Month: May 2015

13.30pm

A dull day lacking in life. A day where the rain has washed away all the dandelion clocks. A day when the daisies hold their heads tight shut. A day of grey and damp and nothingness.

When I run in the fields the lambs always run to their mothers bodies for protection.

Work always made in a rush. A hurry. A fluster. Art work really needs slow, methodical thought. There is no time to process. Only time to act with instinct. Should have spent the day writing the conference presentation but instead I have spent it organising hair cuts, washing up, turning clothes over on the radiator to dry and playing with collaging photographs.

Couldn’t sleep again last night. Negative thoughts going around and around in circles in my head.

This morning. Naoise is a delight. I come downstairs and he is examining my lacy burgundy bra. Bras are amazing structures, a great source of fascination.

Me: Do you like my bra Naoise, they are pretty aren’t they ? 

Naoise:  Yes mummy but I think you should wear white bras, white bras suit you.

He says that he also likes the way that the bra fastens up with the little hooks.

I remember being curious and fascinated by my mothers make up that she kept on her bedroom dresser. A circle of greasy green, a bottle of mascara in brown and one red lipstick. Then there was the fascination with watching my grannie do up her stockings on her stocking belt. I loved the little clips and fasteners.

We managed to read Naoise school book this morning, quite a miracle. We walk along the canal path. Naoise is on my shoulders looking down at the geese. They are growing at a phenomenal rate. The geese hiss and honk at us as we pass.

As we reach the road to turn to school we meet his friend on his scooter. Naoise is so delighted and excited to see him, especially as he is coming to play at our house later after school. I get pretty anxious as Naoise keeps darting in front of his friends scooter wheels. This makes me cross. I ask him to stop, not sure he is listening though. I run along side the two boys making sure they are safe and don’t end up in the road or flat on their faces. We cross with the lolly pop man.

All is good, though Naoise had wanted to play in the willow scrub, I tell him that there is no time for this, that we have to go straight into school. Last night he played with a little girl in the junior school, he loved her attention. She was kind and nurturing, took him by his hand and helped him up the muddy bank. Naoise didnt want to go home he wanted to watch the girls play netball, but it was totally freezing.

The oven buzzer sounds. Beep Beep Beep.

Have to stop writing, have an appointment at the health centre to see if I have managed to loose any more weight. I haven’t been trying that hard lately so it will be a nice surprise if any loss is measured.

Beep Beep Beep…the oven buzzer is insistent that I stop.

A reference to a comic sent to me by my friend at York University. Sticking it here so I don’t forget to have a closer look. A comic about becoming a mom by Rebecca Roher, Guts Magazine, Issue 4, 2015 

 

Awake in the night 4am-5am. Awake awake just before 7am.

Me and Syd are tired and slow out of bed. I coax him up with the breakfast he bought yesterday, sugary cereal and sugary french biscuit spread for toast.

He comes downstairs in the new trousers that I bought him for school.

Me: They look a bit tight Syd 

Syd: They are skinny fit mum, they are a perfect size 

The trousers are clearly far too small. I will have to take them back when he is not looking. He is a size 14 at least. Syd is growing as fast as the courgette plants. His feet are now measuring size 9H now. H fitting so so wide. He is going to be a tall broad wide footed man.

I get Naoise up, lift him into the shower. He shows me various poses that depict dinosaurs. He requests dinosaur names I can only come up with a few I am brain dead, brontosaurus, diplodocus, tyrannosaurus rex. His poses remind me of yoga positions. He has amazing balance and agility. I look at his tiny bone structure and the curve of his back. He is small but strong. Naoise is much more compliant. The mornings are calmer now his dad is away at work There are some blessings with all this extra work. He no longer fights me to school. He is calm. I am calm. We are happy slowly getting up and being pleased to get to school without the anxiety. Too many parents upset the apple cart. I am happier parenting alone. No contradictions. No disagreements. No lecturing.

Naoise is horrified by a large spider crawling along the edge of the bed. It is a big house spider. I don’t want to pick it up with my hand, instead I scoop it into one of Naoise play test tubes so we can both have a good look at the giant. Naoise calls it a grandad spider. The spider is missing one leg. Naoise lies on the bed watching the insect battling to free itself from perspex.

We go down stairs with the spider. Naoise happily eats his way through two wheetabix, clearly approving of his brothers cereal choice. I am glad of his appetite. I am glad to see him eat, for usually he eats like a nat. I hate to send him to school on an empty stomach.

He arrives happy to school, and I leave him looking after his friend who is not sure that he wants to leave the security of his mum’s legs.

---

In the studio. Thinking what needs to be done. Need to write a presentation about this project for The Motherhood and Creative Practice conference. I have been feeling ambivalent about these words. These words have been interrupting the creativity rather than aiding it. These words have become monster. What keeps me doing it ? Resilience, a responsibility to myself, to persevere even when doubt creeps in. Words that must be put down. Recording for the sake of it. Trying not to analyse. Not worrying if this is just one long conversation with myself.

Feelings of paranoia have crept in. Worry about ideas. Artists have ideas, but they don’t always share them. Perhaps I give away too much, share too much, the all giving mother/artist. If you give it all away what is left? I am empty. I am an empty. I am tired. I am awake with worry, listening to the dawn chorus. I have not been reading. Reading strengthens the words. The clarity. I am slipping into verbal diahorhea. More words are not better. Less is more, but there is no time for editing, just a river of thoughts full of spelling errors and slips and stumbles of thoughts.  Between the mess and the clutter there maybe something. I need to lift the stones, sort through. Pick out. Find focus. How to move forward ?

Words. This is an emerging practice. These words lie. Some days I have had to work backwards remember what happened. I have gone to bed without writing this. I have not been truthful. I should have left a gap. Been honest. I have not been able to write everyday. I have not. I confess.

I struggle at the weekends. I struggle now Patrick is working longer hours. I seem to have lost the flow, the continuity. I have become repetitive. Patrick see’s this project as a threat. I remind him that it is about me and my journey, but I understand I have walked a precipice. I should not mention his name, he does not want to read about himself here. Should I apologise? Should I censor? Have I done damage? Have I forgotten the ethics of this ? You can become lost in an art work. Art work tends to have a life of its own. A way of making itself.

I thought about the pram film again. I need to make this pram film. A pram falling, collapsing, disintegrating, tumbling down a cobbled path.

In the school yard, my friend was carrying a plastic bag full of nappies to give back. I remember us both, caring for our babies together, our boys in fluffy bottomed reusable nappies. Time flies. I hold one of her nappies from the plastic bag in my hand, turn it around and over and over. Touching its fluffiness, remembering, a time before, a time gone, a time never to be repeated. Endless nappy changing and washing and hanging out on the line. I liked the reusable nappies there was pleasure to be had in knowing  that  I wasn’t wasting the worlds resources. Pleasure in lines full of cotton nappies soft and clean. Folding them carefully back into a draw. Pride in simple things. So many nappies to put on and take off and clean. Again and again.I also remember the back ache from repetitive tasks of care. Nostalgia is a great thing, I am looking back at this time with affection, I know it was not always so fluffy. I know that there was always thoughts of ambivalence of drudgery of numbness and always a longing to be alone, to have a break, to get washed uninterrupted, to be able to manage to complete the washing up.

What is it that I said that I would talk about? Something to do with failure and maintenance.

Found the abstract, I will try and structure the presentation around these questions this will be a start….you have to start somewhere, but my head is a numb mess and I am no good at editing…..try not to worry, try just to act, the process will sort through the clutter….tidy up the thoughts…spring clean it.

Where is it that I am failing? In what ways do I feel that this artwork fails, where does it break down, what gets in the way of creative production, what aspects of mothering feed the creative process and what aspects of mothering and domestic work get in its way? Failure perhaps is a positive strategy for making, when I fail, I acknowledge that I am not super mum. Perhaps it is impossible to combine the role of a mother with that of an artist, are there too many unrealistic expectations of each? How do I manage these duel identities and accompanying workload of (being) mother and artist.

Helen Sargeant, Failure and Maternal Imperfection.

 

I wish the sun would shine. It is grey and soporific

Not really wanting to say much. Tiring of this project. Sunday is a day of rest. Trying to hold my families lives together. Planning moments that we can spend as one. There seems to be little time anymore. Little joy between the over the top work load, so I am trying to claw back time for us, trying to keep us happy. There never seems to be a balance on life.

In the morning.

Patrick mows the meadow at the allotment and returns with blisters.  Sydney rides his bike along the road to Halifax, he returns at the agreed time. I stay home with Naoise polish shoes, play pretend battles with connex and ensure that lunch is cooked and on the table by one.

In the afternoon.

At least we share a car journey together. Drop Patrick and Naoise off at the park. Go to sort out Naoise permanently flashing shoe at the shop. Buy more uniform and training shoes for Syd and new pants for Naoise.

https://youtu.be/tgGQo7rb714

In the evening.

Patrick cooks dinner vegetarian and chicken wraps. I eat too much. I drink too much. I need to stop overindulging at weekends. I have not really sorted out my comfort eating problem. Need to be more disciplined.

Later in the evening.

Later we all sit on the small sofa together and watch a film called The Way. A film based on the Camino de Santiago Pilgrimage.  I would love to go on a pilgrimage. I would love to walk with my eldest son. Syd is going on a cycling holiday with his dad over the half term holiday, I am glad for him but hope one day too I can spend some extended time with him alone. I would like to walk along a coastal path, maybe in the west highlands of Scotland. One day.

 

 

 

Not much to say. Woke too early with a hangover. Mum staying. Jumped into bed with her for a while, but she is so so awake I decide its best to retreat back to my own bed in the attic. Its just lovely to have her staying with me, though I know that the stay will go fast. Rush around buying presents for parties and then showing my mum my work in the Water Street art gallery, then taking her for coffee and cake. Everything always a rush, wish it wasn’t like this. Its hard just to carve out half and hour with her. Never mind. Take Syd to the gym, Naoise to a party. For the first time ever I decide to leave Naoise on his own at the festivities. I am not in the mood for small talk, just want to be quiet and peaceful. Not feeling very sociable. Need to hide in my shell. Retreat. Protect.

Whilst Naoise was at the party sat at the dinner table and looked at the work of Norwegian photographer Marie Sjøvold in particular her Midnight Milk and She is/Dust Catches Light series. Read article and watched video about her work via the British Journal of Photography:  How motherhood changes us  

After collected Naoise from the party. He is so happy, when I arrive he is bashing a piñata and then he runs around cuddling his friends, he doesn’t want to leave. His friend gives him a bomb that he has made out of an empty cotton roll, a bell and some ribbon. We leave and drive to the allotment.

The grass has grown long. Its cold, the wild flowers have not germinated. Nothing a blank of soil. The potatoes are coming up and the onions are sprouting. Naoise swings and pulls off the heads of the purple sprouting broccoli. The herbs are growing well and the apple blossom is just out. Its cold. I talk to an allotment friend about the cold everything is slow this year. Still we leave with a bunch of rhubarb some broccoli and mint. Rhubarb for crumble. Broccoli to accompany a vegetarian meal and mint to make into tea.

I collect Syd from the roadside on the way home. Make tea. Seems strange baking the crumble its been a long while since I have made a desert. I have been so serious about losing weight. I remember how much I love baking. I love the process of crumbling the butter fat into the flour and preparing the rhubarb, its so satisfying when its your own produce. I love rhubarb its beautiful flamingo pink colour and tart taste. Rhubarb fool is perhaps my favourite of all.

Feed the family, then me and Syd go out. Syd goes to youth club, I go and see a friend. We walk down the canal path together, its a lovely sunny evening, I am glad to be out of the house.

I buy some flowers and a bottle of wine on the way. I thought I was just seeing couple of friends but in reality a party has been organised. I am not in a party mood. So many people. I am not prepared for a big social gathering. I stay for a while shake hands, smile,try to have fun, to join in but the small talk and the extra alcohol just makes me sad. I feel dull and without energy. I don’t fit at this party. I leave without saying goodbye, sometimes its good just to make a quiet exit, no point in struggling with socialising especially when its not making you feel good. I am glad to go. I am glad of the walk.

I am glad to go to bed. I open the window, look at the stars, I can’t see the moon. I am glad to curl up beside Naoise. Life is simple. Its about the stars and the children, anything else is dull by comparison. Its easy to loose sight of the point of it all, but the point is close to home. Hold your family dear, cling to it above all else. Don’t get distracted by others. Focus. All I need is here in this upstairs space, me and my delightful children. Boy and Boy-Man.

 

 

Naoise always adorably sleepy in the morning time.

I have never had Naoise come out of school crying before but yesterday he did. Sadness and tears that tore at my heart. The words of adults can cut. All he wanted was a different packet of birthday sweets, and for this assertion he was deemed a rude and ungrateful boy. I think that I would have cried too. Poor sweet little Naoise. They expect so so much of our children. I wonder if the teaching assistant would have said that to her own child or she would have spoken to him in this horrid way if I had been looking on. Its when we are unable to be present, unable to protect our children that it hurts the most. Language is so important it is of cause possible to act in a rude way and for your actions to be perceived as ungrateful but my of my how over the top over a little tiny packet of sweets that were meant as a generous offering from another child to make the children happy. She could have chosen her words with care.

Naoise completed his star chart this week and won a little note book with a football on the front, within which he wrote a story. He told me he had written a good story with adjectives. I love the phonetical spellings. I love that a strong knight has become a tiny nit.

I took Naoise to a friends house that he hadn’t seen in a long while and bought him and his friend a packet of chocolates along the way. The incident of the sweet packet was soon forgotten.

Me and my friend caught up over cup of tea and cup of tea about the children and life and work. I have missed her. The children played upstairs in the attic. Syd was at the gym, so I was glad of some adult company.

Syd is now taller than me.

Spent the day frantically writing the application for Parental Body, I expect nothing back from them, its best perhaps to expect nothing and think of the £15 administration fee as a charitable contribution to funding an arts project. Least I can tick it off my list and say that I did apply to the ten people that recommended that I did. It felt as if I had a responsibility to them as well as myself to enter into this opportunity.

Had no time to eat lunch. Worked through till two. Ate a bounty bar to celebrate.

Mum showed up at just before three. Left straight away to collect Syd from school. Dropped Syd and mum off at home. Went to collect Naoise. Naoise wanted to join his friends who were walking up to the pub, then Naoise wanted to play on the swing on the hill, but we needed to get home so that we could take Syd to cricket.

Mad less that 1.5 hours getting children tea and ready to go out to the cricket match.

Drive to cricket match. Spend a couple of hours trying to keep warm beside the cricket field. Syd catches a ball within the first minutes of the match. We all see him catch the ball. We all clap. The sky greys. We walk around and around the pitch to try and keep warm. The club building eventually opens and we get a hot drink. As soon as we are warm, the rain comes and the game is called off. I am glad that it was called off. I am far too tired to sit beside a cold cricket pitch.

Patrick works late at work. Work Work Work.  I am beyond caring about when he works and when he is at home. It is best to not to care so that it no longer matters. I have some company and the company is good.

We go home and my mum kindly treats us all to an indian takeaway. We eat too much. Drink too much and all collapse to bed.

 

 

 

Today I get a coffee in bed. Today I am a lucky mother-artist for being appreciated and respected. Thats all that I need, respect, lack of conflict, kindness. I ask for little. I expect nothing. It is better if there is some understanding.

What is it that I do all day?

Ensure Syd has his breakfast- a banana

Ensure Syd has money for the bus and his dinner and the gym.

Ensure Syd has agreed a time that he needs to be back home after the gym.

Feel happy with Syd, he is getting more independent and being more responsible for himself. I am pleased that he is interested in getting fit, in drawing, in playing his guitar all of this is good.

Persuade Naoise into his uniform. Provide Naosie with reassurance that it will be ok to wear his school shoes to school even though one is flashing constantly. I tell him I can take them back to the shop and get them replaced. Naoise is concerned that then he would have to wear the shoes in again and they would be uncomfortable. Naoise does not want toast, banana cake, rasberry porridge for breakfast he asks for custard. I tell him that custard is not on the breakfast menu so I boil him an egg instead.Now Naoise wants a tickle fight. Back upstairs a tickle fight. Naoise bangs his head. Provide comfort.Get Naoise jumper and coat on its much cold and grey and breezy today. Take a chapati with us to feed the geese and ducks.

Walk down canal path. See a duck with seven fluffy ducklings. Feed the geese chunks of chapati. The geese families are on the far side of the canal bank in the wooded area eating grass and grubs, they are not interested in our chapati. Get Naoise to avoid walking on the piles of goose poo.

Get distracted by an email, stop writing email responses on the school run, this is not the time for admin.Naoise looks tired, scoop him up, put him on my shoulders. Cross road with the lolly pop man, thank him, wish him a good day.

Walk into the school, up the ramp, into the side door, ignore teaching assistant as she is only interested in my child, not me. If she catches my eye I smile if she does not I concentrate on getting in through the door. Help Naoise into classroom, hang up bag, encourage him to do as the teacher says, sit on carpet, listen to story. I remember that I have not signed a consent form so that Naoise can take part in a bicycle workshop. Request a spare form from the teacher, fill it in, sign it.

Give Naoise a kiss and a hug good bye wish him a happy day.

Wait for my friend to come out and check if she needs me to look after the children. Walk up hill then run.

What is it that I do all day?

I maintain. I nurture. I assist. I care. I plan. I observe. I find. I watch. I reflect. I apply. I tidy and sort. I walk up the hill. I run so that I can maintain my wellbeing and I am able to function as a human being. I run and dodge the sheep shit. I love seeing the lambs and the ewes. I pass the spot where the decomposing leg of a lamb is, I photograph the leg. I am more intrigued than disgusted. I am not afraid to look. I look. I have my eyes wide open. I live in the now and I try not to be anxious. I run as its quicker than walking so I can get to the studio, start my day or work.

As my time is so short to make anything, do anything creative, I try to combine running with art making. I sketch out ideas, I make some notes that can be developed into something more substantial later. Or the ideas may forever stay as notes and sketches, a record of a necessity to make in the moment, before the moment and the idea passes. I had planned to do something with the pram and the redundant childrens stuff in the cellar but I reject this idea, realising that it would need a camera person to help me. Best to work alone, work on what you can do independently, everything becomes impossibly slow and complex as soon as its a collaboration, and so many collaborative ideas that I have discussed typed out spent time over never come to fruition. Best to do what I can do. To be independent.

I think of the legs and I think of my naked legs and I think of the trees and the branches of trees as legs. I compare the texture of my pubic hair to the moss growing on the branches of the oak tree. Is this all too obvious?  I don’t want to explain. Art looses its power if you explain exactly what led to its making. This is over analysis. You don’t need to know that the lambs leg led to my legs. Naked legs, decomposing legs, ageing legs, ageing body, life, walking, being outside. One step in front of the next, moving and pushing forward through life. Chest and breast first.

Taking the photographs I felt vulnerable. I need to be careful that I am not caught out by a dog walker. I would not want to be found in the woods with my pants down. I am not ashamed of my body, I just know that other people can feel threatened and embarrassed by nudity and I possibly could get into trouble too. All I am doing is taking photographs of my naked legs in a tree but thats not ordinary is it ? Its ordinary to take your clothes off on a beach, thats acceptable but not in a wood. Its good to be ever so a little bit naughty. Its good to take control to be able to express myself, my body in the way that I want to. I wonder what Anna Mendieta would have said.

Making these images I think also of Sarah Lucas casts of legs and vaginas and bottoms clenching cigarettes, her custard coloured installation I Scream Daddio installation at the Venice Biennale. Fried eggs and spam: behind the scenes at the Venice Biennale with Sarah Lucas- exclusive video. 

Her work speaks to me, its cheeky, naughty, plays with the female body, with sexuality, especially her black cats with enlarged breasts. Her cats breasts are full of milk….There is a word for it ? I love her naivety. She does not know the word that describes breasts that are full of milk. The word or rather the phrase  is engorged with milk. She uses the word lactating. Her cats breasts are not lactating. Her cats breasts are full. Just full.

I decide to go to the studio rather than stay in the house and listen to the distracting sounds of scrapping and banging and drilling and bashing from the building going on next door. Our walls are paper thin so it feels as if they are in our house too.

On the way to the studio I think what it is I need to get done the application form for Project Afterbirth prepare talk for the conference on Motherhood and Creativity, advertise and prepare the Louise Bourgeois workshop, write M(other)s Stories, buy a wire brush for making mono prints. I will work through lunch, I don’t take breaks there is no time for rest. Need to squeeze as much productivity into the four hours that I have.

I won’t need to collect Syd from school today because he is making his own way back so this should give me another 30 minutes of time to be able to work in the studio.

This is not everything that I do all day. Some things are invisible I don’t measure the words of kindness, the conversations, the encouragement, the hugs, the play, the thought, the love, that is just what mothers do without being asked, isn’t it? Or is all of this expected of a mother? Its my role, its my work, its what has been assigned to me. I will do it without being asked, a mother loves her children regardless of a contract. A mother who is an artist and tries to combine both creativity and maintenance. Maintenance of others. This is what I do all day, but it cannot be measured or paid for or evaluated, it can only be done. The contract is unwritten. The contract of care that I and a world of mothers enter into each day. Must I always except this contract?

I will collect Naoise from school. I will go home play with him, make him dinner, wash up, tidy away, get him in the bath, read to him, settle him down, get him to sleep, then I will settle Syd down, maybe talk to him see that all is ok, then maybe do some more housework or any other work of my own that needs doing and finally I will collapse into bed and maybe dream but I don’t remember any dreams at the moment.

 

04.37pm

I have found fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes on the buzzer till my supermarket instant curry meal is ready. I have chosen a very lazy option for tonights tea. I made Syd steak and peas and chips. I tried to encourage him to drink a glass of orange juice to help release the iron in the meat. He was reluctant. He drank half of the glass telling me it was all to sweet.

Syd is obsessed with wanting a gym membership. He talks about asking to have an annual membership for his birthday that is upcoming. He then talks about disparity of presents between our family and his fathers. Children so quickly pick up on inequalities. I try to brush it off be positive about his father. Its only stuff. Love is the best stuff.

Syd is singing his heart off. I love it when he sings and plays the guitar, I think that it is when he is most content.

Next door the building work continues. I can hear the scrapping of the plaster being applied to the walls. I am so so sick of banging and chipping and drilling and scrapping. This has been going on for a month now and eats into each weekend too. I haven’t wanted to be at home because of the noise and disruption.

The courgette plants are growing big. I need to get to the allotment, I have neglected it the past two weeks. Too much work on to enable me to tender to it. A garden which is what it really is needs love and maintenance. I plan to go there Friday. The rhubarb should be big enough for a pie. Mum is coming on Friday. Maybe a pie for her. Perhaps the potatoes are up. Perhaps the wild flowers have emerged. There are bound to be weeds and long grass and plenty of jobs to be done.

Next door builders come and go in and out of their silver van. The skip out front is full. I haven’t walked outside to day apart from a quick trip to the Library. At the Library I checked the council jobs website for anything I could do. Nothing as usual. I saw a teaching assistance job but you needed to know braille and the deadline was today. I tried on a dress in a charity shop but I didn’t buy it. A woman only needs so many dresses and this one was so thin you could see my pants hanging over a sagging arse, not that flattering at all.

The buzzer sounds fifteen minutes gone. I will eat.

 

Not a good day. A day of sadness. A day that I have nothing that I would like to actually record or divulge. I am grateful for the kindness of friends. I had hugs and arm strokes of comfort and offers of help with childcare. I cried. I tried not to cry  as I waited for Naoise to come out of school. Good friends know when something is a miss, they can just sense the sadness. Sadness penetrates my whole being. Sadness makes me pale. Sadness makes my hair look dull. I forgot to eat lunch I was so sad.

In the evening time I joined the Labour party and then thought perhaps it should of been the Green party. Then I signed loads of petitions on Change.org. You have to do something. It is so much more satisfying to act rather than write words.

Naoise wakes up he wants a shower. I help him undress, turn on the water, lift him into the bath. He stands and talks to me. He is confused about which day it is, he thinks its Sunday. I was working on Saturday so I can understand his confusion. He is sad. The realisation of Monday brings Monday illness on.

Naoise: I don’t feel well mummy, I have a headache mummy. I need to stay at home.

Its very sweet that he wants to spend a day with me, but I am not going to give in. School is a blessing. Education a privilege. School is a blessing for him and for me. We need time apart. I need to rest and work. He needs to learn and play.

I ignore his protestations and jolly him along to school. Get him dry. Get him dressed. Make his porridge. Raspberry porridge, a bowl of deliciousness.

Me: “Lets turn the radio on to see whats going on in the world”

Naoise: ” Thats not what you have to do mummy, you just open the door and go outside.”

After breakfast, I snatch him up quick. Out the door before he remembers his refusal for school. He is annoyed. He is standing holding onto the door handle, placing his hand over the key hole. He is so clever. He is so stubborn. He will not give in on the fight.

I hope for some help, a passer by, a neighbour. We are stuck on the step. We are stuck. Bribery isn’t working. Empathy isn’t working. Firmness isn’t working. At times like these I feel like a failed parent. I am determined to stop feeling this sense of failure.

I know I am not really a failed parent. I know that. I know that his stubbornness of character will fair him well in life. I know this, but when you are in these moments. These challenging moments that are far from joy, its hard to see. To see really what your child sees. To jolly along, to be positive, to use powers of persuasion, to take care with language, to be clear, to help, to love and to be kind.

My neighbour comes out of her front door. I call to her. I call her name. She can see I am struggling. Just the presence of her makes Naoise behave. She doesn’t even have to cross the road to intervene. Naoise doesn’t want to go to school in her car. He wants go to school on my shoulders walk along the canal path as I suggested.

We walk on him on my shoulders. Naoise suggests that we walk in the opposite direction along the canal path away from the school. He does not give in. He fights his corner till the last. He is wilful. Wilful is good.

We walk in the right direction towards school. Its raining hard, its cold, feels more autumnal than spring. Its grey. Puddles on the canal. We see a goose sheltering her goslings under her wing. Naoise is delighted. We stand and watch, occasionally a gosling pokes its head from her feathers. Naoise laughs and laughs at the sight. So sweet. So tender. A goose and her nurturing wing. A gooses and her wing as arm of love and arm of shelter. A goose whose body is her goslings home. Snug warm under her downy wing. Safe, protected, wing of home and love.

Naoise is not the only one struggling with Monday-itis. I see his friend hiding behind his mums legs, reluctant to go into the school. I am not surprised the children don’t want to go to school on Monday. On Mondays I want to shoot the hold day down. Yet this Monday, this Monday is different, I am glad of school, I am glad of it for the rest it will give me today.

---

The rest to be able to work. Work>Rest.

What is work? What is work? Care work? Work that is paid? Work that is voluntary? Looking after children work?

Art work. Love work. Family work. Studio work. Admin work. Domestic work. Well being work. Writing work What is work and what is not work. When is it that we don’t work. When is it that parents don’t work ?

In our sleep? Is that then the work of the unconscious?

Go to the studio. Care not to switch on computer. Care to make art. Care not to write. Care to create visual work. Mono printing. The delicious smell of oil based ink, sliding from roller to plastic with a lovely swishing sticky sound. The satisfaction of line and bleed of line on paper, of repeating the same lines again and again Lines that trace the body till the flow of the line captures the thought that is in your head. Filling pregnant bellies with memories, and Naoise drawings of babies, and trying to come up with some new ideas. Ideas that are not words.

The words have failed me.

---

Later I collect Syd and Naoise from school . I first drop Syd back at home then go to get Naoise. He is reluctant to go home. He was reluctant to come to school and now he doesnt want to leave it. He has found a woodlouse. He is playing with the woodlouse in the dirt. Covering it with dirt, watching it crawl back out. He balances on stones. He brings the woodlouse to me on a stick. We watch it as he holds the stick upside down. The woodlouse seems unaware of right side up and upside down. It has many many legs. Too many little legs to count. When I hod the woodlouse in my hand, I cannot even feel its legs moving.

The best conversations are had sat on benches waiting for children, or watching children play. I exercise patience rather than bullying Naoise home in a hurry. Its sunny, he is playing with a woodlouse, balancing on some rocks, enjoying being outside. Why rush home to a messy disorganised, disfunctional house and home. An anxious mind inside when out here life makes sense. Out here sitting on this bench talking to this lovely woman about mothering, about culture, art and theatre and London and education and hormones and growing up and culture and diversity and the lack of gardens behind houses in Todmorden.

Back home. Back home I get the children’s tea, warm up the Lasagne Patrick made for the family at the weekend. Good when its your own fast food meals. I make my dinner, rice, with spinach and potatoe curry from a plastic bag. Its delicious especially with a blob of hot mango chutney that I bought in Rusholme yesterday.

I drop Syd off at cricket. Cricket practice makes him happy. I am pleased to see him happy.

Patrick gets home and I go for a walk.

I leave him to bath Naoise to read his school book, to collect Syd from cricket. Patrick’s dinner is on the stove. I am not totally neglectful.

---

I need some air, some space on the hills. I don’t hurry I take my time. I worry that the lambs will all be gone from the hillside. They are not. I see apple blossom. I smell it. I see the peach and white of apple blossom against the green of the grass and the blue haze of the bluebells beneath. The pink. The blue. The green. I see new leaves unfolded. Fresh. Clean. Vibrant.

I see lambs jumping, skipping, feeding from their mothers. The hills are alive with bleating and ba ba ba ing. The lambs are getting fat and strong. Some are  just born. I see two twin lambs fresh from their mothers womb. Red with it. Unsure on their feet. Asking for milk. Asking for comfort and reassurance.

I see two lambs legs. These legs I see must be from lambs who have died during birth or lambs who have been killed by fox or badger or dog or weasel. The sight of the fluffy legs detached from body fills me with horror. Decomposing legs. Death amidst so much play and new life. I cannot bare to think about the fate of the lambs. I just watch and enjoy them. I enjoy their play. I love it when you can get really close. When they stand still and stare you in the eye before fleeing. I hate to disturb their sleep when they are tucked in hollows. They always flee. I am always a threat however gentle I tread, however quietly, however carefully.

I see rabbits. I see two owls take off. I know they are owls. Their flight is lighter than other birds. Their wing span much bigger. They are shy. Their flight almost silent. I wish I had been just a little closer to see. I think they were tawny owls. I think. Its just a guess.

I imagine that I might see the family of weasels on the way home but I do not, just more ewes and lambs. Its getting dark.

---

When I get home I still have Naoise to hug to sleep and Syd to settle down. Syd is wired. All Syd wants to do is watch TV. I watch a little with him. He misbehaves. I ignore him. I ignore him and later I find him asleep in bed with Naoise, so I sleep in his bottom bunk. Thats ok, its been a while since I had a sleep alone. I pull the Doctor Who duvet up around me. I will sleep well.

---

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Naoise weather report for Sunday: Sundia sunee in the mornjne Stortuf luch rianee. (Sunday sunny in the morning sort of later rainy. 

What is there to say about Sunday? Sunday is a day of rest.

I needed to escape, however tired I was, I needed to see the city and culture.

The train then the Magic Bus.  The Magic bus is Magic because it is cheap and Naoise thinks that sitting on the top seat of the bus is Magic too.

Whitworth Art Gallery- Drew pictures with Naoise I described what I could see and he drew what I was describing. Looked at figurative drawings. David Hockneys beautiful graphical figurative studies and others. Listened to a Harp concert. Sat right at the front with Naoise on my knee. Beautiful sounds. Played outside in the park. Went to Rusholme first the World Supermarket then a Curry. Good to celebrate life with some of the I money I had earnt from the Visualising Birth through Art workshop .Good to eat some joy. Naoise loved the chicken korma and and shovelled handfuls of rice into his mouth.

Home.

 

 

Naoise weather forecast:  Satdia Klowdee dia (Saturday Cloudy Day)

Set alarm clock to sound too early. So awake at 5am then could’nt get back to sleep.

Kissed Syd and Naoise goodbye in their sleep.

Syd to his Dads today. I will miss him.

Got to studio to set up at 8.30am.

Delivered workshop Visualising Birth through Art 

Cleared up workshop, organised a model for Wednesday nights session of life drawing.

Left studio at 6pm.

Went for a drink at the pub by the canal. Smoked a cigarette. Cough seems to have got better since I have calmed down on the exercise, so as able to inhale and exhale the smoke. Spoke about the workshop and how it had gone, but really too exhausted to evaluate it. Time needs to pass. Time to think and reflect.

Got home and watched Kinki Boots the film. It was fun, but could’nt keep my eyes awake watching it. Drank too much red, chocolate cravings too. Too much work, work this week. Life needs to slow in order for discipline to be kept.

Went to bed.

 

Wake up. Slept heavy. Syd awake already, he calls me into his bedroom, he is busy reading news on his iPad in bed. Mum the Tories have got in! I am filled with absolute horror.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I am filled with horror and shock.

WHY WHY WHY

I am filled with dread. I remember so clearly the last conservative government and the damage that was done.

ANGER burning in my heart.

What are we to do? Our children’s futures are at risk. Our health our work our homes our planet. Fear and hate must not prevail. I try to suck it in. There must be a period of mourning. I will save up and buy some DM boots. I will need sturdy boots to walk. I will need sturdy boots to put on so that I can attend as many demonstrations as I can. I will teach the children how to demonstrate. I will take them with me. With them we may make a difference. We will act. We will overcome. We will fight. We will show our rage against austerity.

AUSTERITY does not work.

My family will rebel, we will not become depressed we will work together with those who care and we will ask why and listen to those who voted tory, so that we can understand, so that we can hopefully change minds and build a better future.

There will be RAGE on the streets. I will not curl up, give up and live in a bubble I will not give up on the outside world. I will not tow the line.

I speak to my mum on the phone. I am in tears.

I go to the studio. I listen to some music on the way. Jimi Somerville singing his heart out on radio 2. I really am getting middle aged, listening to radio 2.

I will not fall in tears I will CRY I will CRY with my voice in rage I will CRY with my voice. I will stand up throw my fist in the air, show my solidarity. CRY LOUD CRY IN PUBLIC. I will think and plan and CRY against this government and its callousness.

I work in the studio, preparing the Visualising Birth through Art workshop, making plans, writing notes, putting together the booklet I have compiled. I feel proud. Need to work on the booklet further, make it into a solid piece of research, a learning tool for others, a way of making a living from all my hard work. I need to at least pay the bills. Carve out a way to make a living.

Collect the children.

I am happy that my friend is coming over for tea. It will be good to see her, we need to catch up. She is a kind friend. Fun. She is as much a friend of the children’s as she is of me. The best kind of a friend. We drink tea and talk. We talk about politics. We talk about family and work. We eat food together. Her company is so uplifting. I am not lonely. I don’t care that its not until late that Patrick comes home. I am happy in her company.

Too much conversation about politics. I am working the next day. Its all too intense. I want to switch off my critical head for a while, have some moment of peace.

I watch the last episode of Poldark and then wish I hadn’t. The landscape shots are beautiful, romantic, uplifting but the narrative bleak;  illness, poverty, loss of a baby, and an arrest.

Poldark will be back.

I tried to escape into a bubble. I did. The bubble was bleak too. There is no escape. Best to work with the now, with reality.

I go to bed late. Too late. At least in sleep there maybe some escape ?