The Public Baths

I bought Amy some books the other day. 

They're what you might class as "growing up" books, the ones which teach our children about the next stages in their lives.  We've been talking a lot about this recently, particularly following the sex education talk at school last week.  So there we were, her sat on the wicker chair in the bathroom, me relaxing in a steamy, hot, lavender bubble bath.  She brought one of the books into the bathroom with her, intending to read it to me and show me the more graphic of the pictures, perhaps hoping I'll explain what I know.  This was a little of the conversation in which we had, bearing in mind we had previously read "Mummy Laid An Egg" of which she thoroughly enjoyed.

"How long does it take to make a baby?" Amy asked the first question.

I went for the safe option and said, "nine months." 

"So do those little swimming things have to win the race to make the baby?" I knew what she meant.....

"Yes, sort of," I said.  "Perhaps the strongest tadpole will fertilise the egg that becomes the baby."  I then had to explain what fertilise means, that wasn't easy.  I was only glad she hadn't picked up on my "tadpole" word.

So after spending five minutes talking about how much it does hurt when giving birth, the questions continued:

"So if you had a baby with brown hair, does that mean the toadpad will have brown hair too?"  I almost buried myself beneath the bubbles.

"Probably," I said rather swiftly.  "Is there nothing on telly you want to watch?"

My question went in one ear and out the other.  "How old do you have to be before you can mate to make a baby?"

I knew I couldn't say sixteen because Amy takes everything literally.  Think about it.  So I said, "30.  Right I'm getting out of the bath now. Go and put your telly on."

As she watched me getting out of the bath, her brain cogs whirring round at a hundred miles an hour, she asked, "when will I start getting public hair?"  Yes, you read that right.  I didn't make a spelling mistake.

Sweet Light

As is the case most nights, I had a recent attack, yearning for something sweet and velvety to touch my lips, to smoothly caress my mouth until it slithered down my throat, satisfying the perpetual craving I regularly experience for chocolate.

It was 2.05am on the clock yet darkness was not evident as light shone through the opening of my bedroom door.  I lifted myself from my warm bed, wondering why the Farmer had left the hall light on, perhaps in his race to accompany his wife between the sheets.  But as I descended the staircase, too preoccupied to look into the mirror with a thousand faces, I felt comforted.  My walk to the kitchen took me along the lit corridor, a light of which has never been left on by anyone.  The Farmer's constant energy saving methods and me being unable to sleep with the light on means whoever is last to bed makes a point of switching off all lights. 

As I reached the bottom of the stairs I turned left into the corridor which takes me towards the kitchen.  The way was lit for me; my sixth sense told me that someone, or perhaps something, accompanied me to the room of where I headed.  I cannot say who it was, but I did not feel alone, nor did I feel afraid.  I half expected the kitchen door to open before me, allowing me to walk through with ease.  I was disappointed when that did not happen, yet elated when the Farmer confirmed to me the next morning that he had, without fail, turned off the light.  I questioned Amy too, wondering if her elephant steps had somehow failed to wake me as she went down to the kitchen in the middle of the night.  She hadn't.  I believed her.  The chocolate helped me sleep, eventually.

Country Girl at Heart

Every time I go shopping these days, which isn't often as I do most of my shopping on the Internet, I find myself in a card shop, thinking desperately about who's birthday is coming up, or if anyone has just given birth or moved house, or perhaps got a new job.  I have a drawer full of unneeded greetings cards just in case I might one day need them.  It's usually a good thing to hoard, especially in my case due to having a memory like a gold fish, but on the other hand, I still browse the card displays when I'm out and wonder, "did I buy that birthday card?", and so I buy another.  I've done the same with bread recently, filling the freezer with split tin loaves when we already have plenty to last us at least a week or two.

I think I miss shopping, you know, in a town, a big town with lots of shops that are half decent.  I live in between two very small towns which, despite having a large number of small shops, just don't offer the choice you would find in a place like Bolton or Wigan, places I used to frequent when I lived in the North West of England.  Don't get me wrong, I love where I live now and wouldn't live anywhere else, but sometimes I miss the bigger stores like Debenhams, Marks & Spencer, I'm racking my brains now trying to think of another.  I was never a smaller store shopper but did like River Island, Next and Wallis, shops we haven't got up here.  Newcastle will probably have them but I don't like the city, it's too hustley and bustley for me.  Call me an in-between Country and Townie lass, I guess I'm a bit odd really.  I do have a calendar, though I keep forgetting to write significant events on it. 

Talking Helps

For a while now I have been talking to Amy about being autistic and the special needs in which she has.  Even though she likes to join in with her school friends, playing the games they play, talking about age appropriate things, she has begun to realise that there are aspects of her life which are different.  Last week she and her class mates were given the "sex talk", an insight into making babies and what goes on inside a woman's body.  I felt it was all too grown up for her to digest, having only just turned 10 I wasn't sure that to be told about periods and vagina's, not to mention wombs and seeds, was all a bit unnecessary.  But I agreed it would be okay.  Ever since the "talk" she has been talking about being pregnant and does it hurt, telling me she wants to have a baby when she's older.  I'm finding it all a bit hard to deal with to be honest.  If only my mum had told me about the birds and the bees when I was younger.

And then the latest, just to twist the knife a bit more, "I don't want to be autistic, mum, I want to be like the others.  Everyone at school treats me like I'm dumb."  I walked away at that point.  There is nothing I can do about Amy being autistic, but there's a whole lot I can do about it.  She's autistic. She has special needs.  She's the most incredible child that I have ever met and being autistic is just another hurdle on the track of her life.  Sounds corny doesn't it.  It's a challenge, for her, for me, for everyone around her.  One thing I did say to her was, "what's wrong with being autistic?"  And to that, she could not answer.

Exciting News and Gifts Galore

Something exciting happened the other day.  I was going to Vlog it but as I want to publish a very special link I decided the written word was best.  I feel as though I've been head hunted and it's a pretty good feeling.  I was asked to become a member of the team on a new up and running website called Mumable.  It's been created, very beautifully, by the clever lady who founded Flying Start Magazine, namely Amanda O'Hara, and when she got together with her good friend, Jon Stringer, they invented the new website of which they invited me, along with some other bloggers, to write a feature for Mumable at least once a month.  This is not only an honour but a pleasure, and has certainly made me feel extremely proud to be a part of the blogging world.

I published my first piece yesterday and it can be found here.  But please do take some time to have a look around the site or at least read my piece, I am sure you will find much to read of interest, and may even pick up advice along the way.  Features include celebrity interviews, advice and tips on parenting, health, special needs and disabilities, the list goes on, and no matter where you are at in your life, be it a new parent, an experienced one, a grandparent or even a loyal auntie or uncle, you are sure to find something of interest.  Especially my feature about Amy's early diagnosis of autism, called, It started with the L Word.

*******

Some of you may have heard of the Secret Post Club of which Heather of Notes from Lapland created.  I received my first secret parcel yesterday and I am thrilled to bits with it.  Wendy of No More Excuses sent me a fabulous relaxing-in-the-bath magazine together with a tube of Body Shop hand protector which is perfect for me; thanks, Wendy, that was a lovely surprise.

Cheque in the Post

Amy discovered my cheque book and having seen one before - somewhere - she asked if she could write one out.  I decided there was no harm as I could easily void it and so I tore the cheque from its stub and showed her how to fill it in.

I do some stupid things sometimes.

Fortunately, she signed the cheque with her own name.  What I hadn't realised was that when my back was turned, she ripped another one out of the book, filled it in and along with a covering letter, she put it in an envelope.  She then sealed the envelope and asked me to send it to her friend.  I thought, "aww, what a lovely gesture to send a letter to her friend," and I placed the package on the sideboard ready to be posted.

But something told me not to post it.  That little niggle at the back of my mind, the one which leaps from under the bed when secret diary is found during tidy up day, the one that beckons hands to reach under the mattress and find a stash of FHM and Nuts, forcing me to open the envelope and find the cheque made out to the friend in the sum of £100.  Like I said, fortunately, she signed the cheque with her own name.  I really don't give my daughter enough credit...!

Back to Basics

I feel a little like a lady of leisure today; my new employee arrived for work raring to go and eager to begin a days cleaning.  I asked her if she was mad.  She laughed and told me she enjoys cleaning.  Then she read the list I had left which consisted of jobs around the house, the ones I would have done should I have enjoyed cleaning too.  Bless her, she's cleaning my electric oven, hoovering through and then starting inside the kitchen cupboards.  I think I'll put my feet up and watch Sky News with a cuppa. 

I watched a program on the tv yesterday where a couple were looking for houses in the Aylesbury area of South East England.  I used to live there, near a place called Stoke Mandeville, for four years when I was married to my first husband.  It wasn't as developed as it is now, going back to the early 90's the most exciting place for me was the kebab shop.  Ex was a pretty cool customer when he used to whip out at 11pm to buy me a doner, fully loaded with chilli sauce and salad.  We used to sit up in bed and eat them, probably unaware of the breath monsters we turned into the following day.  I had a good job back then, in a large office where nine to five was just a song that Dolly Parton sang. 

And that's where this post is going, back in my life, back to the days of my early twenties when I was slim and I had no grey hairs, and I didn't think about having no energy.  My cleaner is young and just starting out in life, she has it all to look forward to, all those years of making plans, sitting up in bed with kebabs, nightclubs with friends, holidays with her boyfriend.  And as I look out of the window, admiring my beautiful land, knowing how fortunate I am to have what I have today, there's still a part of me that wants to go back, that wants to be twenty again, and free.

Pick Me Up

Exhaustion did indeed set in and remind me that I am only human.  However much I would like to be immortal it isn't going to happen.  My nights in the lambing shed came to an end last Thursday and over the weekend I have spent resting and getting re-aquainted with my bed.  But I am still here; my nerves are shot and I've cried a lot, but life goes on and I have a lot of living to do.

Amy has gone back to school today after having two weeks off.  It's probably been the most difficult holiday of all, particularly the first week when we had visitors staying and her routine was completely disrupted.  It's lovely to have family staying but it is difficult to control her behaviour, especially, as I have recently noticed, because she is getting older and most likely entering those bloody awful years of adolescence.  I need to sort out the routine at home because the one we currently have doesn't seem to be working.  Unfortunately, not only have I been exhausted, but I have found myself sinking into a depressive state, thinking "what's the point" and "I can't do it".  I've been down before, feeling low and pissed off, but this is different.

Anyway, if I feel down in the dumps I won't write.  That isn't what this blog is about.  We're down to 15 ewes left to lamb.  They have a huge field all to themselves so it's not surprising they're taking their time.  We have four pet lambs, two of which are orphans and two which we took off their mum as she had no milk to give them.  Some sheep are still on the garden, Sheila included, their lambs following them around.  The puppies haven't quite got used to seeing sheep outside the back door and they run up to them, barking and causing havoc.  The poor little lambs dive for cover beneath their mummies, reaching for the magic teat.

Photo Post

Here are a few photographs I took recently.  I haven't been well so am currently unable to spend much time on the computer.  Will fill you in next week.

My Own Creation!!

I am going to do something I've never done before, and will probably make a hash of.  Following a conversation on Twitter on Saturday it became apparent that some wives, even though they wouldn't swap their husbands for a gold clock, would like them to be a little more practical in the house.  For example, even though my own husband is the bee's knee's, when it comes to DIY, or housework, or finding suitable attire, to name but a few things, he really could do with a kick up the behind; a nudge in the right direction probably wouldn't go amiss.  So here goes; change it if you wish, this is just my own idea of a meme.

I shall tag seven people (totally random) and ask you to name seven things you would like your husband to do more of in the home.  These can be anything you want.  This is an "anything goes" meme.  Here's my seven:

1.  Stay awake.  Okay, granted, he works hard and finds it easy to fall asleep on a washing line, but when we have guests.....?

2.  Paint and decorate.  I'm no good either.

3.  Babysit once in a while.  Without being asked.

4.  Learn how to use the computer.  It could really come in useful.

5.  Cook a meal.  Apart from Spaghetti Bolognese and egg on toast.

6.  Surprise me with a holiday.  It would take a lot of effort I know, but just once in our life time together it would be totally amazing if he suggested going away and didn't umm and ahh everytime I suggested it.

7.  Make mad passionate love to me.  Occasionally.

And here's who I'm tagging:
Julia
Paula
Janet
It's a mummy's life
Cathy
Farmer's Wife
Mariam

No problem if you don't want to take part.  And apologies if you haven't got an "OH".

Doorway

Two border collies nestle together against a heat-filled Aga. Fur limbs twitch as tiny sounds emit in savoured dreams. Dusk has been followed by a glowing moon, a smiling face in the light of silver skies, guiding passing souls to awaiting angels. A tractor still hauls its plough, the end to a turned out field in sight. Mother and child sit contentedly on carpeted floor, a board game at their feet. Laughing as die is shaken, counter is moved, a winner is in their midst.

Mother glances towards open lounge door. The farmer must have returned from night time fields, ploughed and eager to welcome power harrow, the flattening down of crumbled earth in preparation for barley seeds. The game continues. Mother tries hard to vary her gaze between game and doorway. Why does the farmer not enter to join his waiting family? Why does he hover in the hallway, contemplating comfort? Why does he go upstairs without a word or sigh?

Child asks why mummy no longer concentrates on rolling die, why her eyes have become fixed upon an empty doorway. Mother smiles and looks down at the board. Perhaps the farmer has not finished after all. Perhaps she was wrong in her thoughts of concern. Perhaps a visitor has entered their home, looking for warmth, seeking friendship.

Two dogs remain in a closed off kitchen. The die is rolled once more. The unknown visitor once again stands in the hallway; a soul unsure as to whether it would be welcome in this home of love and completeness. This soul seems agitated, searching for something or someone they may need to see. The latch on the understairs cupboard door is carefully unlocked as unseen hands disturb the silent aura of the empty hallway. The door creaks open. The child sits up as the mother's eyes transfix on the open doorway of the lounge. As the cupboard door rests, revealing the contents of an untidy space, the mother decides she needs to help the soul.

She closes the cupboard door, secures the latch and welcomes the lost soul into the company of her and the child. There is no need to hover by the lounge door. There is no need to look in a disorderly cupboard. The farmer remains with his tractor. He will be in soon. The old man's soul vanishes; a disappearing mist evaporating into aroma filled air. He allows mother and child time alone as the dogs awake to the sound of a John Deere engine, taking rest in the shed until sun rise the next morning. Cab door opens, the farmer climbs down, having finished for the night.

Bingo!

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The last couple of weeks, as you know, have been extremely busy for me.  I had these big ideas about opening up the laptop every night in between being in the lambing shed and writing a blog post, together with catching up on all the blogs I read, which is an awful lot, and finding new blogs to follow.  Things haven't gone quite to plan.  Apart from being knackered 24 hours a day, my mum has visited followed by my sister, and time has simply got away from me.  This week sees a more relaxed approach to the lambing due to the fact that we are now down to around 40 ewes left to give birth, from the 240 of two weeks ago.  It hasn't been the easiest Easter on record nor has it been the most enjoyable, but it's certainly been the busiest.  I have tried to grab moments here and there to say Hi to my Twitter friends, and see what's happening on Facebook, and then I'd look in on a few blogs before being summoned outside, or accosted by a demanding ten year old.

However, while my sister was here we had a good laugh.  We always do and I'm always sorry to say goodbye.  The girls (hers and mine) have argued like two demons on a mission but on the whole, even though peace has once more resumed around the house, I miss my sister and her evening company.  She enjoyed her trips to the lambing shed with me at night and we got through some tedious lamb births with a game of "sheep bingo".  Doris, Sheila and Mable watching with steely eyes whilst all the other mums-to-be looked on, chewing in arrogance at our Lancashire banter, Ada meanwhile, pushing and panting for all she was worth, shouting obscenities at the oblivious tups, "you'll never come near me again, ya baaastard".  Well we thought it was funny.  I guess they'll all be back next year, a full maternity ward and cards full of numbers, pens that don't work and Ada screaming "Bingo!"

Learning Technology

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A member of my family has recently been bought a laptop, something he is thrilled to have received yet unsure how to use.  He is fortunate in that he knows several people who can teach him how to go online, send emails and browse the web and I am sure he will have much pleasure in doing just that.  My mum and the Farmer however, don't want to be bothered with computers, saying they have no interest and if someone else can do the job for them then what's the point in learning themselves.

Part of me understands their logic yet a bigger part of me gets quite frustrated at the fact that none of us are too old to learn, and as computers are taking over our world it would be in the best interests of the older generation to at least give it a go.  I'm 40 and feel I have very little knowledge of a computer compared to that of someone half my age.  It's just a sign of the times.  Progress.  A way forward.

People can go on courses everywhere these days, to learn the ins and out of the Internet and get basic training should they wish, in order to just switch a computer on and correspond via the World Wide Web.  I'm all for traditional letter writing but how much easier, and quicker, is it to send an email, and attach a photo perhaps, or a link to a useful website.  I don't think the Farmer will ever learn how to use the computer; but occasionally he has found it useful to look at a website, for example DEFRA.  My family member with the new laptop will most probably learn how to use his new toy from the tuition of another family member; but my mum meanwhile, will just carry on, totally oblivious to the fact that being "connected" is a truly amazing part of life.  For me, it's like having my right arm connected, or like watching water running from the tap.  In other words, something I now take for granted.   Unless Broadband decides not to work of course.

(I need) A Good Wash

We now have sheep in the garden.  No longer is our lovely lawn a mass of green hillocks and hedges, but a field of sheep droppings and discarded tails.  Those sheep on the garden are extremely honoured to have such homely surroundings and lush grass, not to mention our undivided attention as they go about grazing and suckling.  But every year we have the same argument discussion about it being a nuisance especially as we have to leave the drive gate permanently closed; the drive gate being a huge metal contraption with a spring loaded handle and half an hour in the gym needed before one can move it from side to side.  The Farmer insists.  I pull my face and get used to it, muttering, "he can find somewhere else next year," of which never happens.

I am thinking of having a new bathroom.  Ours is past its use-by and the shower is starting to wear down.  There is a huge crack in the sink and the bath is so old that it could head the cast of Pride and Predudice.  We had a new floor put down after Jim passed away in 2007, and got the decorator in who painted it white, with a pale blue ceiling.  On a good day it looks quite country-chique in a don't-look-too-close kind of way, yet I feel it's time for a change, a new bathroom suite and a power shower.  As soon as the farm has settled down again I think I shall have some persuading to do.  But right now, we're like sheeps passing in the night.  And I'm not a sheep.

Shattered and Grumpy

It's usually the first week that I can just get on and do the job.  The second week tires me out.  That's where we're at now, and I am knackerty-knoodle-knood.  I spend all day in a grump, the poor Farmer walking on eggshells as he sits down to lunch and later supper, while Emma has unfortunately been in the vicinity of my mood today.  I mentioned to her that it would be a good idea if she or the Farmer could ring me ten minutes before they were due to come in for lunch enabling me to have it ready for them when they came in.  When she didn't and I pulled her up on it, her very wise answer was, "we were lambing a sheep," which of course I asked for.  Sorry, Emma, I don't know what we'd do without you.

Amy meanwhile, has been driving me up the wall, round the bend, and totally nuts.  Boredom, lack of routine and I imagine the school structure she is used to, have affected her more than ever during this holiday.  She hasn't been easy.  Apart from behaviour therapy which I feel she needs, I'll be speaking to the professionals about a further diagnosis of ADHD.  It's on my mind.  I might be wrong, I hope I am, but I have to make sure.  Of course the other diagnosis would be Aspergers Syndrome, which is a disorder affecting those on the autistic spectrum of a high functioning capacity.  I don't know enough about it at this stage but I won't settle until I know I have done everything to help her.  And of course my sanity.

Forever Young

I cannot believe I allowed World Autism Day to pass me by on Friday 2nd April.  I had every intention to blog about Amy, as I have done on this special day every year.  But lambing and family got in the way and before I knew it, Monday morning crept up and poked me in the eye.  I've had my mum and her partner here since last Thursday which has meant my commitment to blogging has had to take a back seat.  Lambing at midnight hasn't helped either.  I have taken a few videos of various events in the night shed but the lighting is so bad that I'm very reluctant to show them.  However, if you want to see what the shed looks like at night and a little of the job I do then feel free to have a look.



Amy's been very hyper this past week; I'd like to put it down to the chocolate but as I'm monitoring it and really can't say she's had it in excess, I think it could be part of her age! We had a huge telling off session yesterday which seemed to follow a bout of rude behaviour and obnoxious cheek. Trying to differentiate between autism and age has always been a problem but is now becoming easier due to the fact that Amy is indeed growing up. She was 7 years old when I first started blogging about her, and her issues were somewhat different to the ones she has now, even though in some respects, they were similar in so far as the routine and social difficulties were still an area of which I had to make sense of. Three years on and she's still that 7 year old, the one who is still a 5 year old, the one who will always be autistic and always be loved unconditionally.

Memories

As I look out of my office window I see the beautiful blue sky that I thought had disappeared behind a wall of grey clouds.  I've even put my washing out which has been a rarity for some time.  To be honest, life is none stop at the moment and all I can think about is how many hours sleep I will get in my warm, cosy, inviting bed, which I don't spend enough time in.  The last couple of nights have been total bedlum in the night shed, pregnant ewes making me work for my money whilst they puff and pant and give birth to their cute babies.  I even got annoyed at the cat this morning for being curled up on my bed and enjoying the freedom of being a feline.

I have recently become hooked on the hit tv series, Gavin & Stacey, having only just discovered its brilliance.  So many wonderful actors, Alison Steadman in particular.  It's become my quick half hour in front of the telly entertainment in between being with the ewes and having a break.  I guess I'll always remember this years lambing whenever I watch that program; funny how things can trigger off a memory.  How about you; do you have any television programs or films which remind you of a particular time in your life?