#MicroblogMondays:They're ALL My Favourite!

I had lunch with my daughters Kate and Hannah and their husbands, Darren and Luke on Sunday, and we had a wonderful time meeting the latest addition to our family, Pumba, a black Labrador puppy. Pumba was very well-behaved for a puppy, and very tolerant of our adoration. He took it in his stride (or should that be 'bounce') and having greeted us all exuberently, he fell asleep and stayed there.

Kate and Darren are expecting their first child in the new year, a boy. So there was much discussion around this exciting event. The new arrival will be our fourth grandchild, and he is as eagerly expected as our first.

Ray and I have three daughters, who have grown into three wonderful women. Three children, I read the other day, is the hardest number to raise, and that may be true. I wouldn't call raising any number 'easy'. An amazing, fulfilling, life-enhancing experience, yes. 'Easy'? Not especially.

"Did you have a favourite?" Hannah asked me suddenly, and I didn't quite know what to say. I mean I'd have to say "No!" whether it was true or not, wouldn't I?

I endured years of fertility treatments in the 1970's, and I was one of the lucky ones. So my daughters were hard won, and each was greeted as a very special gift. All adored - the concept of "favourite" just doesn't come into it.,

Or, as I said a couple of weeks ago when introducing Luke to a friend,"I have three sons-in-law, and they're ALL my favourite!"

Take note girls!

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A Time To Grieve

I didn't attend my father's funeral, and I never regretted it. I sat by his side in his final days, he, too weak, too close to dying to want to talk, I, waiting with him, silently, or telling him how much I loved him, not trying to imagine a world without him.

I wrote his obituary, and read it to him the night before he died so he knew how precious he was. That was our farewell. Two days later, I flew to South Africa to complete the work in a village school he had sponsored. "You go!" He said, believing I would be away when he died. I went, and my Xhosa friends sang for him, and I went to this beach and cast into the ocean a wreath I made with vines and flowers from the rain forest.

I then scratched his name, along with my mother's, in a hidden place in the rocks nearby.

This thanksgiving for my father's life was a special and deeply meaningful ritual. Far away from home, I grieved for my father and there, in my heart, which was pounding with the ocean, I laid him to rest.

 

 

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#MicroblogMondays: Bumping Down The Stairs

Yesterday I returned from a fabulous holiday with my family, now almost a clan, and here I am reflecting on the joys of the second half of life.

All that I will 'achieve' in the worldly sense is now behind me. I have more 'stuff' than I know what to do with, and no desire to engage in the duallist ding-dongs of the days when I believed it was better to be right than happy.

It feels like my ship of state is sailing over the horizon, but the journey holds no fear. I have found real and lasting things to love: precious time with my family, the pleasure of a country walk the fun of playing silly games with my grandchildren ...

There was a point rounding a headland on the beautiful Somerset coast where I just stopped, drew a deep breath and allowed simple gratitude to well up. To Whom, I'm not sure, but for what? Well, at sixty-four, still being able to bump down the stairs on my behind in a race with my three-year old granddaughter that I didn't even want ro win.

 

 

 

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My Very Favourite Title

It's good for adults to play. No, really, it's a scientific fact, and I know this because I've just finished 'The Science of Happiness' and there it was: Play. healthy and healing, a returning to the innocent self that's still in there and loves an outing now and then.

I sometimes play a game that makes my husband's eyes roll. It's usually prompted by an item I hear on the news. It's called, "I Want That Title". Picking the title is then followed by a lengthy explanation on how good I'd be at it. This is a great game for we Brits whose ceremonial life is generously sprinkled with wonderful, if slightly ridiculous, ones.

I have played with the idea of being, "Black Rod" "Silver Sword of The Bedchamber", "Grandmaster", "The Great Architect", "Lady In Waiting", "Her Holiness" ... and I have laughed my self silly at the implications.

But my very favourite title is, "Grandma". Last night I got to play grandma, and it was the most fun ever.

 

Family First

My current title, which I reckon I can reasonably hold until Kate and. Darren return from honeymoon in mid-August, is, you may remember, " Mother-Of-The-Bride".

I tell you, we are a ferocious breed, armed to the teeth with soothing comments, anxiety-relieving nostrums, Old Wives Tales and  Sound Advice. Foremost amongst which is, "Don't let me hit the gin before noon." 

Hannah's wedding on 20th June, was a dream. No-one fell imto the Mill Pond, or did themselves a mischief in the Adventure Playground. The Registrar was brilliant, the weather fantastic and Abigail, aged, three, co-operated way beyond expectations. (She being a free spirit and liable to proclain a firm and loud, "No" at the merest hint of, say, walking in the Bridal Procession.) My role, apart from staying sober enough to remain coherent throughout, was to cluck proudly over my chick, assist with the dressing (I tied the bow on the bridal gown) and do the flowers. 

My friend Gail kindly assisted, which was a godsend, and we had a wonderful time. It's rare that we have nearly £300 of flowers to play with, so we made the most of it. 

Somewhere mid-afternoon, I realised I'd cut all the ivory roses down ro four inches in length, having mislaid the part of my brain that knew half a dozen had to be saved for Hannah's bouquet. I remembered in good time and knew this was no occasion for panic. The MOB spirit had to pull this rabbit out of the hat and pronto. 

The local florist did not have a bouquet holder that would have made use of the shortened roses, which anyway were needed for No 3 Bridesmaid, but she did have six fully opened, beautiful ivory roses. Just six, just enough. Crisis over. There IS a God.

Now I'm gearing up for the Final Appearance. The Last Act - in the truly dramatic setting of Eastnor Castle. Which, as I discovered at the Wedding Fair I attended last summer is a REAL castle with all the correct attributes like moat, gate-house, a park  and turrets. Darren and Kate are tying the knot amongst very impressive portraits of someone else's ancestors, which, because they're in oils, is good enough for me. 

I am hosting a very important dinner on the evening of the Big Day, a 'Just Us' supper. Ray, myself and our three daughters. I have asked them what their favourite meals were when they were growing up ... Betty Crocker's Southern Fried Chicken with Bacon Wrapped Bananas and Tuna Plait, or Deep Dish Pizza came the fore. Though Kate, wary of suddenly growing out of her wedding gown, has asked only for a salad.

Lucy Hedgehog Cake for dessert, naturally.

It's not about the food, of course. It's a celebration of the beginning of a new era, a recognitiin that our family has grown and changed for ever. Our three lovely daughters have brought three fine sons into our lives, and it's AMAZING. The 'Last Supper' will have a sacremental quality to it too, a thanksgiving that we have somehow raised our children to be confident, caring young women, capable of taking on the world whilst at the same time making a safe haven for their own children in their turn. 

Footnote:

I went on a writers course last weekend. The importance of telling our stories and leaving them for our descendents was brought up.

"I communicate with my descendants every week," I ventured. "It's called 'Babysitting." 

(I thought that would make you smile! :) )