisation known as the Child Support Agency didn't exist, and even though money was much harder to come by, new mums were left frightened and vulnerable and wondering how they would get through life.

These days of course, women aren't as dependent on a man for support.  There are many single mums who get along just fine, if not better, without a man in their lives and without a full time father figure to help with the childcare.  Many babies are born out of wedlock and it is perfectly acceptable.  In my humble opinion, a child needs love and support more than it needs parents who are married. 

But even I, a somewhat feminist and believer in women's rights, choked on my bottle of Volvic the other night whilst sat watching television with Amy.  She made me realise just how times have changed, even since I was a child (which isn't that long ago).

"Is it okay to have a baby after you're married?"  asked Amy, the child who was conceived out of wedlock.

My First VLOG!

I'm very excited.  I've done my first Vlog, and after much huffing, puffing, and a lot of swearing, my good friends on Twitter helped me to finally understand how to embed the uploaded video into a Blog Post, thus creating this, my very first Vlog.  Enjoy.  Please.  I'll pay you.  I'll do another soon and maybe include the dogs, and perhaps a lamb or two. (p.s. it's just under 3 minutes long.  p.p.s. stop laughing)

One's Dreams

Looking through my recent posts, I realise I have been a bit "woe is me" orientated, something I get frustrated at myself for being.  Having spent the last ten years looking after a child with special needs, I sometimes wonder who actually looks after me.  But that's simple.  I do.  The Farmer is always here of course, but I'm talking about my needs, the things I want, that no one else can do for me.  As a mother, we often forget that we ourselves have special needs, those apart from the human pleasures we are occasionally presented with.

I think I look after me quite well really.  Sometimes I read about someone having a weekend away, leaving the kids with husband or grandparents.  I have never been away on my own.  I realise that it is virtually impossible for me to do that now but even before I had Amy, I never went on holiday alone.

One day I'll do it.  I'll bribe ask my mum to come up for a weekend and look after Amy whilst I swan off to somewhere posh and treat myself to a weekend of relaxation.  And I'll probably spend all the time I'm away wondering what Amy's doing.

Why do we mum's do that?  Why can't we just switch off?  Are we given a brain implant during labour, when we're doing all that panting and pushing, asking how much longer, praying that we don't poo?  Does the midwife secretly pop it in our ear?  Without making me too jealous, have any of you left the kids for a weekend of bliss, on your own?  Only yourself for company, only you to laugh at, to talk to, to think about?  And did you spend the whole time worrying about your kids?

Look Up & See The North

There's nothing we can do about bad weather, we have to live through it.  But it's snowed on and off since last Thursday, leaving another covering of white flakes glistening in the fake morning sun.  Not a peep was mentioned on the weather report this morning, again, we in Northumberland don't seem to exist.  The snow is at least three inches deep and not only does it cause problems on our B roads due to the fact the Council don't bother to grit, but it also causes problems for farmers.  At this time of year, the last thing a sheep farmer needs is snow.  The grass is covered which means no grazing for the stock, thus meaning the farmer has to continuously take feed into the fields to enable pregnant ewes in particular to have enough nourishment to carry their un-born.

Like I say, there is nothing we can do about the weather, but we do exist up here in the North.  We have to survive, and so do our animals.  It's all well and good showing a well turned-out weather girl, dressed up to the nines in high heels and powder puff.  But why not dot a few sheep around the country, and the odd farmer on a quad bike, struggling around snow covered fields, trying to keep his family from sinking through the ice. 

The Passenger Seat

Independence has always been something I have held onto with determination.  As you know from previous posts, I enjoy being on my own and have often referred to myself as a 'loner'.  However, I lost some of my independence when I moved to Northumberland, perhaps a little sacrifice I made for the wonderful new life I began.  That independence was taken from me by my late father-in-law who continuously asked what I was doing, where I was going, why, how, when.  It drove me nuts at times, having an old man follow me round the house, coming into my bedroom which was then also my computer corner; I could have been stark bollock naked and he would just come in without a knock.  Luckily I never was, but I was often in the middle of something important like course work or writing a short story and he would stand over me, trying to read what I typed.

Fortunately, those days are long gone, he moved off the farm in January 2007 and passed on in May of that year.  His spirit still roams the house, peering over my shoulder, checking up on me, but I can accept that by just telling him to leave.  After his passing I was able to claw back some of the independence that I had lost during those past six years.  I would get in the car and just go out somewhere, into town, a drive to a friend's, Amy's school.  Anywhere, just to be able to tell myself that I was independent and not having to live my life by someone else's rules, in someone else's house, and in someone else's shadow.

And now I feel as if I've lost it again.  Not being able to drive is starting to get to me.  I keep looking at my car and wishing I could just get behind the wheel, start the engine, and find myself somewhere else.  With lambing coming up in the next 4 or 5 weeks, I know that the Farmer will be seldom available to run me here and there; his work will be needed only on the farm, midwife to 240 ewes.  Of course I'll be helping by doing the night watch, albeit only until 1am, or so, but we discussed how we will have to make sure we have plenty of supplies in for the dogs, the lambs' milk, sheep lick, and of course for ourselves.  During those busy weeks of lambing I have always had the freedom to nip into town for whatever supplies we need.  Now I'll have to rely on someone taking me other than the Farmer, and I'll feel forever in their debt.  I know you might think why should I feel in their debt, but it's just the way I am.  That's the independence of being independent.

Homemade Pride

Firstly, I want to thank you for your support regarding my previous post; I was overwhelmed as usual by the warmness of your friendship.  I and the person in question no longer see each other, which may sound the "saddest" part of all, but I knew in myself that I wasn't unnatural or odd, and I felt patronised to the point where I almost began questioning my lifestyle.  It's a shame to lose a friend however the circumstances, but I'm a stronger person these days, and I have all my online friends to thank for that.  So thank you again, for confirming to me that I'm not sad, I am an individual like every one else.  And a happy one at that.

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Just another reminder of that inseparable bond between parent and child; Amy made this a couple of weeks ago and hid it in a drawer in the guest room. When she presented it to me, I was so overwhelmed.  Having never received a Valentine card in my life it was one of those incredible moments where my pride at being Amy's mum reached another level.  When Amy was born, my dad held her in his arms, looked into her eyes and said to me, "this is the best days work you've ever done", and he was so right.

We Are What We Are

I don't get out much, have never had much of a social life.  It's never bothered me, not in the slightest.  I enjoy my life at home, keeping myself to myself, enjoying spending time with the few friends I have.  And so it was quite hurtful to have been branded as "sad" recently by a so called close friend.  Sad because I have no social life; I spend "all" my time sat in front of the computer, writing a book, blogging or tweeting (the words, sat on your arse, were mentioned); in other words, doing what this person considers to be unnatural, odd and "sad" simply because they don't do it.  They don't tweet, they don't blog, they don't do much online at all apart from a quick browse now and then.  They have a social life, they have more friends than I could ever handle, and, in my opinion, thats up to them.  Just like my computer enjoyment is up to me.  If I enjoy it, does it make me sad?  Does it make me odd, or different from the norm?

It simply makes me who I am; a mum who loves to write when she isn't helping her husband clean sheep's arses.  A mum who has made many good friends in cyber space because of her ability to communicate, and a mum who - get this - actually enjoys having no social life, looks forward to settling down in an evening with an open laptop faced with lovely people offering interesting conversation, stopping every now and then for a quick kiss off her husband and a chat with her daughter.  Perhaps I'm missing the point of how people actually perceive a "sad" person.  But I, for one, am not.  I'm happy, I'm content, I'm me.  Get over it, "friend", or piss off.

The Dusty Road

Our eyes met across a crowded farm yard.  The tractor engine roared in the background as hens clucked about the verges.  A combine harvester sat proudly in the shed, a few weeks of exploration in the barley fields almost in sight.  I remember the boiler suit striding towards me, complete with dust and soil.  A horse stood at the gate, at least 17hh, brown and sleek, tail swishing in the lightest breeze.  She whinnied when I stroked her, glad of a companion in her latter years.  I felt nervous when he approached, knew the horse would break the ice.  I asked him questions about her, my mind too busy to listen to the answers.  I envied him; his lifestyle, his home, his horse.

A few years later he chatted to my dad, asked him about me, asked if I had a sister.  We laughed.  I should have realised back then how much I wanted him; how much I wanted to share his life.  The horse had passed on, clippety clop onto her next journey.  She would have been happy.  She spent thirty-four years on a farm with the green and black boiler suit, complete with dust and soil, jolly smile constantly adorning a sun kissed face.  Now I stand at the gate; I watch my Farmer and think about that July afternoon in 1993.  He walks towards me in his boiler suit, complete with dust and soil, and our eyes meet once more.

Clarty Farm

I tried to post this earlier but my incredible lack of technical knowledge pulled its tongue out at me and lost all the text. So I start again. And tell you once more that my farm is extremely muddy today. Big Wow, I hear you say. It rained over night and left us knee deep in shit. Hen shit, sheep shit, dog shit, you name it. My sister's coming later today to spend a few days here. She's clean. Her clothes are always spotless. She's also a townie, as I used to be, but whenever she comes in this weather I dread to see the contents of her suitcase. Jeans and jumpers do it for me; I won't say anymore in case she reads this post. I'll leave you with a few photographs taken earlier.

A Slice of Italy

Amy's been making pizzas at school this week.  She loves cooking, or at least playing at it, she's spent a lot of time watching me I guess.  But the last time she made a pizza in cookery (part of her life skills) it was absolutely delicious, ham and pineapple; the Farmer ate most of it and saved me a job at tea time.  And so this weeks pizza was the same and equally as delicious.

The Farmer took twenty old ewes to market the other day.  All knackered and ready for the chop and ready for their transistion onto a peaceful and traquil journey.  I was quite relieved when he came in and said, "Roy won't be going".  Roy was a pet lamb a few years ago.  We didn't have the heart to send him to mart, and so we put him in a field with some old ewes where he has enjoyed being completely spoilt.  Apparently, he's lame.  Which doesn't bode well when selling stock.  So he's stayed.  He's most likely galloping about the field baaing, "ya ain't takin' me ya baaastard" whilst the Farmer continues to fill up the feed troughs.

And then we were disappointed the other night when our lovely lambing assistant rang and said she couldn't lamb this year.  It left us slightly panicky to be honest because lambing, as you may know, is a 24 hour job for a solid three weeks.  I need to see to Amy during the day of course but draw the short straw and do the night shift where I'll be relying on Twitter to get me through the quiet times extremely busy.  We'll just have to get used to a new assistant on the farm.  We've previously had females, the Farmer nicknamed our last one Laminova, which I guess for her, it is; I did mention to the Farmer that I'm not bothered if we have a man this time, perhaps a Martin Shaw lookalike, or even Robson Green who is from up here.  But so long as whoever joins us to bring new life into the world likes ham and pineapple pizzas, we'll be just fine.

p.s. don't you just love the new strikethrough icon that Blogger has.  I've only just discovered it!

Wrapped in a Child's Song

How old do we have to be before the innocence of youth no longer applies?  As I tuck my baby in, kissing her thoughts into the dreams she seeks, I remember the conversation we had earlier about being in love.  "I have a crush on Justin Bieber," she told me.  I just want her to drift off into the land of pass the parcel and musical bumps; but I know she's long past that now, the talk of crushes alone makes me realise that her thoughts no longer yearn for pictures of Disney princesses adorning her walls, but posters of new faces, the ones she discusses with friends at school.  The cotton wool thins out, the world is becoming transparent.

She sits in her bedroom listening to her idol beating out the words she memorises, yet struggles to understand.  She has felt tips at hand, paper and stencils, the child in her still hovering on the surface.

We discussed boarding schools the other day.  Amy likes the idea for some reason.  I suspect it is because of all the children's soaps she watches on Sky Kids.  I couldn't ever imagine not living without my baby.  My rose tinted glasses assume she will live with me always.  When I take them off I realise she may not.  And so I reach for the cotton wool.

There's No Place Like It

It felt like a spring morning on Saturday.  I could almost hear the sound of lambs echoing around the farm yard, that familiar noise of "find me a teet and I'll let you have a cuddle".  The tups are in their paddock now, watching the world go by, content at having done their bit for the freezer; and the pregnant ewes wander the fields, unsure as to why they are suddenly finding it a struggle to walk from water trough to feed trough.  Most of them gather near the food, a mother's meeting of mums to be.  I took Amy and the dogs for a walk through the muddy puddles of the sheep community, and apart from having to shout "here" several times, particularly to the pups, the sheep stayed pretty much where they were, watching the wandering humans and four excited canines.

It is when I go on these walks through my fields that I look back, taking in the view of the farm, realising the enormity of my every day life.  Amy asked me, "what is your favourite place in the whole world?"  My answer was simple.  "Home."

Distant Chains

“Absolutely not, there are no ghosts in this house!” My late father-in-law confirms, the ultimate sceptic.

"You have no idea,” I reply, utterly insulted as he laughs at me, shakes his head in disbelief and begrudges me a few more moments with my wonderful father.

Yet now, he may wonder how he could have been quite so dismissive. Unable to accept the truth as his broken heart was swept away into another world.

Four years ago, Amy and the Farmer swapped beds for the night. The Farmer didn’t sleep a wink in his temporary retreat and from that day to this has questioned the unusual sounds he heard and the distinctive scuffling as someone quite clearly carried on their business around him. He was quite sure at the time that he wasn’t alone in that room and it took him six months to find the courage to tell me. Amy has a beautiful picture of my grandma lodged inside the frame of a mirror in her bedroom. It is not uncommon for this picture to be found on the floor. It was once found face up on the bed, yet no one had been in the room.

This room was once known as the ‘Bacon room’. Pigs were slaughtered on the farm and taken there. They were prepared, severed for consumption. Yet this room has a welcoming atmosphere. It sighs as you walk in, an unseeing smile washing away the harsh realities of life. I suspect it was also a child’s room in times gone by, a place of frivolity, hopes and dreams. I talk to my Grandma when I enter it. I wish her a good day. We smile together as we look out of the window at the little wendy house and the swing gently swaying in the breeze; the daisies scattered amongst the grass and the gorse-covered hill beyond. She stands next to me, watching my eyes as they thank her. Thank her for finding me this heavenly piece of paradise. For sending me on a journey away from sorrow and helping me to understand where my journey will end.

I sat on the stairs. I told myself to stop what I was doing and note my inner feelings. The pungent aroma of TCP suddenly filled my senses. I closed my eyes, hoping to be greeted by the more welcoming scent of lavender. But the smell stayed with me. A sickly taste beginning to form in my mouth. I listened silently for the sound of chains and the ticking of a clock for as I sat there, my head resting against the wall, I suddenly feared I had been visited by a somewhat resentful spirit; a recently passed soul who was trapped between the gates of heaven and a lifetime of haunting. My late father-in-law used TCP daily. I never knew why. Perhaps tonight he will sit beside me as he reaches into his concealed pocket and takes out an invisible cigarette. I will hear the click of his lighter as the flame glows in the corner of my eye. Then I will experience that familiar tobacco smoke as it swirls through the air before resting on my clothes.

Determined not to believe in those unexplainable events, this man has decided to revisit the house in which he lived for all of his life. I wonder if he has seen my friend, the 18th century Gentleman’s wife as she glides upstairs on her journey to the first floor. I wonder if he has encountered my Grandma as she stands at Amy’s bedroom window, admiring the beautiful landscape. I wonder if he can see my father; the man who breaths deeply by my side.

I felt the Fear

I had a baby and a partner who wouldn't acknowledge responsibility; and I simply existed.  My life has always been my child, and perhaps back in 2000-2001, it could have been my partner too.  But he didn't want me; nor did he want his child which made me realise a bleak future as a family unit.  I already knew the Farmer back then, had known him since 1993, long before I met Amy's father in 1997.  I was frightened of what lay ahead; frightened of my life as it was; frightened of the fact that I had no money and nowhere to live, as the house we lived in belonged to my partner.  Everything was his.  Except Amy and me.

I came up to Northumberland with my parents in June 2001, our last family holiday.  Amy was eighteen months old.  Her father didn't come, work commitments kept him at home.  His home; not mine.  Back then, I had no home.  Of course I could have gone back to live with my parents, but independence, and perhaps pride, dictated otherwise.  And as unhappy as I was, I stayed put, listening to abuse being thrown at me, waiting for a phone call to tell me he had decided to stay out for the night and would see me soon. Sometimes it did not come. That was at weekends.  He worked away during the week.

I suppose I was feeble.  But I was also a mother.  That final holiday in a cottage on the farm changed me.  I knew where I wanted to be.  I had known for some time where I did not want to be.  The Farmer and I were friends.  Simply that. Yet he offered me a home, and somewhere to bring up Amy.  A place I knew I would be happy.  And a place I knew I would be living away from my parents.  That frightened me more than anything.

I returned to Lancashire after the holiday, to a cold house.  Twenty-five days later, Wednesday 25th July 2001, at 8.45am, I was watching Tin Tin with Amy.  The phone rang.  It was my mum.  "Your dad's collapsed.  He's at Wigan Infirmary.  I'm here now.  Just come when you're ready.  And don't worry, just drive safely."  I arrived at the hospital at 9.30am.  My brother greeted me at the front door, his wife taking Amy from me whilst he led me inside.  I will never forget the words he said to me. "He's gone."  I cry when I write that sentence for my dad will never be gone.  Yet there we all were, sat in a little room, in shock.

And so I rang the Farmer.  He was my best friend.  I rang Amy's father next, he was at work in a different part of the country and he couldn't talk to me.  He was in the middle of a meeting.  It was Friday night before he got home.  All day Saturday and all day Sunday he spent at his parents house, doing what he enjoyed best; spending time as a batchelor.  But I couldn't care less where he was.  I knew what I was going to do.  Frightened at the prospect of spending the rest of my life without my dad, the only man I truly needed, I waited five weeks, then packed mine and Amy's belongings and announced to my family that I was leaving.

Amy needed to be loved by a mum who was content.  She needed to be brought up in a happy environment, one where the birds sang continuously, where daisy chains were in constant view.  I knew a challenge lay ahead, I also knew I was leaving my grieving mum.  But I no longer just existed.  My dad had set me free. And I, together with Amy, am now truly happy because I took that step; I felt the fear and did it anyway.

Just to clarify, Amy sees her father from time to time when I visit my mum, and we now get on better than we did when we lived together. He's married and has a lovely new family.  Funny how life turns out.

I was inspired to write this post as part of Josie's workshop #12 at Sleep is for the Weak

Interview with Amy

A few blogging friends have been interviewing their children recently and I've found them very interesting posts to read. Amy is a bit older than some of the other interviewees but I hope you'll find the following questions and answers entertaining.

1. What is your favourite program?
    Spongebob Squarepants

2. What time do you go to bed?
    9.30pm (after all the fannying about it's usually about 10)

3. Who is the Prime Minister?
    Is that someone who is the boss of a country or something? (perhaps the or something, yes)

4. How old are you?
    10

5. How old am I?
   40 (giggles, for some reason)

6. Hold old is Grandma?
   Is she 65? (giggles again)

7. Do you have a boyfriend?
   Have I got to tell the truth?  No, I don’t have one.


8. What do you want to be when you grow up?
   A hairdresser and an artist (what about a farmer? we need an heir)

9. Where do babies come from?
    A woman’s tummy (better than what I thought she'd say)

10. What’s the worst smell you have ever experienced?
      Dad farting in the kitchen (I really did ask for that one)

11. Do you think mum spends too much time on the computer?
     Yes, I absolutely do! (and that one)


12. Is there anything you wish to add?
     1048 and 156. (think about it)

Amy asked if she could have a creme egg for answering these questions.  I said she could if lots of people read it.
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