18 February 2024

As other Gen X-ers will know, when you first get a pair of reading glasses it is… well there is no other word for it; bloody fantastic!

You pop on those simple frames and a minor miracle occurs. The years roll away, the world brightens, sharpens and comes into focus; it is simply amazing. I just had to shout out,

“Woah… now I remember what the world is supposed to look like!”

And I would probably use the same phrase to sum up the wondrous ‘half term’ I’ve just enjoyed. A refreshing week away from work is the perfect way to recharge the batteries and recall what living is ‘supposed to look like!’ I catch up with many friends. I spend time with Small boy, sorting out the myriad of little things that build up when you regularly work an 11 hour day. And I do a show, playing in the band for a local production.

I absolutely love it and find myself pondering the following. If someone were to tell me that I’d played my last ever gig, would I be more or less devastated than being told I’d taught my last ever lesson at school? I’m not sure that I know, though in my defence not much of my life is devoted to such musings.

No, alas, as single mum, you are allowed precious few moments to think about yourself. Small boy was only 3 when his dad left and he has just turned 18. That makes 15 tough years,in which I doubt I have spent even 5 minutes thinking about what I’d actually like to be doing. But in this week of contentment I do find myself wondering whether or not the life I’ve lived in the last seven days is now the life I’d like to be living far more of the time.

Eek! If only seeing clearly through this conundrum were as easy as popping on my reading glasses … !

8 February 2024

My baby has just turned eighteen … eek!

Yes, Small boy is officially a child no more.

Golly gosh folks, one moment I’m in my thirties, in a Southwest hospital, high on gas and air and crooning Nat King Cole songs to any unfortunate soul passing by the birthing pool room, and the next;  nearly 2 decades have past and my son, the new little being who was born that memorable day, and I are trundling around Tesco stocking up on Vodka and Moretti beer for his coming of age party. Where does the time go?

Where indeed? And on this particular eighteenth, I am also facing the reality that all of my children are now viewed as adults, in the eyes of the law at least. They can vote, serve on a jury and, or course, go to the pub! It is a truly epic journey from the days of formula milk, car seats, ballet classes and Saturday morning football… for me as well as them. Looking back, I actually cannot understand how I ever found the energy to fit everything in!

Exhaustion aside, however, the trip down memory lane is a real joy for this single mum, as she ponders her role in the era of adult offspring. Years and years of good times, shared adventures, crazy capers and much laughter. Of course there have been tense and tricky times too, but one of the nice tricks of my mind, maybe everybody’s is that it tends to filter those out or at least push them into the background letting the brighter pictures and reminiscences dance and shine.

But back to the eve of Small boy’s party, where there is precious little time for looking backwards! We have a house to clear, disco lights to set up, a play list to perfect and costumes to finish off. Costumes? Why yes, my son has a theme; ‘come dressed as a musician‘ is his choice. He and two pals are going as the Bee Gees so, as I blog, he is strutting around the house, in white flares, face-timing his sisters for advice about wigs!

My costume? Now don’t be silly! If 40+ eighteen years olds are descending on my house then I am off out; at least for the first few hours. But if I was to dress up… did I mention that I do great Nat King Cole? Back in the birthing pool, I was singing ‘Let there be love’ . And what a perfect way to end this post, because, as lyrics go, there is no better advice I could give to my grown-up offspring as they launch into the world. Live with your heart, always respect the hearts of others and … the rest will sort itself out!

Saturday 17 June 2023

This weekend, as I struggle even to kneel on the floor, I finally have to accept that … I’ve wrecked my right knee!

For now, it means farewell to running, because, whilst I receive lots of varied advice: ‘looks like your cartilage’; ‘could be your IT band’; ‘you need ice pack’ ‘you need a heat pack’; ‘rest it’, ‘bind it and see how you go ‘ all concur that the pavement pounding is the root cause and that I have ‘runner’s knee’ – eek!

That’s certainly where it began, as far back as January, when my knee would twinge and make me a bit ‘hobbly’ after a run but ease during the week. And it is also where it ended … on a sunny Saturday morning, three weeks ago. My illustrious run buddy had dragged us successfully to the top of a hill, but only 3 minutes into the glorious gallop of a downhill, the pain shooting down my leg was so awful that we had to pull up and limp me home.

Last week, I ventured out again but it was not successful (and probably not wise) and so, I have now, decided to hang up my trainers for at least a month.

For a few days, I feel like a bona-fide athlete with an ‘injury’. Let’s face it, I’ve smiled my way supportively (occasionally with gritted teeth) through so many of the aches and ailments of the past husbands (okay, only one ex hub) and men in my life, that I have definitely earned my five minutes of ‘Patellofemoral Pain’– fame. But, pretty quickly, I just feel a bit blue.

Is it that I missing running?

Not really. I mean if it ends up being a permanent ‘so long‘ to striding out each Saturday, then I will be sad. My weekly 10K is activity that not only keeps me fit, but has also been sociable, fun and a brilliant way to strengthen friendships with a number of inspirational women. And for busy females, with lots of caring responsibilities, running is the perfect choice; fitting around demanding lives and keeping us within easy reach of those who may need us. From a single mum’s perspective, jogging is also great because it is so easy on the purse. Get yourself a pair of trainers and, off you go!

Because of this, I don’t completely rule out out lacing up my running shoes again. But, for me, the killer blow has not been the loss of weekly exercise, it has been the combination of incessant pain and, experiencing, for the first time, the limitations on my movement and my body.

To this point, I’ve lived happily and harmoniously in this frame. Flexible, bendy and always at ease in my own bones; that is what I am used to and that’s where I expected to stay. And I thank childhood gymnastic lessons for it.

Oh Gym club! I trundled along, aged 8, in a pair of ghastly floral shorts, just about able to bundle through an ungainly forward roll, and … it was a baptism of fire. Gymnastics, in the late 70s, was not for the fainthearted and it was a case of give up or go on a very steep learning curve. I chose the latter.

My mum got a book from the library, I got a leotard and we both lined the hall with cushions and mattresses so that I could practise handstands and walkovers and hurling myself, repeatedly forwards and backwards into the kitchen. Within a year, I had been moved into the Sunday squad, had a floor routine to music and could spring onto the vault from such a distance that, not only was I a shoe-in for the sack race on Sports Day, but I was also the interschool’s long jump champion. Moreover, I was strong and supple. Although mum made me pack it all in as I moved to high school (and she wanted me to concentrate on homework), the feeling of fluidity lived on and … I guess I thought it would last forever

Until now. It is a horribly shock to find my motion so limited. Pain when I squat down to load the washing machine and a huge struggle to get back up. Only able to hobble stiffly down the stairs each morning. On some days, just feeling so drained with the aching in my leg, that I could cry. Will this ever be cured, I wonder, if I carry on running?

Friends have recommended, seeing doctors, visiting physios, getting injections! One even thought keyhole surgery would be an option. But … none of them are single mums. I can justify neither the time nor the money for any of this. I am already behind on dental treatment (due to cost) and some routine GP checks (due to time and workload).

My only hope is that a bit of R and R does the trick. So, fingers crossed, otherwise yoga class, rambling group and walking sticks here I come!