Ah, it's the change.

Oh no! It's The Change!

And there go the flowers... The gladioli are listing to one side like a tall yacht mast in a storm; roses which got caught unopened in the downpours last week are now melting into brown balls of sad unfolded petals; and the leaves on the trees have started very quietly to turn, the bold beech greens losing out to a murkier pond-like hew. As though if they do it without making too much noise we won't notice and kick up a stink. Shhh. Don't tell them it's time.

Another sign of The Change is the bantams are moulting. There are feathers all over the garden. The cockerel, Buttercup, in particular looks pathetically scrawny, he struts around the garden a bit embarrassed by his feathery discord but trying to remain handsome for his lady-friends who are looking quite healthy and shiny. It's like when you turn up to a party having misread the invite - everyone is in their spangly disco kit and you've come in your old gardening jeans covered in mud, held up with a piece of string. I feel for Buttercup. I know he knows he's in the wrong clothes. It is hard to hold your head up high and crow with confidence when you're in your underwear.

Meanwhile, and I don't tell the bantams this, yesterday I saw four dead pigeons, as though they had just given up on it all. They foresaw 6-months of rain, darkness, muddy footpaths, thunderous gun-fire ricochetting around the valley and just felt it was easier to drop dead out of the sky than stick out another endlessly wet winter.

The Weather is also Changing. It is representative at times of the natural world enacting the experience of a menopausal human woman. The inconsistency of the garden thermometer is a valid starting point. Hitting 18 degrees in the day, dropping to 4 overnight - the sweats to the shivers with the nonchalant rise and fall of the sun. The unpredictable moodiness of the winds - one moment blowing a gale, dropping with no warning to as still as a glassy lake. Trees falling down in rageful surrender as their drought ridden roots can no longer cope with the squalls, while in the boarders of a garden the vibrant dahlias are in full bloom laughing in their joyful mad colourful bursts of energy, firmly denying the pending loss of light and heat. The fields all ploughed and brown and lumpy and barren, yet here are the lawns as green as they have ever been this year, needing to be mown weekly by surprised gardeners. The restless sleeplessness at night - waking to the owls screeching and the mad moon shining in through the crack in a curtained window, the world can't sleep when it's going through The Change...

The mood swings, the highs the lows, the chaos - it's autumnal vibes alright, lunacy almost, contradictions, inconsistencies, fog, the cheeky laughing-at-you-all with the mystery we cannot control.

And talking of parties where you misread the invite, who the heck invited all the spiders to the web-making-party across the doorway, so on the way out to your confusing walk (jumper on, jumper off, jumper back on, no, off again, sweating, frozen, sighing, swearing WTF) you have to get through 8 invisible webs and just pray that the spider hasn't fallen into your hair enroute. I'll tell you who invited them: the f'ing Weathopause (my new name for autumn), that's who.

Next issue: ranting country woman gets sucked into a muddy quagmire and finally there is peace in the valley.

Am I dreaming...

Do you have recurring dreams? I have regular recurring dreams and for some reason they are generally mainly of the anxiety genre. I know I have the daily challenges like getting out of bed in the morning and the work challenges like I ought to work more and harder and the what's actually in my bank at the moment challenges and the oh crapsticks my hair is definitely greyer this morning challenges. But I lead a relatively peaceful existence, thanks to the calming influence of the half Egyptian Pharoah Hound who lives with us, so when I have these dreams I rub my chin and lean on my elbow and question where it's come from. 

There are two main dreams I have. 

The first is about trying to go up a hill and my legs are so tired and malcoordinated that I can't really move, and the hill (it's always an interpretation of the hill I can see out of my bedroom window) seems to bend up steeper and steeper to the point where there is a risk I might actually fall off it. Meanwhile there is an urgency to go up it despite the danger of the climb. But I can't. So I have this wading and heavy feeling over my whole body. In this moment of dreamworld paralysis I also am trying to use my phone to make an emergency call but for some reason I can't work out how to even switch it on. And then the dream ends. My body tense. Probably a little clammy too. Nice.

The second dream is a tooth dream. I'm chewing gum (which in real life is a hateful thing to do, I strongly disagree with its existence) and it fills my mouth. Fuller and fuller to the point where I need to spit it out else I may gag, but I can't get rid of it and as I am chewing I realise there are actual teeth in the hateful gum, my teeth, which are merging into the gum and now such a big ball of crunching chokingness that I can't talk. And I know there are gaping holes in my gums because I am chewing my own teeth. The frustration at not being able to get the gum and teeth out of my mouth is visceral. 

I used to have a whole heap of orthodontic work as a teenager and I think some of the visuals for this particular dream emanate from that period. Rubber bands. Head gear. Double layers of train tracks. Visits to the orthodontist to get them tightened. Headaches. Humiliation. My boyfriend naming me Metal Micky. Bits of food hanging off the tracks. It was a fun time. It's a relief to wake from this dream. No missing teeth. No bits stuck in my mouth.

But now I have a new recurring dream. It's an extremely happy dream that then becomes an extremely sad wake up moment. I dream in a variety of scenarios that Dad is hanging out with me. In a recent dream which is particularly memorable we are walking through some meadows in the village and we are both laughing like drains. We are bent double laughing (so much so that in my sleep I think I can feel myself actually laughing) because we are trying to make a plan to work out how to tell people that he's not dead any more and it's utterly hilarious. We are talking about going on social media to let people know and then cracking up. At one point in the dream I think he's holding my hand and I can feel his slightly rough and dry outdoor-work-man-skin. It's so damned real. It's actually insane what the brain tells you is real in a moment. Waking up from that is a toughy. 

So I looked up 'dreams' on the internet and there was a strange page about 'vivid dreams' which went into the causes of 'vivid dreams' - one being early stages of pregnancy (oh no! what? how did that happen!) or possibly being schizophrenic... Neither of which seem that feasible for me right now. 

I guess Freud may have a point - that dreams might reflect unresolved emotions, hidden desires and fears generally, but I also liked a bit I saw, in a probably unsubstantiated article, around how back in the day the Egyptians saw dreams as divine messages. Without sounding like a total wanker I'd prefer to think I'm receiving Divine Messages. And in that vein my half Egyptian Pharoah Hound is sending me a divine message right now, the message is this: get off that bloody computer and take me for a walk. 

 

Partying at weird times

As we climb the ladder of adulthood there have been 50ths all over the shop - like pop-up cafes in trendy leafy streets of obscure towns. A real buzz. We made it half way! All the jokes come out about getting the fireman on standby for when the candles are lit. All the jokes about forgetting what you were saying. It's a bit daunting getting to the midway point (and it's not really the midway point because we all know that we're unlikely to hit 100). Anyway, what was I saying? I can't remember.

Most recently two particularly excellent parties have - without intention - flanked a period of intense sadness and loss. And the timing of these two parties has been both marvellous and totally incongruous all in the same breath. These parties have been the ones where you find yourself (or it might just be me...  motheresruin and all that) knocking back any sort of liquid that is put in your hand and then sweating it out almost instantly on the sticky (or uneven grassy) dancefloor (depending on the location). 

Everyone around you is a face you know and love and if you don't know and love it, you do in that precise moment simply because they happen to be standing next to you doing exactly the same thing. The music might be a performance of Don't Look Back in Anger by a band from a Portsmouth backwater, or it might be West End Girls by an insanely gyrating DJ from West London. 

Glasses have beer or gin or flat prosecco sloshing over the rim. Choruses are yelled out - teeth-fillings flashing under the glitter ball, eyes shut, arms over the neck of whoever is dancing next to you, swaying, sweaty armpit-on-sweaty-shoulder. What a banger. What's next? Another drink? Yes yes yes. Please night don't end and fling us back to reality.

When these moments of brilliant collective insanity take place I am always thrown back to an infamous 16th birthday party hosted by a school friend. Bear in mind some of the horrors of being 16 have to be taken into account. The teen angst possibly at it's dizziest height. Her Lovely Trusting Parents had almost the entire year group to their house one Saturday night mid-term, and then her Lovely Trusting Parents retreated at some point leaving us to it, and then pretty much all hell broke loose - and we really let go on the dance floor. Or more accurately all over the entire house.  

I woke up in a bed I don't remember falling asleep in, and I had lost my contact lenses and as I dressed (I don't remember getting undressed) and walked through the house (total carnage) there were sleeping bodies strewn carelessly on floors and various bits of furniture, limbs resting at funny angles. I felt incredibly sick and I had very little memory of anything other than I knew I couldn't ever drink Malibu ever again in my entire life ever. Someone had put a foot through an actual staircase. I had to take a week off school and 3 days after I'd woken in that bed, my contact lenses rolled a full 360 around my eyeballs and reappeared back in my eyes. (A small miracle! I can see again!) It was a brilliant party. Brilliant. The stuff of legends and I can't even remember it.

When I did my sociology degree we didn't have a module on why people need parties but I bet there have been some fun studies all about this particular human behaviour. 

All I know is that there are certain times when it happens you know it's a moment and the stars align and the joyometer hits the red bulb BANG and we let it all go. It. All. Goes. Off.

And the amazing thing is that this can happen at any unpredictable moment - and just when you think you couldn't feel anything other than incredibly sad, the DJ puts on Like A Virgin and the joy trumps all. 

Humans are such weird creatures.

It's unconditional powerlessness

Mol and Liz are now technically very much adults - in the eyes of The Gov or The Law they can do things like vote for the next leaders of our country, change their name by depol, get married, pay for their own dental treatments (first find a dentist), they can shake cocktails for a job, rent a car, go abroad without a parent, they can now basically do anything they want without the assistance of us, the parent.

This is a massive headfuck. How did this happen? I lie in the bath trying not to drop my book in the bubbles and wonder where my power has gone. HR just wrote to me to let me know that my job doesn't exist any more (I had this happen to me 3 times... it might explain why I'm now self-employed), I regret to inform you that your Important Parent Role is no longer valid.

What do you mean you're popping to the supermarket? You can't possibly drive a car and have a bank account and independent financial standing and look unwaveringly at the shop assistant as the bottle of £6-prossecco which is for some party of people who's names I don't recognise gets beeped into your bag. 

Parental Supremacy got cancelled.

But actually, I realise -now that the children are these funky autonomous individuals- that this supremacy in fact never really existed. It was a myth! Us parents needed to think that we had all the power... Because goodness knows life was spiralling in many ways in those mad days of early parenting. Thinking we had control was entirely necessary.

And the clever kids, well, it was all reverse psychology my friend, reverse psychology. They nailed it. Make those old people think they're in charge. Hear that wicked toddler chuckle as they prepare their next line of attack (maybe I'll take a shit in my clean pants 15 minutes after we get on the motorway, actually on second thought I'll throw my entire china plate of food on the floor of this restaurant) to bring their unwitting exhausted parent back in line. All eyes on me please.

I may have been the one who cooked the fishfingers (badly) and I may have been the one who transported Kid-A to place-B and Kid-B to place-C, and it's possible that I might have influenced their wardrobes for a few years and between me and the Husband we decided where to go on holiday for at least a decade... 

But all along those crafty children were stringing us along. They weilded the power. They knew from the very outset our weak spots, the chinks in our defences... With their huge blue eyes, a fat tear ballooning over the long lashes... "mummy, please can I have the..." (insert chocolate icecream, fairy writing paper, another episode of Pepper Pig to delay bed...). Or, the collapse on the floor flailing in utter fury at being asked to finish the cheese on toast / move the 18 teddies blocking the doorway / it's definitely bed time now / no you can't go and find a butterfly in the garden / yes you do have to go to the loo before we get in the car. Either way we would have to respond, and it turns out we were putty in their sticky little fingers.

Those crafty little buggers - they were conducting the parents for years!

Those moments where you expressed (any) emotion rendered us powerless. Crying? We love you. Furious? We love you. Awake at 3.30am? We absolutely love you. Snot all over your face? We love you. Shat yourself in the car and it's gone up your back? ....... Yup. Still love you.

You made us feel (so kind of you) at times that we really did know everything and that we really were the oracles. And occasionally we may have had practical advantages (like making sure you didn't get hit by a bus crossing the road or giving you antibiotics when you had tonsilitis) that kept you safe. And in those moments we felt important. Possibly a bit self-inflated "Yes I took Mol to A&E today as she had a massive asthma attack, I think I probably saved her life"... 

And now as they have their own bank accounts so it turns out we defer to those once-were-toddlers for help and advice ("I can't download this app? How does Vinted actually work? But what actually IS an influencer? What skills do they have to warrent 8.5m followers? What is sriracha?"). And so it continues. Putty.

In conclusion to todays mental meanderings: the problem with unconditional love is that it renders you utterly powerless.

 

 

Do people still read?

 It's been a really, really long time since I last added an entry to this blog. 

And so much has happened in those many years.

The children became old teenagers and started dipping their toes into their 20s. GCSEs A'levels Degrees. First jobs. Driving tests. Renting in London.

Grey hair. Wrinkles. Health 'issues'. A dog. The back yard awash with human turds after multiple floods. Some kind of semblance of a career.

The world muddling along with climate crises after violent regional wars after bit coin after social media horrors after unsettling elections. It goes on.

Quite a lot of death.  

Death to pets. Death to plants. Death to the environment. Death to it raining normally. Death to people we love.  Death to collagen filled skin. Death to the brick phone (although this may well resurrect to halt the onset of a world filled with fake news and tiktok addicts). 

I don't have the same material as I did 10 years ago when two young daughters provided much to mull over and laugh about. And with the death of a parent another step up the Adult Ladder is made with a devastating chasm opening up betwen those halycon days of fishfingers, discussing how puppies are made, and being allowed to sit in the bathroom while a child splashes carefree in the bath. It's a weird homesickness for something that passes so quietly and steadily. I wake up one morning and my daughters are 19 and 22. 

I'm not going to dabble too much in cliches. 

But shit a brick WHERE have those years gone? 

How many bottles of rose-wine and packets of Kettle chips have been dispensed with? 

I overhear friends asking our young What do you want to do when you leave school or uni? What do you want to be when you grow up? And I wince... Because I know that I still don't know myself. My time spent trudging along muddy paths with the dog don't reveal the answer and neither does the bottle of wine and neither does my horoscope (horrorscope). When will that lightening bolt strike and the future reveal itself? It'd be a shame if it literally struck me and I was found on the South Downs Way like a piece of badly cooked gammon, never knowing... always assuming the grass was greener on the hill across the way. Those sheep over there, they're way happier.

In restarting Mothers Ruin I'm going to have a think about this voyage into real life adulthood. It might veer on the existential occasionally. Will definitely involved the dog Kiki (my unjudgemental therapist for the last 10 years). I can't avoid the topic of death. And there may also need to be some fantastical thinking to counter the potential slide into gloominess. 

See you soon.