Working Mums, At Home

Working from home is often difficult when having to juggle childcare into the equation.  Of course the childcare comes first but now that Amy is getting older it's a bit easier for me to get on with my own jobs which at the moment include concentration on the book.  I can't do much writing during school holidays because of her constant need for attention but this week she has been exceptionally good.  I just wish I didn't feel guilty.  And that gets me to thinking about parents, mums in particular because I'm one myself, of whom go out to work and have to rely on a childminder to look after their kids.  For some it's a case of grandparents, aunties, sisters etc, while for others it means shelling out hard earned cash so that mum can leave the house in the morning and return in time to run a bath.  I'm actually feeling quite glad I don't have that lifestyle, even when Amy's voice does carry through each room in the house and the television needs continuously turning down.

This week has seen Amy and me do things together; spending that quality time one needs to catch up with the good things in life.  But I have also been, on a few occasions, rather desperate to get on with my book having recently sent it away to an editor.  She emails her comments and suggestions to me, chapter by chapter, and she's worth her weight in gold.  I obviously want to get the book finished as soon as and guess I have been reminded of how difficult it is to work and be a mum at the same time.  I know so many of you out there, not least my friends from British Mummy Bloggers, who juggle the two successfully.  I only have one child; I guess if I had more, school holidays would be a no-work zone.  Amy likes to tell me about stuff, in one breath.  If she can see that I am busy it makes no difference; she still needs to tell me and I need to listen, whether it be reluctantly or not.

Puppy Pix

The "puppies" are now sixteen months old and fully grown.  Bonnie is doing really well with the Farmer when he takes her to check the stock and Meggie is enjoying life as a pet; going out with the other dogs is of course something she loves to do, but since her accident with the quad bike during the summer holidays I guess I have become over-protective.  I was looking at some photographs the other day, taking me back to the early days when they were tiny, totally dependable on both Sparky and us. We've been thinking about putting Bonnie into pup next year as she's growing into a fine working collie but I keep promising that I won't be tempted to keep another pup, with my fingers crossed behind my back of course!  I mean, come on, who could resist these cuties?

This little guy was everyone's favourite; we called him, Ali, and he is now an excellent working sheep dog.

This is Molly; she went to my friends and has been trained to walk with their horses. 

This is my Meggie. Enough said.

Footnote: these pictures are dedicated to a beautiful little girl, who's mummy, Sally, you can find here.

Old Barns

We drove past a sweet bungalow the other day with an Estate Agent's sign displayed in the front garden.  The property, even though relatively small, had a beautiful outlook, just a few yards from the beach and looking towards Bamburgh Castle.  I knew it would be expensive, its position dictated that, but what really frustrates me is the unrealistic price the agents put on it, lessening any chances of first time buyers or pensioners making an offer.  The area has become over-run with holiday homes; good for tourism but not so good for young people wanting to fly the nest.  Renting a house is always an option of course but it's not the same as having your own place, maybe one day making a profit on re-sale.  And this has reflected deeply on my good friends who own a property nearby.  They currently live in the north west but a couple of years ago bought a run down barn just up the road and renovated it to a very high standard.  It has several out-buildings which they also intend to renovate and connect to the main house making the property extremely desirable.  But they've hit a snag.

After applying for planning permission, costing an absolute fortune, the local parish council has refused.  Turned it down for several reasons, none of which make sense, but what does make sense not only to me but to many people around is that my friends are most likely classed as "outsiders".  Their plans to move into the property on a permanent basis once it's completed seem to have fallen on deaf ears and it begs the question whether them being outsiders has been the real reason for refusing the application.  I hope the council change their minds, they should realise that my friends will be appealing.  But why, in such a beautiful area as this is, should a couple of decent people be refused their dream.  It's a disgrace in my opinion.  Even if they weren't my friends I would still feel the same.  They have made a run down old barn into a beautiful family home and surely their money is as good as anybody's.

Competitive Blogging

Having been a blogger for a few years now I have spent many hours scouring the Internet and finding new and interesting blogs to read, most of which I am honoured to follow, whilst in some cases happy to stay well clear.  Of course we can't all be liked by every one in the blogging world, that wouldn't be real life, but to have our blog read and appreciated is probably one of the most rewarding aspects of blogging.  I have always written my blog in view of aiming it at an audience, my take on an existence from my own point of view, keeping people up to date with the trials and tribulations of disability, farming and writing, to name but a few subjects.  During the past few years I have also come across many blogs which thrive on competition, not in a "read me or else" kind of way, but a sort of "easy come easy go" capacity, you know, if-you-like-me-then-come-back-and-I'll-buy-you-a-pint; but-if-you-don't-then-no-offence-taken-and-I'll-see-you-around.  As you know I take blogging seriously, not least because I first created my blog with the wishful thoughts of becoming known in the writing circles, getting my name out there and hoping that one day I would land on my feet and be offered that million dollar contract.  Okay, so I know that's rather unrealistic but hey, we all need a goal in life.

It seems to have been over the last twelve months or less that I am beginning to notice how immense blogging has become.  There are simply millions of well crafted, well written posts every day, all created by ordinary people like you and me, and all in this ever increasing competitive world.  To some of the people I follow, their blog is a credit to them; their daily journals are meticulously planned in order for stats to rise and ranks to be blown away, but for others, the art of blogging is simple; a discovery of who they are.  Writing for me has always been important. After all, my current ambition is to have my book on the shelves and read by as many people as possible.  But it's also made me realise that I can achieve something, perhaps something wonderful.  I admit to being a competitive blogger because I love to blog.  My hobby is to read your posts and digest who you are, whilst my goal is to follow and support you. I went through a phase earlier on this year when the competition of blogging became too much for me; my illness dictated a life change, but I decided to follow my heart.  And even if I don't make it in the world of published authors, if my ambition isn't realised, I know I still have my blog and more importantly, I know I still have you.

Muddy Paws

Amy and I enjoyed a lovely weekend doing very little.  Those are by far my favourite weekends, even though I enjoy having something to do it is always the spontaneous walks around the farm that brighten my day.  Sparky somehow managed to glue her tail together with sticky-bobs and it took quite some time to cut them out.  Unfortunately, we had to use the scissors and the poor dog looks like she's had a trip to the collie parlour.  However, she's free of them now and is once more able to wag her tail.  Here are some pictures of our walk:

You may remember one of our pet lambs who was born at the end of March this year, Amy called her Frame.  Her mummy died soon after the birth which meant we had to hand-rear Frame.  Here she is a week old.

And here she is pottering about in the farm yard aged almost 7 months. 

Meggie bringing the ball back, with the other three hopefuls.

Bonnie made us laugh when she lay down in this extremely muddy field.  

Proud mistress, and Bonnie

Muddy Paws!

Cocktail

I was recently privy to some fascinating information concerning men vs women in the kitchen.  The reason why I found it fascinating was because my husband, the take-me-as-you-find-me, unhygienic, dirt infested Farmer, could never be compared to anyone in a domestic situation simply due to the fact that he doesn't know one end of the Aga from the other.  He doesn't cook.  I used to think it was because of his chauvinistic view of it being beneath him, woman's work and all that jazz, but over the years I've learnt that he was never allowed to cook because it just wasn't his place to do it.  A way of life I have had to adjust to, and on occasion it hasn't been easy.  Should I have been a Nigella II, I probably wouldn't have minded so much, but as I am to cooking what Anne Widdecombe is to dancing, I just have to do my best and hope I don't unintentionally poison my family.

The information states that men are quite adventurous in the kitchen when it comes to cooking; they like to experiment more with alternative cuisine whereas women prefer to just get on with the job, feed the family and know there are full tummies all round.  The jaw-dropping effect came when I read that many men like to strip off in the kitchen and cook tackle out.  Naked Chef, I guess one could say.  How annoying for the other half if she were to walk in to see the bottom of a fruit basket before the actual fruit had been presented.  But when it comes to hygiene, could this be something we should encourage?!  And as the email also suggested that more men admit to having a quickie in the kitchen, perhaps we should go back to the days when my husband was raised.  Personally, I prefer to cook fully clothed, and I have no intention of rushing out to buy a pinny for the Farmer.  And just as a matter of interest, not that I'm nosy or anything, do you prefer to keep the spice in the sauce, or is a little nookie and cookie something you would admit to, too? Answers on a postcard please.  Or in the comments.

Ignorance Is Not Bliss

The emotions we experience throughout our life are often because of something that has happened, for example, a birth or a death, perhaps a milestone or a financial windfall.  But since Amy was diagnosed with autism seven years ago I have experienced many emotions, some due to the ignorance of people around us who make no effort to understand a disability.  This is often because that person has never come into contact with a disabled person, or indeed a person who is different from themselves.  It doesn't matter where we go we are always just a stone's throw away from someone who thinks they have a right to judge.  It is of course human nature to talk about someone and allow our thoughts to stray from those worthy of a mention, but when it comes to people judging my offspring, that is when I really make a stand and show a side of me that ignorant people assume does not exist.  Even though our recent visit to Scotland was relaxing and beautiful, it also highlighted the fact that Amy offers a somewhat alternative approach to our typical way of life.  I have never said she is different because she is Amy.  To me, she is my daughter and I love her more than anything in the world, no matter what she looks like, how she behaves or how incredible she is; I love her unconditionally.

For some people however, I would never wish a disabled child upon for fear of that child being neglected, unloved and most probably made to feel 'different'.  We went in the swimming pool on two occasions; we enjoyed our swim and had fun in the water but it was becoming obvious after about fifteen minutes of being in the pool that we were being carefully watched, observed by a burly female who has obviously never seen a disabled child in a swimming pool before.  Having fun.  I had to tell Amy a few times not to throw her goggles in case she hit another child with them, but she always made sure no one was around her when she played a game of "retrieving goggles from the bottom of the pool".  But still she was watched.  It was clear that most of the people in the pool were members of the private health club belonging to the hotel and they obviously thought they owned the place.  One woman swam with a full mask of makeup on including bright red lipstick.  It was only when Amy almost clobbered her with a float that she actually got her hair wet, and I had to heavily contain myself from laughing out loud. 

She was excited, she was on holiday.  She was enjoying herself, being grown up in the restaurant, using her manners, helping herself to apple juice at breakfast.  I was so proud of her.  I know her better than anyone and I knew there were times that I wished she'd have been a little calmer, especially in the company of others; but it wasn't until that second time in the pool when I realised that it was the 'other people' who were different, and not my Amy.  Their attitude towards her was of ignorance and disbelief, even though some of them had younger children of their own who were loud, brash and splashing about all over the place.  But of course their children don't have a disability.  So they must be perfect.  Well I have news for you ignorant people in the swimming pool, and indeed the ignorant ones who choose to judge; "No child is perfect, but they are all special."

Relaxed in Dunkeld

We managed to get away for a few days to our favourite holiday destination, Dunkeld in the Scottish Highlands.  We've been several times now and always stay at the same hotel which is situated beautifully on the bank of the River Tay.  The hotel itself is a graceful edifice, whitewashed and delightfully elegant, retaining almost all its original features; a grand central staircase with energy bursting from each spindle, pictures of ancient Highland scenery adorning each wall, leather sofas and high-backed armchairs for all to rest in comfort.  It's one of those places one feels reluctant to leave due to an atmosphere of welcoming arms.  The grounds, stunning, treelined and magically fascinating, embrace you with their autumn colour, enabling you to appreciate the magnificence of nature at its purest. 

The hotels boasts a leisure complex, a Living Well Health Club of which there are many around the UK. Amy and I used the swimming pool a couple of times whilst the Farmer enjoyed fishing on the Tay.  We also visited various areas within the Cairngorms National Park, an incredible array of mountainous retreats, home to wild roaming deer, grouse in abundance.  We even spotted a Golden Eagle as it flew above us.  I have a few photographs below to give you an idea of the beauty we have encountered these last few days.  I'll tell you about the ignorance I encountered in my next post.

Hilton Dunkeld

A kind gentleman offered to take this of Amy and me outside the hotel

Farmer fishing on the River Tay

The beautiful River Tay with waiting fishing boats

Dunkeld Cathedral, most of it in ruins

Stunning scenery along the river

A view of the River Tay from Dunkeld bridge

Amy painted a pumpkin at a quaint pottery studio, "Going Pottie" in Dunkeld

A red grouse camouflaged on the mountainside (we were very lucky to get this shot!)

Seeds of New Beginnings

The field hiding behind this hedge will be sown with spring barley seeds, ready to be cut in August next year.  The Farmer has so far only managed to sow one field which contains oil seed rape and which is fortunately growing quite well, probably due to the enormous amount of rain we have had.  But along with this barley field above, there are four other fields having already been ploughed waiting to be flattened down with the power harrow, sown then rolled, a process which presses the seeds into the ground.  It's a long task and always weather dependant but once it's done there will be a couple of months where the Farmer can relax and look forward to his favourite hobby of game shooting.  Not every one's cup of tea I know, but for the Farmer it's a wonderful opportunity to remain outdoors and do something he thoroughly enjoys.  He's done it since being a young boy and at age 17 he won his first trophy.  The house is littered with medals, shields and trophies.  However, at age 60 he tends to stick more to the sport rather than the competition.

This time of year is usually a very rewarding time for a Farmer.  It marks the end of harvest and the beginning of a new arable farming calendar.  The above field of spring barley will be sown, ideally, in March, depending on the weather of course.  And as March brings us the start of new life within the sheep, you can imagine the race he is up against to get every thing done on time.  But I seldom hear him complain.  He sits down at the kitchen table, thoughts thrown around his mind as he wonders what the following year will bring.  And even though his relationship with his dad was particularly strained and I wouldn't blame him for being as cantankerous as his old man, he just sips his tea and enjoys the way of life he has created for himself; a way to show the world that there are always new beginnings, no matter how difficult the end.

Autumn Robin

As I look out of my window I see that the leaves are turning a deep shade of red, a warm voice emitting as they announce the onset of autumn.  I used to love autumn; the changes seemed to mark a new beginning, the end of a year within arm's reach and the reality that surrounded my excitement of Christmas.  I haven't really got a favourite season now.  Weather wise, our seasons seem to merge into one, particularly in the north, even though our winter months do often bring conditions which take us back to a war time existence.

This morning I saw a robin; it flew gently onto Amy's climbing frame and bowed its head in polite gesture.  I stood at the window watching its beautiful colours glisten in the struggling morning sun until it swiftly flew away, landing a stone's throw away from the garden hedge.  I wonder if it thinks our seasons are changing; perhaps it questions the environment in which it potters.  We have a bird table which attracts many different species, their excitement at the food we leave being our reward.  But each time I see a little robin at that table I always see its beauty; a little mystery in its appearance as my thoughts wander through the seasons, resting on the tranquility of autumn.

Bullies Out

When I was a little girl I was bullied.  Looking back on those times I realise now, as a grown up, how horrific it really was and how, looking at it from another person's point of view, it could have traumatised me for a long time to come.  The bullying was by two girls in my class; we were under eleven because I'm going back to my primary school of which I left aged eleven.  I was genuinely scared of these two girls even though they were smaller in size to me.  It was always the confrontation and the way they spoke to me, never the threat of violence of which I don't recall any taking place.  Both girls were in my Brownie pack too and this made attending Brownies often quite difficult for me.  I remember going on a Brownie pack holiday when we were about seven years old, maybe eight, and I was put in the same dormitory as them.  It was a small room with two sets of bunk beds.  They had one set and I had the bottom bunk of the other, another Brownie on the top bunk.  During this three day holiday, which felt like a fortnight, they hid my teddy, emptied the contents of my hold all onto the floor and, ridiculously, dropped a croquet potato into my glass of water, and I was too scared to tell the leader.  It all sounds pathetic now, but then it was a pretty awful time.  I spent the last night sleeping in the same dorm as the leaders because they realised how upset I was, even though I hadn't grassed up the little shits that had been bullying me.

Thirty-odd years later I still dream about these two girls.  They are older in my dreams, my age, with children of their own.  I don't know them now of course, nor would I want to, but I sure hope their children, if they are indeed a parent, will never be bullied.  Perhaps that is why I am so protective towards Amy.  To her, if she plays with someone during break time at school, then that person is her new best friend.  But it doesn't take much for her to come home in tears telling me about someone who has been mean to her and said something that has obviously sounded offensive.  I know that Amy is particularly well looked after at school and I have absolutely no issues there whatsoever, but I do often wonder if bullying even at such as young an age as seven or eight, does indeed have an effect on that person for the rest of their life.  Still having thoughts about those two girls has obviously left me with scars, faded ones perhaps, but ones of which I wish didn't exist.

Homework; Who Needs It.

Homework has never been an easy task for Amy.  When she started middle school it was decided she wouldn't do any, apart from reading her library book from time to time.  I thought this was a fair decision and so I went along with it.  Recently however, she has been bringing home a few pieces of work, nothing too brain-taxing but just enough to keep her mind occupied for half an hour or so.  She has completed it on time and been rewarded from the school's reward system in order to encourage her to do more in the future.  I usually insist that she does the homework as soon as she gets home from school because otherwise, as I would imagine is the case with most children whether having special needs or not, her academic concentration wanes and home entertainment takes over, not to mention a fascination with the contents of the fridge.

I had a chat with her teacher on Friday who very kindly mentioned that it wasn't particularly important if Amy didn't complete her exercises but I knew, having received the phone call, that it should be encouraged, especially now that Amy is a few months from turning eleven and just a few years away from either high school or boarding school.  She came home on Friday rather tired and I felt that expecting her to sit down and concentrate on additional tasks would have been a mistake on my part.  So I gave her the option; either Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon.  It didn't take her long to reach her decision.

On Sunday afternoon we sat down to read the library book.  She read just two pages, in her head, which incidentally is an achievement in itself as she usually reads out loud, then asked me what else she should do.  The options, outlined in the task, were far too many for a child who struggles to make choices; fifteen options to be precise.  She chose to draw a picture of the main character in the book but then things started going pear shaped when she got extremely upset about her "self-confessed-inability" to draw anything at all because after all, it was weekend and doing homework just didn't feel right.  "I usually do it after school," she told me.  Autism comes with its trials and its rewards; it also comes with the constant need for routines and continuity, but at least she agreed with me when I insisted that in future she does all homework as soon as she gets home, before she raids the fridge, plays with the dogs or even puts the television on. 

Walking the Tightrope

You know me, I am inundated with suspicious beliefs, some silly, some not so.  But one I have always believed in is not putting new shoes on the table.  Something my dad used to say and something I took as a suspicion I should take notice of.  So what did the Farmer do this week?  You guessed it; he put my newly delivered shoes on the kitchen table and left me in a state of panic!  I found myself frantically thinking about all the things that could go wrong just because of finding a new pair of foot wear on a surface I had sworn never to put a new pair of foot wear.  Ridiculous isn't it.  I curse myself, I really do, and I wish so often that I wasn't as superstitious as I am but I've always been the same.  Magpies, crossing fingers, touching wood, kissing my ring. Thats my wedding ring for those amongst you who are currently picking themselves up off the floor. What superstitions do you have, do tell...

The good news I got this week was about my second application for carer's allowance.  You may remember that I had to pay back £1,300 after they decided I wasn't entitled to it after all?  Well following a meeting in July with my accountant, it turned out that he strongly believed I had a case to appeal and have the CA's office reconsider their "final decision".  So I filled out another application form and submitted it, online.  I received a phone call asking about my share in the farm business to which I stupidly gave the wrong answer, and they then rubbed their hands together before sending me a letter to say my application had been refused.  My accountant and I were astonished to say the least and we forced them to reconsider.  Of which they did, after phoning my accountant and speaking directly to him, and they have now upturned their original decision and granted me carer's allowance.  Earning, on paper, £24 below the CA cut off point, I knew and the accountant knew and I am sure they did, that I was entitled to receive it which meant they didn't have a leg to stand on.  Makes a change from it being the other way round, which to those of you who are innocently receiving benefits already know, is usually the case.