It's only week 2 of the summer holidays...

..and I'm feeling the strain already.
Sensing that I was feeling a little bit stressed Junior put his hand on my shoulder and said "I know what you need Mummy"
A bit of support? To win the Postcode Lottery? A nice cup of tea? A handsome prince?
"A nice face massage" smiled Junior with a sympathetic rub of my shoulder.
"I wish!" I scoffed, rolling my eyes to the ceiling.
"Come with me" winked Junior, leading me through to my bedroom clutching a bottle of Oil of Ulay (I know it's Olay now but I still call Starburst 'Opal Fruits' and Snickers 'Marathons')
I was feeling slightly anxious as Junior plumped up the pillow behind my head and squeezed a healthy sized blob of face cream into the palm of his hand.
"What are you doing?.." I asked suspiciously, trying to contain my OCD about anything spilling onto my bedclothes.
"Just shoosh, Mummy and close your eyes" replied Junior, gently pushing my head in the direction of the plump pillow.
I did as I was told and the next thing I knew I was drifting in and out of consciousness.
Turns out that Junior was taught how to give facial massages in Primary One. All the kids are shown how to do this to one another during what is called Golden Time. Apparantly it helps with relaxation, class bonding and learning what kind of touch is appropriate. Nice to know the taxpayers money isn't going to waste after all.
He did everything beautifully and with little butterfly touches. He even said all the right things like "Just feel yourself floating away" and "All your cares are disappearing"
It was an extraordinary experience and one that reminded me of all the times I gave Junior a massage with baby oil when he was a tiny baby. It used to calm him down before he went to bed and it was something we both enjoyed (although I had to be careful his greasy little body didn't shoot out of my hands like a bar of soap when I lifted him off the changing mat) He used to get what I call the 'thousand mile stare' as I rubbed the massage oil into the fleshy folds of his skin. It was the only time I remember him lying still for longer than 2 seconds.
So, I'm lying there getting my ear lobes rubbed simultaneoulsy (I know! It was fab) and Junior starts talking like Paul McKenna...
"Just feel your worries s-l-i-d-e down your face...down your chubby cheeks and over your big blubbery lips"
I felt a bubble of laughter rise up from my stomach. I tried to hold onto it but it shot up into my shoulders and they started to shake silently. This set Junior off into a fit of wild giggles. He lost all control of his bodily functions, snorting a rather large snotter onto my eyelid at the same time as letting off the loudest fart.
The spell was broken.

For a gentle, loyal friend

“This dog only, waited on,
knowing that when light is gone
love remains for shining”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I thought I was doing OK. That was until I came across Junior’s school jotter from last summer. In it was his project on pets. There it was in black and white. “Ellie is my Auntie Sandra’s dog but I see her every day at my Gran and Grandad’s house” “Ellie is so cuddly” “She makes tunnels over my train track with her back legs” “Ellie likes to lick my face when I come home from school” “Ellie is the best dog in the world”
I thought I had cried all my tears. Enough to fill a swimming pool. But no, there were more to come. Ellie the Boxer dog. Totally loyal, totally forgiving and always enthusiastic. She died on a Saturday morning. May 29th 2010.
Nothing could have prepared me for that moment or for the emotional devastation that hit me like a violent, black wave. I frightened myself with the noises I made as I cried for her. Not tears like the ones I shed now but great, primal wails that come from somewhere deep inside and threatened to knock me off my feet. I vaguely remember the short drive down to my parents’ house. I was in a complete daze, viewing the road in front of me through a crystal wall of tears. I felt terrified about how I would react when I stepped through their front door only to see the empty chair at the window and the muddy footprints on the laminate floor. How I actually made it from my house to theirs in one piece I will never know. We spent the afternoon as a family - talking, crying, remembering and yet in my grief I felt so alone. I was, after all only ‘Auntie Hazy’. She was not my dog. She was my sister’s dog, shared with my mum and dad. But because of her loving and giving nature she somehow invaded all our hearts. In some ways Ellie transcended ownership (although I am still very aware of how much my sister loved her and I am in no way trying to devalue anyone else’s grief by telling my side of the story).
Junior adored Ellie and saw her every day, never knowing a life without her around. She would have laid her life down for the kids, choosing to sit and watch them play at the park rather than run around with her ball. We called Junior “baby boy” only to Ellie. “Where’s baby boy?” “Go find baby boy!” Of course this was something that stuck because she met my son when he was only two days old. It was love at first sight. In the beginning I would follow her around with the antibacterial gel for those moments when she decided to wash his fuzzy hair with her tongue. And both the kids learned to walk using Ellie as a support. She never once lost her cool, even when they tugged on her stumpy tail. She was like an old Mother hen with them. One of the things that nearly cracked my heart in two when she died was the acknowledgment that my “baby boy” had died with her.
I suppose in some ways I didn’t feel entitled to grief as much as everyone else. After all, I had had all the fun of Ellie without any of the commitment or hard work. It had been my mum and dad who nursed her through the night like a sick child after her eye operation, it had been my sister who had held Ellie as she took her last breath. That moment must have been so hard for her. Despite the fact we all knew it was the right decision I am so grateful it wasn’t me having to make it.

I wasn’t ready to say good bye. None of us were. Ellie was only eight years old. You hear about dogs double that age still going strong. It seemed so unfair.
What troubles me most is not being able to remember the last time I saw her. I have racked my brains, studied the calendar, counted back the days and yet I cannot work it out. There is a gut churning guilt that comes with that. I can remember sitting in my parents’ garden one really hot morning towards the end of May. Everyone else was out so it was just me and Ellie and the birds. She lay at my feet on the cold slabs watching the baby blackbirds feeding. I remember thinking how peaceful it was and how much I loved having Ellie there as a companion. I have convinced myself that was the last day we spent together. I don’t know if it’s just too painful at the moment for my brain to process or whether I am fooling myself into thinking of that moment because it was so lovely. I know if I had had an inkling that those were the last moments with her I would have treasured them more, attached some significance to them, lay down on those slabs beside her and cuddled her until my arms were sore. But we never know what’s coming, do we. Whether that is cruel or kind I am not sure.

I remember the very first moment I set eyes on Ellie. I couldn’t believe anything could be so cute! Happiness is a warm puppy. She used to chase my IKEA slippers and chew on my toes until I yelped with a mixture of pain and laughter. I remember her as this little wriggly thing that could fit easily on my lap. She would slide down into the valley between my legs and fall asleep, her soft, velvet belly exposed for a tickle. I think of her sucking the buttons on my mum’s shirt, chewing the beak on the wooden duck ornament when she was teething. We would say “No, leave!” as strictly as we could and she would stare up through her long lashes and give one defiant yelp that would turn us to mush in an instant. I think about how excited she would get playing the ‘Findy Game’, a pastime which involved hiding a cube of cheese in various parts of the room while Ellie wasn’t looking and then shouting “Go find!” Inevitably she would always return to the last place she had found her cheesy morsel not thinking we could be creative. Perhaps not the brightest crayon in the pencil case but boy, did I love that big lump. It always made me smile when she chased the crows. Blackbirds, starlings, sparrows, seagulls were all accepted in the garden but not the “big, black crows!” Mad as a box of frogs but all the more loveable because of that. It helps to remember how much Ellie was loved, how nice a routine she had and how much she embraced life. She didn’t ask for much and she was always so happy to get what she was given.
Above all else, I think about my morning welcomes. No-one was ever as glad to see me as Ellie Pellie. When I think of her I want to remember her running to meet me, coming at me sideways because she couldn’t control her excitement. She would give me a high five and breath on me with her fishy breath, something which was not for the faint hearted! It’s strange the things you don’t mind when you love something so much.

Even as I write this I find myself realising that this is the first time I have been in my parents’ house, on my own without Ellie. I know it sounds romantic and clichéd but her presence is very much here. Sometimes I feel like she is a long way away but other times I genuinely feel like I could reach out and touch her. I can almost hear the clicking of her paws on the wooden floor, the clunk of her name tag on the windowsill as she rests her head down to watch passers-by. When Brian the postie comes my brain tricks me into thinking that there is going to be an explosion of sound and frantic scrambling as she attempts to gain purchase on the slippery floor. Like when one song on an album finishes and you know, without thinking which one is coming next. It’s so quiet without her...
Ellie has left such a gaping hole in all our lives, it’s almost unbearable. Only the memory of her keeps me from falling apart altogether and I know with time those memories will fade. They’ll never go entirely but I wonder if in two, three years I will still remember the feel of her velvet ears and the little bit at the top of her nose where the dust gathered. My grief feels ridiculous, like I shouldn’t be feeling this way about the loss of a dog. People expect this kind of grief to happen to them when they lose a person who is close to them. But a dog? I have analysed why I feel such sorrow, why in the immediate aftermath of Ellie’s death it felt like there was an invisible veil between me and the rest of the world. Ellie was the first living creature in a long time that I had allowed myself to love without holding back. My love for her was undiluted. Her love for me was honest and straightforward. Those are things that are difficult to give and receive in human relationships. We (or at least I) always keep back a little of myself with people in case I get hurt or let down. Knowing Ellie would never do those things meant I could love her freely. The price I have to pay for that is unalloyed grief.

People say “she had such a good life” (yes, the best) “you have wonderful memories” (yes, she brought joy to all our lives) “no dog could have been more loved” (that is for sure!) and yet the words seem empty (although appreciated). I know all these things are true but they are never going to bring back Ellie. And I just want her back!
Someone tried to comfort me recently by saying “Ellie wouldn’t want you to be this upset” and it made me smile to remember the time I staggered in the house last year after breaking my hand in two places. I was sitting on the chair at the back of the room crying and rocking with pain and my mum brought me through a frozen chicken fillet wrapped in a tea towel to reduce the swelling. Ellie came over and placed her head in my lap, looking up at me with her big, searching eyes before looking down at my hand as if she knew why I was upset.
“Aw, look at that..” said my mum with watery eyes, “..she’s so intuitive, she hates when anyone is upset”
I’m still not sure whether mum was right or whether Ellie just had her eye on the chicken fillet! I like to think she genuinely was concerned about my well being.

Of course, anyone with a pet knows from day one that you will most likely outlive them. At the back of your mind there is always that terror of knowing how awful it is going to be when they are no longer here. There is so much truth in the saying “Fear is a terrible journey. Sorrow is at least an arriving” Thinking about it now I knew that time was slipping away and we were never going to have the time we deserved with Ellie. She slowed down so much in the last year. Sometimes it was an effort for her to look out of the window. She would bring stinky duck over but her eyes were tired and she played half-heartedly. My morning welcomes went from wild circuits of the living room and a hot tongue face-wash to a feeble tail wag. She had so many health problems it’s a wonder we had her as long as we did. My sister had chosen the runt of the litter. No-one else wanted her (thank goodness) and with that ball of fur and cheeky face came a whole host of problems. It felt so unfair having this beautiful, enthusiastic spirit inside a body that ultimately let her down.

Ellie is irreplaceable. But of course so will any other pets we have. You never replace a dog, you just love the next one in a different way. The day we lost Ellie I swore I would never love another animal like that again, such was the pain of losing her. For comfort I Googled pet/grief and I came across this quote by Cleveland Amory.
“Unlike some people who have experienced the loss of an animal, I did not believe, even for a moment, that I would never get another. I did know full well that there were just too many animals out there in need of homes for me to take what I have always regarded as the self-indulgent road of saying the heartbreak of the loss of an animal was too much ever to want to go through with it again. To me, such an admission brought up the far more powerful admission that all the wonderful times you had with your animal were not worth the unhappiness at the end”
Loving anything means grieving when it dies. Because our love for Ellie was so pure our grief is at times unbearable. But I know now that you cannot have the bizarre happiness a warm wet, tongue on your face brings unless you are prepared for the insufferable sadness that comes when the licking stops. The worst days for me are sunny days. Two days after Ellie died they cut the grass in the field where we used to take her to play. The sun was out in a fluffy blue sky and the breeze was fresh. I couldn’t help but think Ellie would have loved it. A few days later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon we let go of six red balloons (Ellie’s collar was red so it seemed a fitting tribute) and watched as they spiralled up before disappearing into the grey sky. We said goodbye and my heart broke all over again with the unfairness of it. Junior and I tied a red ribbon on the fence which we pass every night on our way home. It’s poignant seeing it flapping in the wind. Only we know why it’s there and it helps us feel close to her. But it’s always sad too, like a mini goodbye every day. I know we must be grateful for our short time with our special dog. Some people never experience the undiluted happiness only a pet can bring and I feel sorry for them.
I am sure there will be other animals in our lives. I look forward to meeting them. But I will never forget our gentle, loyal friend.

For Ellie, who left paw prints on our hearts
1st January 2002 ~ 29th May 2010

Read it and weep

Everyone knows I like a good read but it’s not often I feel compelled to review a book. I knew I was going to love “Dead Boy Talking” by Linda Strachan for lots of reasons. Firstly I had enjoyed "Spider" so much that I read it without coming up for air. However, Linda Strachan’s second offering of gritty realism is something really special.
To start with there is the stunning front cover and the shocking first line that snares you from the outset - “In 25 minutes I will be dead”. But I really knew I was in trouble when I looked at the clock in the car and realised I was ten minutes late collecting my son from school. I’ve never done that before. "Dead Boy Talking" just sucked me in and before I knew it I was completely engrossed in Josh’s story. I had even shed a tear by page 34. I was still thinking about what I had read well into the evening.
The timing of my picking up this book was particularly poignant. Only last week I was told that a young boy I knew had been stabbed to death outside the school I used to teach at. He was 17. Any death of a young person is heartbreaking but when it’s as needless and violent as that it makes it all the more horrific. With it comes the death of possibility and the ripples that affect the community and the people who knew the victim. Sadly, knife crime is an aspect of youth culture that continues to shock and upset us on a daily basis and one that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere in a hurry. That’s what makes “Dead Boy Talking” such an important book. Not only does it open up dialogue about knife crime and gang culture but it also shows us the devastating consequences that carrying a knife can have on both the victim and the perpetrator (Josh is both which gives the story an interesting and unique angle). Every secondary school pupil should read “Dead Boy Talking”. In fact, come to think of it every teacher and parent should read it too. I wish I had had access to books like this when I was at school and I will certainly be putting this on my son’s bookshelf for him to read when the time is right.

Josh's story is a stark reminder of how flimsy the wall can be between friendship and betrayal, how our actions affect others and how easy it can be to take the wrong path. Just as she managed to achieve with "Spider" Linda Strachan allows us to see the bigger picture, snapshots of the events which have brought Josh to this terrible and hopeless point. She reminds us that nothing is ever as black and white as it seems, that there are reasons people behave the way they do even when their actions are abhorrent. Despite the fact that Josh has made a terrible mistake we still feel sympathy for him. I desperately wanted this book to have a happy ending.
I have had the pleasure of meeting Linda a few times and she doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would have had much experience of knife crime. And yet she manages to capture the emotions, dilemmas and stark choices of teenagers in a way that is authentic and non-patronising. Young people would see straight through any pretence and so it’s great to see there isn’t any in this story. Throughout, Strachan manages to convey a feeling of dread and terror without stepping into unrealistic territory. In fact it is the haunting realism that makes this story so gripping. I was constantly reminded that this could happen to anyone.
The parts of the story where we see Josh lying waiting to die are harrowing, shocking and deeply moving. We are privy to Josh’s thoughts and regrets - “Typical I would only start to understand now it’s too late”. I actually had butterflies in my stomach as the clock ticked down, such was my terror at losing him. 24 minutes…19 minutes…10...3.. The thing that Linda Strachan does so well here is to make it feel like we are standing watching Josh and yet helpless to do anything about it. The mother in me wanted to reach in and scoop him off the ground, to comfort him, help him and ultimately save him. Not being able to do that only added to the heart hammering tension and horror of the story.
"Dead Boy Talking" is not an easy read. There were moments where my stomach clenched so badly I had to put the book down and take a break. I hope that this book takes other people out of their comfort zone too and prompts them to ask important questions and explore the reasons why some young people resort to carrying knives - a deep seated need to belong/"for show and to ward off trouble”. The story of how Josh is dragged into using a knife on his friend is gripping but the most frightening part is how easy it is for him to find himself in the situation. As a mother I was forced to contemplate how my own son might deal with the same pressures and choices both Josh and his friend Ranj faced. Strachan’s characters are always solid and credible. She has a knack of understanding the teenage psyche and tackles the consequences of carrying knives without being sanctimonious or patronising. Although we kind of know how this book is going to end that in no way reduces the value or importance of Josh’s story. As always, Linda Strachan manages to pull in the reader with her masterful writing and some of the most disturbingly precise descriptions I have ever read in a teenage novel. I was completely riveted right up until the heart-wrenchingly poignant finale.
If there’s any justice in the world this book will win Linda Strachan a whole heap of awards as well as a team of devoted fans. My advice? Put aside a day to read this. And don’t forget the tissues.

A poem I wrote in 1997....

Grey clouds pile up and drag their rain through a deserted street.
A cruel wind wanders through a back green and fans the ash of a dying fire.
An abandoned mattress appears to breath in time with the wind,
while discarded rubbish spins like a flock of panicked birds.

Upturned shopping trolleys lie like the skeletons of long forgotten beasts
that died where they fell.
A barefoot baby searches for something at the bottom of a puddle,
only the wind combs his unruly hair.

His home, a graffiti stained block has no windows left to smash -
This neglected shell condemned to stand not fall.
He laughs at his reflection as somewhere a dog barks an angry lament.
All around, the cracks deepen and a battered door slams shut in the wind.

His mother hides from the world and watches her dreams unfold under heavy lids.
Her crooked man smokes at a table, his chest rattling like a door in its frame.
These once helpless children are now adults with no battle left to fight.

On the television a newsreader speaks about struggles in a faraway place.
The man stares at the screen with unseeing eyes.

Ambivalence!

Wikipedia states that ambivalence is "a state of having simultaneous, conflicting feelings toward a person or thing" In this case it's my career as an author. I guess every writer reaches this point. Sometimes I feel like jacking the whole thing in and finding a more conventional way of life, one that doesn't consume every waking (and some sleeping) moments of the day. If I'm honest I have come close to scrapping the pursuit of a writing dream a few times. During a rather dark period at the end of last year I seriously considered drawing a thick, black line under the whole thing. Then I met my friend Paul for coffee and as always he encouraged me to reflect on things and gave me the proverbial slap in the face that I needed. He reminded me that I did not embark on this adventure for fame or financial rewards but because writing was something I loved doing. So I got straight back to it and swiftly finished the sequel to "Bree McCready and the Half Heart Locket". And loved doing it. Just last week I was struggling with the thought of making a start on my third book when I received an email from a lovely woman in Hertfordshire. She wanted to let me know how much she had loved my first book, in particular the thread that runs throughout the story about bullying. This lady's daughter had been so badly bullied that she ended up having to leave mainstream education to attend a specialist school, a sanctuary for bullied children. I had touched this lady with the words I had written, enough for her to take the time to write and tell me so. Sometimes it takes a moment like that to prompt me to keep going. Perhaps these small glimmers of niceness are the only rewards I will reap for my hard work. Perhaps these moments are enough. After all, reaching people in that way is a privilege that only a select few of us get to do. I must not lose sight of that when I am down in the dumps about the path I have chosen to follow. I started out with the goal of writing a good story. Then the goal shifted to getting that story published. Once that had happened all I wanted was for young people to like the story. All my goals so far have been attained. Of course it is natural for me to want to keep shifting the posts, to see how far I can stretch this dream of mine. I understand that no writer is an overnight success and I'll just have to get used to living with impatience and frustration as my daily companions.
"Stated another way.." continues Wikipedia, "..ambivalence is the experience of having thoughts and emotions of both positive and negative valence toward someone or something. The term also refers to situations where 'mixed feelings' of a more general sort are experienced, or where a person experiences uncertainty or indecisiveness concerning something" Yep, I'm nodding furiously here. I am experiencing feelings of uncertainty. Should I continue investing my time and energy into a venture which may never come to what I would like it to come to? I cannot seem to pull myself away from this mental slump. It's not so much writer's block as writer's droop. I know where I want to go with the series - Bree McCready was always going to be a trilogy and I'm two thirds of the way there already - but this final hurdle seems somewhat higher than the other two put together. Perhaps the dangling carrot seems a bit more shrivelled than before? Ambivalence is a psychologically unpleasant state of mind. When the positive and negative aspects of something are both present in a person's mind at the same time it can be quite torturous. This schizophrenic state inevitably leads to procrastination, or just outright avoidance. Suddenly, cleaning out that cutlery drawer seems way more appealing than sitting down and drawing out a synopsis for book three. Sigh, I know everything will turn out fine in the end. It always does. What I have to keep remembering is at the core of things I still care deeply about what I'm doing. Okay, the dream has been tempered slightly by reality but it's still my dream and that surely makes it worth holding onto.

In my day!

Well, it was a busy Easter holiday but Junior finally went back to school this morning. I thought I would be relieved but in actual fact I've been left with the feeling that I've misplaced something or left my umbrella on the bus. To be honest I really miss him. The house is so quiet and for the first time in three weeks it doesn’t look like there has been a Lego explosion in my living room. Junior was a little reluctant to return to school, although I think the fact he had brand new, big size, shiny black shoes helped a bit. I had to be upbeat about the start of a new term but deep down I was kind of sad that our holiday was over. I think it’s because we had such a lovely time away last week. We spent a glorious couple of days in the Highlands where we soaked up the scenery and stayed in the most beautiful B&B I have ever been in. Junior made friends with Corrie the Wonder dog (so called because the poor thing fell out the top window last year, breaking both his back legs and seriously damaging his spine. He survived, albeit with a slightly wobbly walk) We were warned that Corrie was nervous of children since his accident but he and Junior hit it off instantly and within 10 minutes of arriving they were playing with the squeaky ball in the daffodils.
The break away did us both the world of good. The weather was perfect and everything went our way. I felt so chilled out and refreshed that I have to admit to shedding a wee tear as we drove through the gate to begin our journey home. We arrived back in Edinburgh with sun-kissed necks, rosy cheeks and a head full of wonderful memories which I am sure will last a lifetime. I’ve posted some pictures for you to see - I haven’t yet mastered the art of pasting pictures intermittently throughout my blog posts so they always have to appear at the top, before the text starts. You’d think after a year of keeping a blog I would have worked out how to do this!
Driving through the mountains I kept yelling “Look at the scenery! It’s so incredible! Now, you don’t see THAT every day, do you!” (and other toe-curling expressions that only a parent would say). Junior grunted his approval from the back seat but I could see in the rear view mirror that he was far too engrossed in his Nintendo DS to fully appreciate the spectacular beauty around him. It reminded me of Billy Connolly telling the story about his tour around America in a camper van when his children were small. The van was kitted out with all the mod cons of the time, including a television. On their return from some of the most scenic and beautiful places on earth Billy had asked his kids what their favourite part of the holiday had been. “Sesame Street” they replied in unison.
We stopped off at Auchengarrich Wildlife Centre on the way back down the road where we spent a fantastic 5 hours. The sky was peacock blue and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Junior ran wild in the adventure playground and I relished every moment spent in the company of the weird and wonderful furred and feathered creatures on show. We even got to watch emu chicks hatching. I had to giggle when Junior spotted a little bird hopping around inside the deer enclosure.
“Mummy, mummy look a sparrow!” he squealed excitedly as he skipped over to take a closer look, “now you don’t see THAT every day, do you?!”

So, I was telling Junior this morning what life was like when I was his age.
“You didn’t have baths back then..” he announced proudly, “just metal tubs. And no cars, just horses and carts”
I put him right although I did have a panic when I heard myself say “..in my day”
I was telling him about the swing we used to have in the back garden (the same garden he now plays in when he stays with my parents). It was strong and sturdy, not like the cheap plastic rubbish you get now and it had a thick, solid seat made out of very hard wood. This unforgiving chunk of wood was held on by two long metal poles with sharp hooks on the end which were fed through hanging chains at the top. These lethal hooks used to catch on your clothes and my friends and I had many a ripped pocket in the late 1970’s where we had attempted to jump off the swing when it was in full motion, trying to make it safely over the washing line before it garroted you. Oh, the fun we had before health and safety was invented. Looking back, that swing was so ‘child un-friendly’ but we had hours of fun on it and were never once asked to wear a helmet or knee pads before we climbed on. I don’t remember my mum ever warning us not to get too close to the great slab of a seat or it would crush our skulls in one swift motion. Yet now she panics if Junior runs too near the greenhouse or swings on the washing pole. How times change.
Junior’s favourite story from the past was the one about being off school ill.
“We didn’t have cosy covers and 24 hour TV when I was little…” I told him, with my chin jutting out bravely, “..when I was off school Gran would get the itchiest, scratchiest blanket from the airing cupboard and wrap me up in it. It was like a punishment. We would lie on the settee and watch school programmes until TV stopped for the afternoon”
“stopped..?” asked Junior with a puzzled expression.
I nodded sombrely, like I was recalling some memory from a time too traumatic to relive.
“In my day..” I said with a pensive pause, “we only had programmes for a little while every day. TV used to finish at lunchtime and we would get something called the test card - a picture of a creepy girl and a sinister clown playing noughts and crosses”
Junior’s mouth was opening further with every word and his eyes were wide with growing horror.
“And there were only three channels to choose from” I concluded, which finished him off.
“Three channels!” he squealed disbelievingly, “how did you survive?!”

Anyway, I’m away to hang the washing out. The sun is still shining but there’s a crisp breeze which should dry the clothes in no time.

A losing game?

Junior is a fantastic little boy but Jeez, is he a BAD loser!!

We were playing a game of Coppit after dinner tonight. It's my favourite board game, genuinely exciting and one which I have happy memories of playing as a child. I was trying to find the balance between providing opportunities for him to capture my 'men' and showing him that every action he made had a consequence. All was going well until I somehow managed to roll three sixes in a row which resulted in me 'copping' one of his men. Suddenly I was a "cheat" and everything was going wrong for him. The tantrum was spiralling at an alarming rate and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I tried to gently explain that I wasn’t making the die land on six every time it was just a fluke. Big, fat tears had started to plop onto the board, making it all soggy (his not mine!) I tried all the usual words of encouragement,
“Come on, this is supposed to be fun!”
“You can’t always be the winner” (blah blah blah)
but it had gone too far. As far as Junior was concerned the world had turned against him in a big way. To be fair we’d had a busy day and he was exhausted but it got to the point where I couldn’t take any more of the huffing and deliberate sabotaging of the game (suddenly he was moving one extra square when I wasn’t looking or sliding the die instead of rolling it so he got a six!).
“Right” I announced firmly, “if you continue to cheat I will put the game away”
That was it. All the bones in Junior’s body melted and he had a complete emotional breakdown.
“I always lose!” he yelled in between wracking sobs, “it’s not fair!”
My patience was dwindling fast.
“If this is how you react to losing a game how the heck are you going to cope when life really gets tough?” I sighed wearily, “..like if you don’t get the job you want or you love someone who doesn’t love you back! If I had fallen apart every time I got a knock back I wouldn’t be sitting here right now!”
I knew I had taken things too far but it was too late. Junior’s tear stained face fell even further.
“I don’t want to grow up!” he wailed, throwing the pieces down on the floor in a colourful explosion of plastic cones.
Sometimes I forget he is only six. Time for a cuddle and a wee pep talk me thinks....
He did calm down after a while, so much so that by the end of the game he shook my hand gallantly and said “Well done Mummy” which I thought was lovely. In fact I think I used the words “Jolly good sport” for the first time in my life. He congratulated me through gritted teeth but the point was he had the courage to remain dignified in defeat. It reminded me of a great quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson ~ “Win as if you were used to it, lose as if you enjoyed it for a change” This is the secret to life.
It did make me wonder if these little experiences in life prepare us for adulthood. Nobody likes to lose but it’s an important life lesson to accept that sometimes things don’t go our way and the only way to deal with that is to accept defeat and move on. Sometimes life can feel like it's a losing game. Perhaps if we can learn early on that not everything is going to go as planned, that sometimes the game doesn’t go our way and we can’t always throw a six then it will make rejection and loss easier to take when we are older. Having some tough setbacks can be really important. Losing is learning after all. Sometimes losing can change us, make us tougher. Sometimes we can take away a morsel of wisdom from one lost game and apply it to another game.

We’re into day six of the Easter break already and it’s been hectic but enjoyable. So far we’ve covered the cinema, an egg hunt, eating out, a country park, football club and soft play. Next week is even busier, including a much needed break away. On the down side we’ve had a nasty gash in the knee and some head lice to contend with. I love afternoons like we had today. We did some artwork, built the marble run together, chatted over home made soup and laughed so much at bedtime that some mouth wash came down Junior’s nose. I taught him how to sing “Blackbird” by the Beatles and when he sang it back to me I had a lump in my throat that I thought might choke me. We make a good team, me and Junior. Tantrums and traumas there may be but sometimes I look at my boy and wonder how it is possible to love someone so much and still be standing.