Sleepless in Suburbia
A true story of how one working mother (and desperate housewife) is turning sleep deprivation to her advantage in suburban Edinburgh.
Benches, broken noses and birthdays
Bench in memory of my father at the Islay Golf Club
Our annual family pilgrimage to the Island of Islay was very different this year. It is the one time of year we traditionally spend two weeks in close proximity to my parents and my brother and family visit from overseas. This year my brother was unable to come as his wife was due to give birth in mid August and there was obviously a gaping hole left by the recent death of my father. I can normally feel the stress of everyday life leaving me as the Balamory-style ferry reaches the island but this year was marred by constant anxiety regarding where the bench in his memory would go, when we would be able to bury his ashes and how my mother would cope in a cottage on her own.
As musical beds is my childrens favourite past-time they were happy to increase their reach to include the spare beds at my mothers cottage and we took it in turns to have sleepovers there. The Golf Club were extraordinarily sensitive and positioned the bench within easy access of my mothers cottage with views towards the first five holes of the golf course, the sea and the farmhouse where he first met my mother. My sister-in-law was also extraordinarily compassionate, squeezing out the baby two weeks early which gave us a much needed distraction and which will ensure that my new nephew always celebrates his birthday with us in Islay, the day before my older daughter who is also a ‘Cross Week’ baby.
The Kildalton Cross golf competition draws people from all over the world and is the reason my father visited Islay in the first place. This year would have been 50 years since he had won the much coveted silver celtic cross. My husband has no interest in golf whatsoever so we opt to stay in a cottage on the beach where he reverts to hunter gatherer mode, foraging for wood by day and burning it by night, dram in hand. As a result he knows the bays, cliffs and waterfalls of the imposing hill behind our cottage almost as well as my uncle who has farmed it for the last 65 years and was able to leap into action when we heard cries for help as we were about to go to bed one night. Donning head torch he and a friend ran into the darkness where they rescued two 17 year old girls who had found themselves completely lost when the sun set and there was no reassuring sodium glow to guide them home. Meantime, left at our cottage with the children, I ran in to get my phone lest they need to contact me from the hill, not realising that the rescue party had pulled the plate glass door closed as they left. There was a resounding crunch and I reeled backwards, realising as the days progressed and my nose swelled to gargantuan proportions that I had broken it. It’s ironic that the foolish campers who had got lost and their brave rescuers returned without a scratch and I was the only one who sustained an injury.
Thankfully with the help of arnica and ibuprofen it subsided so my daughters 8th birthday photographs are not marred by images of a disfigured mother. As ever she had her first celebrations on Islay with what is now our traditional barbecue on the beach. Some campers had also brought paper lanterns to light and send up into the night sky which I cunningly pretended to have arranged specially for her. It would have been a lot cheaper and more impressive than her actual party on our return which was a limo for 8 children and the opportunity to record a four track CD in a recording studio. I had only booked the limo aspect to save parents crossing the city and negotiating the industrial wastelands in search of the studio but as it transpired the limo was half an hour late, failed to set up the karaoke for the children to play on the way there and then got lost with the result that even I, with my appalling sense of direction, found it before them and had ten minutes of utter terror wondering where the driver had got to on his own with 8 young girls. Thankfully, apart from mild travel sickness, the children didn’t realise that anything was amiss and were unaware that the actual party organiser had to leave early. The owner of the studio gamely stayed on and allowed the children to record their ear- splitting renditions of the Black Eyed Peas, Mamma Mia, Katy Perry and High School Musical which they proudly took home with them instead of party bags. The delay meant that the limo got the kids home so late we only had ten minutes to feed them tea and do birthday cake before parents arrived for pick up at which point I justifiably withheld some cash from the envelope I handed over to the driver and said I would be speaking to the owner of the company. He went bananas, cursing me, threatening me and aggressively squaring up. The children were horrified and the talk of the party then moved from the fun they had had to the scary driver who shouted at us. The limo company still haven’t been in touch but the recording studio who weren’t even at fault were hugely apologetic that we didn’t get the whole experience we had been promised and have promised us a repeat visit free of charge either for kids or their mothers. I know exactly which frustrated X Factor contestants will be taking up that particular offer, they’re not 8 years old and they certainly won’t be taking a limo.
Summer, summer, summer, summer, summer, summer, summer, summer...
Swimming for Dummies
‘Summer, summer, summer, summer, summer, summer…’ The beginning of High School Musical 2 encapsulates perfectly the excitement of impending school holidays. Six weeks juggling childcare brings with it its own problems but the anticipation of the holidays is tangible and parents who normally only grunt each other at the school gate were all smiles sharing plans for the weeks stretching ahead.
We had booked flights to Malaga for the first week of the holidays and having cheered Spain on to semi-final and eventual world cup glory were in the privileged position of watching people dancing on the roofs of their cars, waving flags, letting off firecrackers and jumping in fountains as the celebrations commenced. I made the rash move of jumping into a fountain myself wearing a DVF dry clean only dress which apparently didn’t translate as I pleaded with marauding Spaniards to stop dousing me with water. It was a wonderful, wonderful experience and one which I hope the children will remember forever, not least because as the final whistle went we realised that the spot where they had been playing on the beach was also a site for an impromptu firework display going off over their heads reminiscent of war torn Iraq.
It was the third time we had been to Nerja and the second we had stayed in the beautiful white washed villas of Capistrano. The children dashed into our apartment overlooking the pool as if they had arrived home and spent the next week happily sharing their time between the various pools and eating their bodyweight in ice lollies. It is a popular spot. We had known that various friends were going to be there at the same time but on the flight over bumped into an NCT friend who I hadn’t seen for some time. Like us they had opted not to be fleeced by Ryan Air into paying for the privilege of sitting together but it backfired horribly as, unlike us, they hadn’t elbowed their way to the front of the queue and she found herself a single mother, unable to sit beside her 6 and 7 year old on the plane. Thankfully we had a spare seat so my oldest was delighted to be joined by a friend and someone else kindly gave up their seat enabling my friend to sit across the aisle from her young son. It was only at the airport that I learned that she and her husband were getting divorced and her daughter blithely filled us in on the silver lining to be gleaned from the situation – she had been given a phone and was getting a DS and a puppy. She seemed remarkably cheerful in the circumstances. My best friend also separated from her husband this year but her kids are older and it somehow seems more shocking when it is someone with kids the same age.
I barely have the time to think about who I am married to, let alone the state of our relationship. Holidays used to be a time when we sat on the balcony, sinking a bottle of Rioja and catching up on the previous 12 months. Now that the children are old enough to stay up late they are more likely to be with us on the balcony or at a restaurant on the beach and there are no tete a tetes by the pool as we take it in turns to be on lifeguard duty. Both have shed armbands and spend the majority of the time under water although it is never entirely clear whether it is intentional or not, resulting in a few Baywatch moments as I plunge into the pool sunglasses still on head, book still in hand. Surprisingly it was the older child and not the younger one who got into the most scrapes this time. Day Two was marred by her first ever sunburn, the result of her mother using the Factor 50 on herself rather than the kids who were permanently in the pool. Day Four was marred by her falling from the climbing frame on the beach leaving us terrified that she had damaged her back and broken her arm and Day Six found me trailing the supermarkets and (closed) chemists of Nerja in search of the Spanish equivalent of Calpol after a sleepless night with her screaming in pain with earache. I failed in my mission but eventually swapped a bottle of wine for a bottle of nurofen with a fellow holiday maker and drugged and happy our holiday ended on a high.
It was a wonderful break and we returned sun tanned and relaxed to a rather rainy Edinburgh. I have since been shopping for essentials for our next break on the Island of Islay and a package of wellies and waterproofs arrived in the post this morning. A far cry from the 15 kilo (we’re talking Ryan Air) suitcase of bikinis and summer dresses we took to Spain but every year we set off for Islay, car laden, prepared for every possible climate I know that it is a trip which will benefit my soul if not my skin tone. In his wedding speech my father described Islay as ‘that beautiful island where I met her mother, married her mother and where our daughter was conceived’. This year we return with his ashes. I hope that the island can still cast its magic on our souls when our hearts are breaking.
Barbecues and boogiebags
Languishing on Boogiebags in St Bernards Crescent Gardens
My baby girl is now five and, as per the Scottish system, will be starting school in August. She has been desperate to start school for the last year so unlike the older child, who clung to my leg I took her to induction day, the young one skipped in giggling with her friends. The system has changed in the last three years. Primary One has a purpose built block and garden with interactive toys for learning, smartboards and open plan classrooms and the induction itself is now staggered over two days. The first day the children were whisked off to meet their teachers while the parents were served tea and cakes and entertained to a high energy dance routine, a rendition of a song from Camp Rock and a piano recital by pupils higher up the school before being encouraged to mingle. The following day the children again went off to their classrooms while the parents had a powerpoint presentation about everything ranging from school meals to homework culminating in a fashion show of possible uniform combinations by the current P1s. I knew most of them and could barely stop myself from whooping with delight as I rushed forward to take a photo for their proud parents. However there is no denying the fact that my baby has well and truly grown up and my joy is tempered with sadness as I’m left with that age old dilemma. Another baby or a puppy?
My sleep habits are not conducive to the former. My husband and I invariably sling the duvet off into the centre of the bed with the result that we are separated by a puffy white siegfried line or on the more chilly nights my husband only does that and I find myself sweltering under the equivalent of an 80 tog duvet while listening to a cacophony of noise reminiscent of Peppa Pigs father. That on the rare moments I’m there. More frequently I am to be found clinging to the edge of the girls vast double bed, fan whirring in the background, bathed in pink light from the fairy lights.
A puppy has never been on the agenda due to the older girls utter paranoia about dogs. However recently, thanks to her encountering a Highland Terrier every week at the childminders, the fear has dissipated and this week she was heard to utter the inconceivable words ‘I’d rather have a dog than a DS’, this in spite of being chased screaming by a boxer as we crossed the park on our way back from a barbecue on Sunday. I am so relieved I’m almost tempted to go straight out and get one.
The barbecue on Sunday was idyllic. A friend who lives in one of the grand Georgian crescents of Edinburgh had invited us round to languish on the beautiful beanbags she makes and drink prosecco while being photographed for her new website www.boogiebags.co.uk. The magical gardens are surrounded by wrought iron fences in the centre of the crescent, so far from their top floor flat where the TV was playing the doomed Germany / England game. I relied instead on getting text updates from a good friend and relaying the score to the assembled throng, to the joy of some, distress of others. The pain of defeat was dulled by the free flowing prosecco and extraordinarily comfortable ‘adult’ size beanbag I had thrown myself in to though the combination also meant that when I tried to leave it I was comparable to a turtle which had been turned on it’s back. The walk home took me nearly an hour through sun drenched streets, involving two children needing a wee, one demanding a piggy back, the other, as I have said, being chased by a rabid dog. My husband on the other hand avoided my scheduled departure time, retired to the flat for another drink with our hosts and still got home before us. Life nurturing children may be more satisfying but everything definitely takes slightly longer.
Family Bonding, Boards and Bouvrage
Edinburgh Book Festival in Charlotte Square Gardens © Pascal Saez
Father’s Day obviously wasn’t the greatest this year. The kids were excited and insisted we had a family breakfast of fresh orange juice, coffee and poached eggs and inspiringly moved the table from where it normally sits in the shade to the end of the garden which was bathed in sunlight. Cards were presented and they handed over a bottle of wine stolen from the wine rack and put into a bag saying DAD. Inevitably there was a tussle over who actually handed it over and the younger daughter ended up in a massive sulk because their father hadn’t taken both girls handles simultaneously. As penance I managed to entice my husband to Church. The last time he had been to any Church had been Christmas Eve, the last time he had been to the one we attend had been our wedding anniversary the year before.
There were no bolts of lightening and to his relief the service was sermon free and child participation heavy so he got to see both girls perform songs with their respective Sunday School classes. The younger ones position of choice is the end of a row with her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth but although she was in the same place, wringing her cardigan as if desperate to squeeze water from it she did actually sing. The older ones trick has always been to stand behind the tallest member of the class but in spite of her diminutive stature her age advantage means that she is in fact one of the tallest in the group so had nowhere to hide. Thankfully no mention was made of fathers or I think I would have dissolved into tears but there was no denying the day and I had hopes that my mother would understand how upset I was feeling and call me. She didn’t. I called her and she was terribly upset, yet I was torn between wanting to console her and thinking she should be comforting me. One of the heartbreaking effects of my father’s death is that not only have I lost his solid dependability, love and reassurance but I have lost my mother’s too. I need to be strong for her but sometimes, like on Father’s Day, I let her down.
The knock on effect has been a particularly wobbly week. Faced on Monday with a re-emergence of slanderous rumours about me which I thought I had quashed over ten years ago I confronted the culprit head on which, though apparently successful, was somewhat draining. The following day I had to deal with the fall out from an ongoing debate about money at one of the extra curricular clubs I’m involved with and in my attempt to pour oil on troubled water I inadvertently became a target for attack. I spread myself far too thinly, to the detriment of my family, and having just taken on the role of Secretary on the school Parent Council (in a desperate bid to avoid being made Chair!) have decided to use this opportunity to resign from my other role on the After School Club board. It is curiously liberating and will hopefully mean less nights dashing off to meetings the children neither care about nor understand.
The one board I have no intention of resigning from is that of the Edinburgh Book Festival which launched its new programme last week with Bucks Fizz, Bouvrage and breakfast style canapés at the Signet Library. I was invited to join shortly after returning from maternity leave with my oldest daughter and spent the first few years lobbying (successfully) for better changing facilities, kids activity areas, buggy parks and shorter queues for childrens authors. Now my children are old enough for none of that to matter I am able to relax and enjoy the marvellous line up of authors. I’ve already put my name down for Garth Nix, Mairi Hedderwick, Julia Donaldson and Catherine Rayner and am intrigued by a book called The Slap by Christios Tsiolkas which has caused a furore in Australia due to the subject matter being about a man striking another mans child. I feel book group beckoning.
Sports days and snuff movies
Heady days of summer bring with them sports days and splashing in paddling pools. In Scotland summer is a juxtaposition of sunglasses and wellies, fleece blankets which double as something to lie on and something to keep you warm and cold showers from the garden hose followed by hot showers to recover from hypothermia.
Summer evenings are when I love living in suburbia most. A casual glass of wine in the garden leads to the neighbours popping over the wall with another bottle, children jumping from the adjoining wall onto the trampoline and the slide manoeuvred so that it lands in the paddling pool. Last year that resulted in ours being split so this year an indulgent granny bought a new improved version for the kids to play in. Slide banned, the game of choice this year appears to be ‘drown the Barbie’ and we pulled the curtains this morning to see the prostrate figures of several naked dolls face down in the water reminiscent of a David Lynch movie.
Sports days also characterise summer in suburbia. Last week I spent an idyllic morning lazing on the local sports fields while child number one participated in her school sports. Very PC, not remotely competitive, no traditional races and thankfully no parents races. In the afternoon it was the turn of child no.2, same location but much more competitive with the 3-5 year olds pelting up and down the running track with egg and spoons, beanbags on their heads, in sacks and finally racing hell for leather as fast as they could. I was appalling at the mothers race. While my friend burst through the finishing tape, arms aloft as if she were in Chariots of Fire, I was still standing at the start revving up on the spot much like Scooby Doo. Thankfully the seven year old compensated for my ineptitude by thrashing all the other children in the older siblings race and a week later she has just done it again, winning gold medal at the Sunday School picnic, much to the chagrin of boys in her year.
She was so proud of herself and I suddenly realised that I have been forcing her to do things which I either enjoyed (swimming) or wish I had done (singing and acting) instead of concentrating on her natural talents. I was hopeless at ballet so didn’t ever contemplate sending her along to classes but with her slight frame and perfect posture she would probably have been a natural. She seems above average at sprinting so my mission now is to find somewhere in Edinburgh to nurture that talent which will hopefully restore her confidence which has ebbed away over the last nine months. At the Sunday School picnic the mothers race wasn’t a sprint which was a relief as I was wearing wellies but I wasn’t much happier when I realised it involved dribbling a hockey ball round an obstacle course. I’ve never played hockey and was ashamed to come in last as my Dior glasses fell from my head and I tried to hold stick and specs in the same hand as I fought with the ball. Having forced the children to compete in every race going and dragged the five year old to the start line I felt I couldn’t refuse to participate but I felt physically sick at the thought of public humiliation it and it was a useful reminder of the emotions I frequently force them to endure.
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