My father

When I talked about a daddy shaped hole in our lives being filled over and needing to be bludgeoned open again I hadn’t meant my own daddy or expected the hole to be bludgeoned with such force.  Shortly after making such flippant comments my whole world turned upside down when I received a phone call from my mother in Derbyshire.  She cares deeply about everyone, wears her heart on her sleeve and has been known to call me in tears about someone I have never met and she knows only slightly being diagnosed with a terminal illness so when I had a calm phone call from her telling me that my father had been in a car accident I initially thought nothing too serious had happened.  Then I realised that the words she was saying didn’t stack up to the calm way in which they were delivered. 

Although she insisted I didn’t need to do anything and should wait for another phone call I immediately began checking the computer for flights to East Midlands, discovering to my distress that the last of the night had left five minutes before.  Fifteen minutes later, as I was poised to book one for the following morning we got another call to say that it was more serious, his heart had stopped for ten minutes and he was too weak to get a scan.  To my surprise my mother didn’t complain when I said we were coming right down and we rushed round the house bundling children into pyjamas and clothes into bags.  It was the worst journey of my life.  At best it is a five hour journey from Edinburgh to Derbyshire and every step of the way I was getting ever more tragic updates culminating with a phone call when we were in Newcastle to say that he had died from massive internal bleeding.  I had to call my brother who was equally helpless waiting in a departure lounge in New York and we both sobbed down the phone to each other, in contrast to my mother who, when I eventually reached her at the hospital, was still unbelievably stoical being supported by a close friend.  Three days on she still hasn’t cried.

I made the decision to go and see my father in his hospital bed and slightly wish I hadn’t.  Although his body was there his golfers tan was yellow and waxen, his twinkling blue eyes were closed and his permanent smile was replaced by an open mouth which only resembled his expression when he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV.  When I held his cold hand it didn’t feel like his but when I clutched his expansive chest it at least felt like the bear hug I gave him every time I left home.  None of us slept when we got home that night.  The sleeping children were transferred to bed and my mother, husband and I sat up drinking brandy and trying to make sense of the days events.  Eventually at about 3.30am mum announced she would need a hot water bottle if she were going to sleep in their bed without dad there to warm her and I offered to sleep beside her to keep her company.  I had never slept there before, as a child I was desperate to but was invariably frog marched back to my room so it was weird being in that situation at the age of 41. After no sleep the first night I completely passed out the second but by the third I couldn’t sleep and would wake from nightmares to realise that reality was even worse.  Having woken mum with my sobs I realised that it was probably better to get up and attend to all the admin which was buzzing round my head.

There is so much admin. Not only the funeral which involves the church, the crematorium, the undertakers and the hotel where we’re inviting people afterwards but in our case the police and the local paper who have been doorstepping us in the hope of a vicious comment about speeding or an emotional outburst about what an amazing man he was.  This morning after dealing with endless calls arranging the funeral I felt slightly more in control then collapsed when I read the shout line on the hoarding outside the newsagents announcing details of the horror death of a local man. 

I am not sure how I will cope with the next few days let alone the next few weeks but I know for certain that I wouldn’t have got this far without the tremendous support of friends, family and the husband I so cruelly maligned last week. I am very, very lucky to have him and I have never felt so close to my brother.  I’m so glad that we brought the kids with us.  They have brought light into our darkest hours, the four year old with her innocence of the situation and the seven year old with her sensitivity.  However the person who has given me the most support is ironically the person I am supposed to be supporting.  For the time being at least, my mother has taken complete control of the situation and is holding the family together.  My father would be proud, mum has slipped effortlessly into his role and is proving that she really is our rock.

Attack of the (temporarily) single mother

The novelty of being home alone with the kids while husband was skiing wore off after a few days.  Monday we had fun swimming and Tuesday was idyllic as I took the day off to go to One Spa, one of my favourite spas in the world.  Languishing in the numerous heat treatment rooms and floating in the outdoor hot tub overlooking the snow covered Pentland Hills  it was easy to believe I was in the Alps too.  However my relaxation was short lived when the 7 year old arrived back from Brownies at 8pm and I had to juggle doing her homework, bathing both children and preparing for a business trip to London which was going to involve our all leaving the house at 7am.  It’s at times like that that I am grateful for having such good friends living nearby.  I was able to throw the girls out of the taxi clutching their lunch boxes into the arms of a bleary eyed friend as I sped to the airport for a day of meetings.  I should have moved seamlessly from afternoon tea at the Mayfair Hotel with Nicholas Parsons to a reception at 10 Downing Street to celebrate World Book Day but tea over ran and imagining that I would have barely got through security at Downing Street before I had to leave I headed straight for the airport returning to Edinburgh at 8.30pm to collect my sleepy girls in pyjamas from the house of another friend.  I felt bad for missing the launch at no.10 but apparently the Prime Minister did too so I was in good company.

Thankfully the husbands absence didn’t mean I missed out on a weekend social life.  I had arranged to host book group and spent Friday preparing beef bourgignon, forgetting to factor in the tremendous amount of time it takes to cook.  I was forced to cook the kids sausages at the tepid temperature required for the casserole and astonishingly still managed to burn them. I then took them skating which meant I had to leave the beef in the oven for longer than recommended if on a lower heat, returning to find the bits of meat which had poked through the sauce looking rather black and parched.  Putting the kids in PJs in front of a DVD I set to dimming the lights and lighting candles to hide the evidence.  As the chosen book was God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy I tried to give the evening  an Indian theme with samosas, bhajis and pakora washed down with colonial G&Ts so by the time I presented the casserole with a flourish the blackened meat was overlooked and the party had well and truly commenced.  As one friend (a GP) left because she had surgery in the morning, another (who works for a charity) flew in from Kosovo and bypassing her husband languishing at home after a week alone came straight to join us until the early hours of the morning.Consequently by the time my own husband returned eager to tell us all about his ski trip we were exhausted and struggling to feign interest as he forced us to pore over the piste map and the aroma of his ski socks permeated the house.    The girls one wish when he returned was that we all shared the super wide ‘zip together’ bed so Saturday night found him with his nose pressed against the wall surrounded by a menagerie of fluffy toys, the girls sandwiched in the middle and me clinging to the edge of the mattress.  That was as good as it gets.  Sunday morning found the relaxed skier caught up in the maelstrom of family life as he went to a soft play party with one child while I went to Sunday School with the other.  Our paths crossed briefly at midday when we met for brunch at a friends with their three boys then diverged again as I took both girls to another party, from there to swimming and returned in time to settle in front of Dancing on Ice.   It was as if the daddy shaped hole in our lives had been filled over and for once it is him rather than me who has to work at getting back on the treadmill and bludgeoning a space for himself in the family unit.

Drowning on ice

While the rest of the country braved blizzards Edinburgh remained resolutely dreary but dig up the daffodils and lob a few leeks St David’s Day has brought with it blue skies and sunshine.  And a little ground frost, but who’s complaining when the world is once more in Technicolor?  I cycled into work for the first time in eons and the cycle path was filled with smiling dog walkers and babies in buggies. 

This week I’m a single mother having made the rash move of giving my husband a ski holiday for his Christmas present.  At the time it was to thank him having held the fort so much in the Autumn but as his departure loomed I began to regret my magnanimity.  I have been a ski widow for the last two weeks anyway. Every evening has seen him glued to the Winter Olympics and although the rest of us are fans we are not quite so snow obsessed. 

When we first met I knew what I was letting myself in for and tried to force myself to share his passion.  The first few ski trips were utter disasters.  A few weeks in beginners lessons were never going to get me to a level where we could enjoy skiing together so in a fairly dramatic move we went travelling for a year after getting married which concluded with a ski season in Courchevel.  I wouldn’t say I was a brilliant skier but I had no fear and could keep up with him which was enough until I saw a video of myself on the last day of the season and realised I had nothing like his style.  I am now an obsessive snowboarder.  I love it.  Really love it - apart from T bars which I hate having knocked my teeth out on one a few years ago – but since having our second child ski holidays abroad are exorbitant and Scottish ski areas are dominated by teeth destroying T bars.

Consequently I am at home juggling work and childcare while he is out in France skiing his heart out by day and drinking cold beers by night.  In the run up to his departure I was so jealous I had no qualms in abandoning him, firstly for the launch of Yo Sushi at Harvey Nichols and latterly impromptu drinks at a friends house but since he’s gone I have to say that it’s not that bad at all. The girls are quite excited at the prospect of a week alone with me and I am quite enjoying having ownership of the house, loading the dishwasher in the way I think makes most sense and filling the fridge according to whether things are for packed lunch or breakfast rather than whatever weird method he uses.

Saturday we were at a friends house for kids tea concluding with several glasses of wine and yesterday we were again at the ice rink returning to snuggle up by the fire in front of Dancing on Ice.  As a special treat I have let the girls sleep in our bed while their father is away, I had thought they would fall asleep long before the Dancing on Ice results at 9.30pm but they were horribly perky (possibly a result of the usually banned Irn Bru) and it was me begging them to be quiet as I put the  TV off and lights out.  Needless to say they weren’t quite so perky first thing this morning and tiredness inevitably led to grumpy arguments and the seven year old hitting her little sister twice before we got out of the door.  Brings a whole new meaning to ‘pinch, punch, first of the month’ …

The Staycation

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Half term was tough.  In order to have maximum time with the four year old in the summer immediately before she starts school we have made the decision to work through the half term and Easter holidays.  Consequently while everyone around us was going skiing, heading to the sun or visiting family and friends down south, we were stuck at home trying to enthuse the 7 year old about school holiday club and pulling the wool over the eyes of the 4 year old so that she didn’t realise the reason half her friends were at nursery.

The first weekend was OK.  Their cousin and friends stayed with us en route to Aviemore and we threw a Chinese New Year party for anyone who was still around.  On Tuesday, ever eager for a reason to throw a party, we celebrated pancake day but by Wednesday I was running out of enthusiasm, missing my friends and desperately scouring the internet for last minute deals which weren’t too far from Edinburgh but would give us all the change we craved.  My first thoughts of a two nighter in a B&B in the Highlands were dashed by the 7 year old who stipulated that she wanted to go to a hotel with a swimming pool.  A quick scan of Scotland the Best threw up the Old Course Hotel in St Andrews.  It had everything, luxury kids package, spa for mummy and golf for daddy (should he be able to play). My husband was just happy at the thought of not having to cook which he does every night at home.  A quick call to the hotel and amazingly we were in.  Leaving it late meant that we could well have missed out on a room at all but I banked on the idea that most people up for half term would be heading home by the weekend and our proximity was therefore an advantage.  Booking at the last minute also helped substantially in reducing the cost.

Having decided on one night away instead of two my challenge was to transform Friday into a fun day too.   My theory was if we packed the last three days with activities my daughter would return to school forgetting that she had spent much of the holiday there.  As big fans of the Winter Olympics we headed for the ice rink and I treated myself to a long promised pair of skates and, rather indulgently, a pair for the seven year old.  She’s been so anxious about activities recently that something we can do together seems like a good option and it paid off.  By the end of the session the four year old was confidently pulling me round the rink and the seven year old and I were laughing and joking as we attempted to skate on one leg and turn in circles looking nothing like Torvill and Dean.

As soon as we got home the promise of an adventure to the hotel in St Andrews was enough to get them bathed and in bed much earlier than usual.  The following morning we were up at the crack of dawn and after a brief trip to the car wash (another part of the days treats) we were in St Andrews by 10.30am with access to our amazing suite with a balcony overlooking the snow covered golf course and the sea.  The kids were in awe and loved being treated like little adults as they got their own registration cards then arrived in the room to find mini robes and slippers, a toy box, complimentary colouring in books, kites and Old Course teddies.  After a walk round the university town and lunch by the roaring fire at the Jiggers Inn we were dragged back to the hotel for the kids session in the pool – along with every other child in the hotel.  In a bid for sanctuary I tried to mount the stairs to the outdoor hot tub not reckoning with the four year old dashing up the stairs after me whereupon she tripped over her lovely white robe and slightly over sized slippers and bit her tongue on both sides.  Blood dripping from her mouth I carried her to the chill out area and tried to feed her ice cubes then had the inspired idea of taking her back to the room and letting her use the Jacuzzi in the room.   I had been poised to book an intriguing spa treatment described as ‘chromatherapy full-colour spectrum feature (which) takes you through a bathing rainbow’ then to my delight realised  we had a Jacuzzi in our bathroom offering much the same.  The children were captivated by it almost as much as the vast walk in shower, twice the size of our own (fairly large) one at home.  ‘Wow’ exclaimed the seven year old when she saw it, ‘it’s so much cleaner than ours’….Hmmm...

After eating for the rest of the time there, large meal in the extremely child friendly restaurant and an all you can eat breakfast buffet including haggis and black pudding in the rooftop restaurant the following morning, we walked it off in the winter sun on the beach then raced back to Edinburgh so that the seven year old could go to yet another birthday party.  We got there late giving me just enough time to dash home and wrap the present before picking her up, then it was off to our local pool to compensate for the missing the family swim session at the hotel on the second day where to our delight we were reunited with the first wave of friends to return from their half term holiday.  On our return showered, hair washed and ready for bed it was straight into pyjamas and curled up in front of Dancing on Ice.  For once sleep seemed enticing and they went to bed without complaints while I whispered to their dosing forms, reminding them what a fun filled holiday they had had.

Life in the duck pond

Last weekend the children had to endure a 12 hour round trip to Derbyshire to enable my husband and me to attend a reunion at the boarding school where we first met 25 years ago.  It was the first time we’ve been back to any form of reunion and what at first seemed a good idea became increasingly terrifying as the time approached.  Several fashion crises later we drove up the long drive to the imposing red brick building and spent the ensuing hours trying to see the face of the big haired 17 year olds we remembered in the visage of the dyed and straightened / grey and balding 40 year olds.

Most people had kids, some even had kids at the school, but we had so much to catch up on the conversation wasn’t so much about what we were doing now as the drama which had happened in the interim. Death and divorce were high on the agenda.  I noticed a worrying correlation between those who looked slim and divorce and have suggested to my husband that if he wants to lose a few pounds that could be the way forward.  The people who had aged best were definitely the outdoors types who live in the country and whose skin has a healthy glow.  There was a distinctly grey pallour on the London contingent.  I think we fell somewhere between the two.

On the long drive home we dropped into see an aged aunt in The Borders who was convinced that my seven year old was me and that I was married to my father.  It was partly my fault as I hadn’t visited for a year and had given no warning that I was coming but my daughter was clearly disturbed by the experience as to her mind it was only recently that we were visiting the same Aunt for a sleepover and discussing the merits of X Factor versus Strictly Come Dancing.

I was no sooner back in Edinburgh than I had to get the train back to London for a series of business meetings including the literary agent for Vernon Kay who was devouring the tabloids in order to fathom what his text friendly client had been up to. 

During one meeting at The Groucho, in which we all pride ourselves on being family friendly, I found myself hiding the fact that I was furiously texting, arranging emergency pick up for my daughter, while across the table another friend was silently suffering having learned that her latest adoption bid had been unsuccessful.  However understanding our colleagues it seems we always have to wear a mask, working parents remind me of ducks who appear to glide effortlessly across the water while furiously paddling beneath it.

It was almost worth going away when I returned to banners and bear hugs from the children who had been allowed to stay up late to welcome me home.  The following day, to the irritation of my boss, I left work early in order to pick them both up at 4pm and have some quality time before having to dash off for another extra curricular commitment, this time the Parent Council at school.  I am constantly torn between wanting to involve myself in school because I spend so little time at the school gate and spending time with the kids.  My heart says I should just stay with the kids, my head says that if I don’t join the committees no one else will and ironically it is true that it is mainly working parents who dominate the PTA and the Parent Council.  In the absence of a solution I think I may just campaign to have plate spinning registered as an Olympic sport.  I am sure that I could win a gold medal hands down.