Ring My Bell

I know I'm a one off, but do you ever find yourself sat on the loo whilst deep in thought?  There I was, you know, and I suddenly started thinking about getting a door bell fitted.  We have a knocker on the back door, which is the main door people use, but there's nothing on the front door.  You have to wrap your knuckles on it and hope someone hears.  If we got a door bell then it could be connected through the house, giving me time to peep out of the window to see if I want to answer it, then dive behind the curtain if I don't.  When I first moved to the farm there was the crappiest door bell fitted to the back door, it really was a waste of time and more often than not we found that visitors had been standing pressing on the button, wondering why we didn't bother to answer.  You won't believe the amount of people who didn't think to knock.

It made me recollect when I was a young teenager and my dad got one of those mad door bells that plays different tunes.  Were they naff or were they naff?!  I still can't believe to this day that my dad brought one home, and fixed it onto our front door.  Very 1980's don't you think.  But I wouldn't get one of those if they're still around, I'd get a "ding dong" type one.  On the other hand I quite fancy one of those big lion-head-style knockers.  Decisions, decisions, the agony of choice.  Are you a bell, or a knocker, perhaps you might be both, maybe neither; then again, you might not give a shit.

Freddy

You may have noticed a new picture with link that I have added to my side bar, promoting a new children's book of which I recently self-published, the front cover having been designed by Amy.  Freddy The Brave is a story about an eight year old boy who is terrified of swimming.  However, whilst on holiday with his parents, he is befriended by a young man called Peter who works at the hotel.  Peter offers to help Freddy learn to swim of which eventually Freddy agrees to.  It is a story I wrote a few years ago when I used to help a little boy in Amy's class learn how to swim.  A story, I could say, has been inspired by him.

This is the second children's book I have published with Lulu, an online self-publishing company, perhaps also known as a vanity publisher.  It took the best part of a day to get the publishing done, including an ISBN number to enable the book for sale on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble and elsewhere of which I haven't learnt where yet.  But even though some people don't agree with self-publishing I thought I'd give it a go.  Lulu have made a lovely job of Freddy The Brave and it's currently being marketed at £5.73 which I think is reasonable.  I am however, aiming to find an agent to help publish my paranormal novel as I just feel this would be the better way to go for this particular genre; it may need marketing in a more professional way than the one I would be able to do.  But for now, if you're interested in a copy of Freddy The Brave, you can buy it here.

Furious; Women's Rights

You will either agree or disagree with me on this post but I feel so strongly about it that I had to bite the bullet and air my views.  Having read an article this week in my local paper concerning breast feeding I was outraged at the arrogance of the reporter.  Not to mention her contradiction in terms.  When Amy was born I never even contemplated breast feeding her; SMA powdered milk did the job and a good job it did too.  But Ms Davies reckons breast feeding "should not" be a choice.  In other words, it should be compulsory and every new mum should be "made" to feed her baby in this way.  And then she goes on to mention the Equality Act which was passed in April which surely allows women more liberation and choices.  A little contradictory, I thought.  And then she tells us "Breast milk is the best thing for our children"; My daughter did absolutely fine on formula, thank you very much; adding, "it's benefits are many, they have less gastroenteritis, chest, ear and urinary infections, childhood diabetes, asthma, eczema, and obesity (of course, I thought) than babies who are formula fed". 

She continued, "I wanted to give my child the best start in life".  SO DID I.  So did all the millions of other parents who are actually unable to breast feed, or who, get this, choose not to.  I'm surprised Ms Davies doesn't say anything about autism and that breast milk will prevent it.  I have read a lot about breast feeding recently, a lot of very useful, informative and helpful articles.  This one I found ignorant, dictating and extremely unhelpful to new and vulnerable mothers who simply need support and encouragement when presented with their new born.  Ms Davies does talk about statistics, comparing the UK to various other countries, mentioning we are the worst country of breast feeding mothers, and it is still frowned upon in many public places when a mother feeds her baby.  This is, however, to be stopped due to the new Equality Act.  I was asked once by a midwife during my pregnancy if I intended to breast feed and I gave her a firm answer of No.  Nothing more was said.  When Amy was born I was given a small bottle of formula and it went from there.  Choices are there to be taken; shouldn't it be a woman's right to breast feed or bottle feed?  We don't live in the dark ages anymore, Ms Davies.

Bearing All

The sun shone and the clouds were few and far between.  I decided to be a bit daring and put a vest-type top on instead of the usual 't' shirt, one that meant I would be bearing bra straps and perhaps too much cleavage. 

Much to the Farmer's pleasure of course.  And then I thought I'd go one further and wear some three-quarter length trousers instead of my everyday look of jeans and boots.  Eventually I found some that fit me as they all seemed to have shrunk whilst in the drawer during the winter months.  As my legs get very little sunlight it was inevitable that they resembled two milk bottles, whereas my top half is brown.  My arms particularly have gone a nice colour these past few weeks as has a U shape on my chest, due to the 't' shirts I've been wearing.  So now I look like a toffee sundae.

I know so many people who say their legs take much longer to tan.  Personally, I'm not bothered about tanning my legs because I tend to just wear browning to make my torso look as if it does actually belong to my bottom bit.  And then there's the safety aspect; the thought of vanity cutting short a life makes me wonder how much a life is worth in the first place.  I could never go under the knife (unless for extreme medical reasons of course), nor could I suffer botox.  I've never waxed either, it sounds too painful, the old Bic does me.  I bit of colour doesn't hurt though, and as I'm lucky to have dark skin on my top half, I'll leave the cleavage where it is.

Feeling Broody, Me?

If you are a parent you will most probably agree that being one is the most rewarding thing in your life.  Before I had Amy I didn't think I wanted children.  It wasn't really a thought that entered my head and getting broody with a biological clock ticking just didn't happen to me.  When Amy was born I relied on my mum to help, and to be honest, she more or less took over for a while until I learnt how to change a nappy and heat up a bottle.  Motherhood for me didn't come easy.  After a few months I guess my mind decided enough was enough as a little maternal instinct starting to kick in, but I still wasn't confident in my approach to how a baby should be looked after.  It wasn't until she was about a year old that I finally realised motherhood isn't easy for anyone, even if they've had kids before and even if they're the most maternal mummy on the planet. 

Having another child just wasn't an option for me; it never has been if I'm truthful.  A thirty-six hour labour was the first thing to put me off followed by the uncertainty of handling the crying.  And when the diagnosis of autism came, that made me realise that I really couldn't handle looking after another child and therefore would concentrate my efforts on the child I adored.  Now that I'm forty I feel I can relax a little.  The pressure of not having anymore kids kind of dwindles the older you get; people stop saying things like, "will you have anymore," and add at the end, "do you think?"  A definite No has always been my answer. 

I feel as though I can look at babies now and coo over them, how beautiful a new born is with its tiny fingers and toes, its little murmur as it looks into your eyes, trying desperately to focus on something.  But what I'll never forget about having a newborn, is the way Amy lay in my arms, protected and loved, determined to drown me in gorgeousness whilst pulling at my heartstrings.  I know many women who have given birth in their 40's and I admire them completely.  I almost feel a little envious of them.  But birth for me was just the once; the midwife and the doctor who gawped at my bits for hours on end won't be getting a sequel.

Keeping Mum - Gallery (Breast Feeding at its best)

The Gallery for last week was "Motherhood", as always hosted by the lovely Tara Cain at Sticky Fingers.  A little late I know but I forgot to publish my post  was waiting in the wings with my picture.   I've thought of a caption for the following photograph but if you can think of one yourself, please leave it in the comments.

"Can't you try 'em on a bottle now?"

New Leaf

Get me; I'm going out for a meal with a friend on Thursday night, just to the local pub, but a girly night all the same.  She lives half in Manchester and half up here, about a mile from the farm.  I'm excited about it even though I know I'll be itching to get back home by 8pm.  I really enjoy her company, we seem to be on the same wavelength and it's something short of a miracle that she and her husband bought an old barn up the road, renovated it into their second home, originate from Manchester (like me), and popped up to the farm one day last summer to buy eggs.  We hit it off straight away and even though I don't see her much, when I do see her it's great to have a good girly chat.

And then, get me again, we're going to their house on Saturday night for a barbeque.  I feel like a party animal.  The Farmer was a little reluctant because he doesn't like barbie food too much but they promised to cremate it for him.  Amy will be in her element because they have a little dog, whether she will eat the barbie food is another thing.  But hey, this new socialite I'm becoming is willing to try anything.  Aren't you proud of me!

Don't Go Too Near

Had a delivery man call with a book.  He beeped his horn as he drew up in the drive which really wasn't necessary as the dogs always tell me immediately when someone has arrived at the house.  Apart from which, his van was so loud on our gravel driveway, I would have had to be out not to hear him.  I went to the back door and opened it, expecting the man to be stood there with my parcel, but he was still fumbling (I love that word) about in the back of his van for my package.  Aha, he found it, and brought it to me, asking me to sign his piece of paper.  "Have you got dogs?" he asked.  "Yes, four," I replied.  "Are they vicious?" he enquired, taking back the pen.  "Yes, very, especially when they hear a horn, and see a man in a van," I answered.   Good job he couldn't see them.

NB, Amy's posted a story on her blog, Amy's Short Stories, if you have time please take a look, she'll be ever so pleased xx

The Mirror Lies

I know it's like 'too-much-information' but the Farmer gets quite amorous at times.  Particularly if he's excited about something on the telly, or has had a good day's shoot.  He took Amy and me out for a meal on Saturday night, early enough that we would be back in time for the big kick off.  And then he wanted to watch Le Mans 24, one of his passions, especially as Audi were featured, his favourite cars.  Snatching a few minutes to fondle his wife and remind himself of those places within easy reach would have been on his mind I'm sure.  But distracted as he was, my body seemed to excite him just as much as an Audi sports car, which did excite me too, seeing as I recently looked in the mirror and saw a blob of chocolate ice cream staring back me.

I don't do diets.  I like my food too much, but I have started taking more exercise than I used to, like running up the stairs two at a time.  What I felt happy about was that my husband obviously still finds me irresistibly attractive and getting on with the job doesn't just mean donning a boiler suit and whistling for the dog.  I am twenty years younger than the Farmer, a huge age gap and one I think many people thought was madness.  But not for us; sometimes I wonder about our future, about possibly not growing old together, but then I remember how much I love him.  That means more than anything.  And when he stands before me with a King Size Mars Bar in his pocket, I know he's pleased to see me.

Mysteriously Missing

Poor Amy tripped over in her bedroom the other night and got a right shiner on her hip.  The commotion she made had me wondering if she had broken something and my little legs made an almost surreal dash to her bedroom, moving faster than I had known them to move in a long time.  Fortunately, she was fine, if not a little battered and bruised, but a chocolate mousse helped dry up the tears, as did one of mum's famous cuddles.  Whilst sat on the bed with her, realising I was missing the beginning of a program I'd been waiting to watch, the Farmer stood at the bottom of the stairs shouting, "Fox! Near the hen house!"  What he expected me to do about a fox near the hen house, whilst coaxing Amy in my pajamas at 9pm I really don't know.  Being a farmer's wife hasn't taken precedence over my telly, yet.

She managed to get out of PE the next day, telling me that her teacher had taken pity on her and thought it best she didn't partake in such rigorous activity.  Well okay, she didn't use those exact words, but it's what she meant.  However, the current crisis in the Jigsaw household this week has been that Amy's PE kit has mysteriously gone missing.  It's a big house with many rooms, but having turned each one upside down looking for quite a large rucksack packed with clothes and trainers, I didn't think it would be too difficult to find.  The only place it can be is at school.  It's quite strange really because she does actually need a new kit but the last time we went to town which was during the half term hols, she turned her nose up at everything I suggested.  There are another 3 years until the rebellious teenage years; what's going on?!  Please tell me your kids do or have done the same thing.  You can tell lies if they haven't, just to make me feel better....

On a serious note, it's Child Safety Week 21st-27th June.  As we know, most accidents happen in the home so let's be extra vigilant and help to prevent our children being hurt.  Sometimes it's a case of simply moving something out of the way of a distracted child.  For more information, here's a great website I found: Child Safety Week

Being Alone

I only ever wanted to fit in, to be like one of the gang instead of continuously feeling like the odd one out sat in the corner, unable to mix because of my lack of confidence issue.  Looking through the window was always a favourite past time, wondering if I would ever find the right words to impress.  But words never came, always one of those people who thought of the right thing to say when the moment had passed.  So I wrote down my thoughts instead, joined online communities, made friends and realised how important to me friendship really was.  I've never been sociable but as the years have progressed I have become less so, unable to mix in a crowd, shy of being with people I've never met, worried about attending a gathering for fear of not being liked.  It's a form of paranoia, and there are times I fight it with every piece of me that knows how to.

Online friendships have been a savour to me, they have opened doors I never knew existed.  But I still feel different.  I still feel like the one on the outside while the others enjoy their conversation on the inside.  My blog has, in the past three years, gone from strength to strength, and I have made so many friendships.  For me, it's a wonderful way of life because I can hide behind the monitor, occasionally showing you my face and even talking to you on a vlog, but still behind a camera rather than on the stage.  I'd love to have gone to Cyber Mummy in July but I haven't got the confidence to travel down to London, nor have I got the confidence to introduce myself to so many friends of whom I've never met.  Sometimes I think I need to talk to someone, in a more professional capacity, someone who may show me the way out of this dense fog I seem to have found myself fumbling about in.  For what, I really don't know.  What I do know is that even though I said I would never let it happen, my illness has robbed me of adventure, of the life I have lived and the independence I so enjoyed.

Pictures In My Mind

Last night I had a dream; I don't think I can remember every detail but it took me back to when I was in my late teens and played squash for the women's Lancashire team.  In those days I often played squash with a man I was secretly in love with.  I had loved him since being in my early teens which I know is young and we grown ups think, "kids don't know what love is at that age, blah de blah", but I did love him and continued to do so until I met my first husband aged 21. It must have been, oooh, let me think, definitely late 1980's, perhaps 1988 when he kissed me on New Year's Eve.  My mum and dad used to have fantastic parties at their house and invite the same people year after year.  He lived in the same road as we did, with his parents, and always came to the parties, always with his girlfriend.

This particular night I went upstairs to the bathroom only to find that upon my exit, he was standing at the bottom of the stairs with a piece of mistletoe, waiting for me.  Neither of us spoke, it didn't seem necessary, but after that we both knew that our casual games of squash would be over.  I had a boyfriend, but I was young and frivolous, enjoying those years of having no responsibilities and little commitment.  He was there, in my dream, as though time had been reversed and we were once more young and carefree.  Nothing seemed to matter apart from the feelings I had on that New Year's Eve.  But I knew it wasn't a dream.  I told him I was married with a child, I had a new life and was happier than I had ever been. I have skeletons in my cupboard, many of them, perhaps locked away in the depths of my mind, brought out to air when I'm swimming through the fields or running through invisible treacle.  It's easy to interpret a psychological pattern, perhaps when we're feeling low, thinking about the good old days and trying to dissect our thoughts.  My skeletons are few and far between these days; most of them have been dissolved with time but just occasionally my subconscious reminds me of the person I used to be.

Scent of Soap

Fortunately, my husband doesn't read my blog which is why I am today going to air his dirty washing in public.  Literally.  I'm not neat and tidy, nor am I a cleanliness freak, but I do change my underwear every day and I like to smell nice.  When I met my husband he must have been wearing some kind of body spray, L'eau de Sheep if I remember rightly, but over the years we have had numerous "discussions" about his lack of hygiene.  I do the washing a couple of times a week, usually when I have a full linen basket.  Recently I must have neglected to put a load of undies on the washing cycle because when I started sorting them out, not the nicest job in the world, I counted (I know, I need to get out more), ten pairs of my pants, or knickers, if you're a brought up northerner like me, and one, yes 1, pair of underpants belonging to my husband, the Farmer.  And this is a regular occurrence.

I kid you not.  I questioned him about this, wondering if by any chance he had been hiding the other nine pairs somewhere, like under the bed, but he shrugged his shoulders and admitted to having not changed his undies for ten days.  I had no idea I was married to Shrek.  I shall name him and shame him because I was utterly appalled.  And the fact that on the special occasions when he has a shower, he often puts the same pair of underpants and socks back on makes me wonder how long they were stuck to him before the days I used to do his washing.  It doesn't bear thinking about. 

Weekend Pictures

A few pictures taken during the last few days. Hope you enjoy them.

Amy, Sparky (brown) & Meggie

Yours Truly

Amy; she loves the camera

As does Bonnie

I'm the one with the shades on, in case you were wondering!

I love this close up of Amy and Meggie

The two orphaned lambs; they adore Amy

I have a touch of hay fever and am not feeling at my best.  Unfortunately, I am limited as to what medication I can take because a lot of it interferes with my anti-convulsant drugs.  However, will probably seek out some kind of natural remedy or similar as this happens every year!  A cuppa and a tasty chocolate bar occasionally help.

Scenic Love Affair

Most days when Amy is at school, I take the dogs into the fields to the far end of our land.  It is so peaceful there, just the sound of birds and the occasional train going by.  I sit down on the edge of the wheat field and admire the beauty around me, calling the odd dog back if she wanders too far.  It truly is an incredibly tranquil place.  The other day I took Amy for a walk to the very place, where we sat down in my favourite spot, drinking in the surrounding countryside and pointing out the various landmarks.  She was quite fascinated to learn that while she's at school I walk to this place and sit alone, calm and peacefully by myself.  She was glad I had the dogs with me so that I wouldn't feel lonely.

On Thursday we went into the field again, me, as usual, trying to keep up with her fast paced strides.  The dogs tend to potter in front, sniffing and fumbling about in the under-growth, turning back from time to time to make sure we're following.  But Amy's pace quickened and she began to jog into the wheat field, disappearing around the corner.  She can't go anywhere so I wasn't worried about her no longer being in sight but I did speed up a little, my motherly instinct kicking in I guess.  It was when I got to the corner of the field that my heart did one of those little flip-flops it so often does, when I fall in love with my beautiful daughter all over again.  There she was, sat in my chair of grass verge and tranquility, a version of exactly how I expected to see myself.  And now, whenever I go to my special place, it will have a whole new meaning to the word, beauty.

Snowy Gallery

The theme for this week's Gallery, hosted by Tara at Sticky Fingers, is "Still Life". The first thing I thought about was art class at school, but my pictures weren't a pretty sight, believe me. So I browsed through my stored photos and came up with this:

And this:

Takes you back, doesn't it.