10.09am -12.00pm (sitting at my desk in the studio, Hebden Bridge)
surprising item in the bagging area
-Female voice, self service check out till
I’ve just dropped Naoise off at school, I am in the supermarket feeling pleased with myself for being super organised and doing the shopping for tonights dinner . This way I should hopefully accomplish more in the studio, though the weight of having to complete my tax return lies heavy on my shoulders. I am sick of receiving the daily text reminders. I have been deliberately avoiding doing the tax, its mind blowingly boring when all I want to do is draw, draw, draw, make, paint and find new exciting opportunities for my artwork.
I am trying to seize the moment, redress the balance, make things better, be proactive, plan.
I have been mulling over how to conclude this project. Its been a few weeks since I stopped writing. Writing everyday for a year. I feel so relieved. I have more energy. I have been thinking how important it is to have space and time just to dream, to reflect. But that is not always possible when working as a Mother/Artist because you have to grab the time you have and go with it. Everything becomes a bit sketchy, improvised. You have to make do because you are working on mother time. Time to create be-tween the interruptions.
I have struggled with this endurance project. I have struggled with putting intimate thoughts and ideas out there in the public. I got paranoid, I imagined social services might come knocking at my door, I imagined that I would be judged. I imagined that this might affect my chances of gaining employment. It has added to my anxiety rather than taking it away.
I got frustrated with the words and the photographs becoming the dominant aspect of my practice. The physical drawing and the making became neglected.
I felt consumed by this.
I felt concerned about the personal boundaries that I had crossed, the ethics. Is this too personal? Is it too like a confessional? Does it lack critical thought?
Back to the surprising item in the bagging area. The severed voice of the self service check out till woman seemed. Mundane. No, Profound. It made me think about being a parent.
It made me think about the surprising things my children do each day. The surprising things that I think each day. Sometimes dark thoughts….sometimes moments of joy, observations, little things. Like Naoise helping himself to breakfast when I was in the shower. How he got himself up and dressed, how he made himself breakfast. He cut open two bagels with a bread knife. He toasted them and ate them and then felt too full. WOW I thought. WOW how independent, how brilliant that you were able to do all this. How great that you did’nt cut yourself on the jagged edge of the bread knife or burn your little fingers on the toaster or fall off the high stool.
I feel relieved that he is growing in confidence and independence. I see myself emerging from the fog. I see myself becoming whole again. I am mending myself. Super glueing a broken plate together. I think that’s what I am doing then I feel lost again, lost within their lives and needs and wants. Lost within care work.
Then Syd. Syd is such a bundle of energy. He shouts. He shouts rather than sings. He is shouting because he is into punk. Next week it will be indie folk. Oh how I wish for indie folk again, only because its easier to bare listening too in a tiny terrace house that becomes amplifier as he practices. But I do love punk. I love the angry, energy of punk.
I wonder who is reading this? Who cares? Who really cares about the tiny winy details of my life?
SPEAK BACK, LEAVE A COMMENT. HAVE I SAID SOMETHING THAT YOU CAN IDENTIFY WITH. I KNOW I AM NOT ALONE.
I worried when Naoise wrote on my belly in black biro I am an artist and I hate myself. I know he was probably just being silly but his words upset me, and I worried about him picking up on my negativity, my struggles. I don’t want to struggle, I am sick of it. I am sick of this voice.
I had some scary, sad thoughts after Christmas. It was the new year, my period had started. I had had my monthly bust up with P. My new year argument. We always argue about the same things. I am sure that couples must fight a lot this time of year. I had managed to keep it together at a New Years party. I remember hating him. There were no kisses that night. New years day, I went for a walk alone. I felt terribly alone. Syd was at his dads, my mum was in Scotland and I had fallen out with P. I felt very sad, and it rained and it rained and it rained. I cried and cried and cried. Then I became bored of being sad and the week passed and Syd came home. I hate it when he is away and it seems especially cruel over the Christmas period to not have my son with me.
I think that much of this project is full of this childish, uninformed, introspective, self analytical stuff. And I thought I don’t want to scratch and pick at the surface of my life anymore. I want to laugh and have fun and live in the now and forget the bad and remember the good, I want to break rules and start sentences with AND. I want to get my work out of the valley. The claustrophobic calder valley, I don’t make landscape paintings. I make challenging, questioning, critical work about being a woman, being a mother, the body, vulnerability, isolation.
I am reaching out….moving beyond the cradle of the hills. I am breaking free.
I met my dear friend at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park and we talked about our children and our art work and our plans for the future. We supped free green tea in Bill Viola’s project space. Whilst we talked her daughter sat on her lap breast feeding. She was always hungry for breast milk….which was amusing and endearing. We poked sticks in mud, walked. Drank coffee whilst her daughter sat in the window will of the cafe with her small plastic toys.
She asked me about this project and what I was going to do next. I told her that I hated it. I had fallen out of love with it, I wanted nothing more to do with it. I discussed how at times it had been difficult to continue, that it had caused conflict between me and P and the children. How even Naoise grew to hate it. He did’nt want me to take photographs of him so I took photographs of the empty playground floor instead. He got bored and annoyed of mummy behind a smart phone camera. He got bored of being the focus of my art. My family grew resentful of me writing and making this project. They became annoyed and demanded my attention.
I cannot say I blame them. They had no control over what I wrote. When ever they got upset, I tried to explain that this was my journey. This was me making art because of them, but that it wasn’t necessarily art about them. It was about me negotiating my role as a mother and my work as an artist. It often wandered off track, I became lost. It was boring. Going around and around in ever decreasing circles. Repetitive. The writing no longer surprised me. Had I become dishonest? Had it just slipped into verbal diarrhoea? What was the value of this?
I had set out in my mind to make a collaborative act. To work with my children together ,with my family. What are the parameters of a collaboration? I failed to adequately take on board the advice I was given at the Mother and Creative Practices conference. I needed to find fun ways to include Naoise in the project. I tried to get him to turn the smart phone camera on me. Maybe I could try again. To be a true collaboration it needs to be a project that he willing wants to be a part of.
I went blind into this project. I went in blind and felt my way around. I need to listen more closely to the advice of others…if I am ever to master this family collaboration.
Or maybe I will just draw and trace around the marks my children make. Imprint their marks into my own.
I need to take a look at what I have written, what I have made. I need to let the dust settle. I don’t regret recording my life, my families life. I hope to look back on this project, learn, move forward. Turn the words and images into something else. Transform them.
My life does not stop. But I can stop the life of this project. I can say goodnight. I can wish a destructive, unhealthy relationship goodbye. I made this. I made this monster of a project. I can murder this monster.
I CAN KILL YOU. I CAN STAB YOU TO DEATH. I CAN SMOTHER YOU WITH A PILLOW. I CAN DROWN YOU IN THE BATH WATER. I CAN PUT YOU IN A ROOM AND TURN OUT THE LIGHT. I CAN LEAD YOU INTO THE WOODS AND LEAVE YOU THERE. I CAN BURY YOU. I CAN BURN YOU. I CAN SHAKE YOU. I CAN CUT THE CORD. I CAN TURN OFF THE ELECTRICITY. I CAN TAKE DOWN THIS SITE. I CAN END THIS.
I CAN DEAD IT.
But I cannot stop being a mother…..I am bound to my children. Bound by invisible threads.
I read this out to P, he thinks I sound like a psychopath…..I am playing with words, its art, I am talking about the project Patrick. The Project! Not the children.
How big is it? How many words have you written ? my friend enquires. I have no idea. I know its a lot of words. A lot of words taking up some digital space. I have achieved writing a lot of words. How helpful is it to write a lot? Does it not need editing, sifting through and sorting out ? Probably. This is information overload. A manic mumbling of ideas and thoughts and stuff about the maternal and other mundane bits and bobs that have crept in.
How do I present this project? Its too big to be one book. It could be four. Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn. There could be a book for each post? It could be a series of objects, framed posts on the wall. How do I make it physical?
STAB EACH WRITTEN PAGE WITH A KITCHEN KNIFE SO THE PAPER STICKS TO THE GALLERY WALL.
Project images onto washing lines, domestic furniture, back project out of the house window. Fill a pram with words. Push the pram up a hill and give out posts to random strangers. Push a pram around Tate Modern, navigate all those escalators and give out stories to random strangers.
Does this become a participatory project? If so how do I get funding? Where do I turn? What is helpful? Crowdfunding, Arts Council, Other? It lies somewhere between art, health, psychology and sociology. What to do ?
It would be great to record mothers stories from a diverse range of women all around the world. Is it fair that its called mother stories. Should it be parents stories?. Feminism. Equality. Still the voices of women need to be heard. Women are still the main care givers. Women’s stories need recording, there are so many stories that remain untold that want to be spoken. That bubble to the surface. That would be helpful to others. OTHER M(OTHER) STORIES.
STORIES THAT BALANCE ON THE EDGE OF THE KITCHEN KNIFE, THAT QUESTION AND CHALLENGE, ARE OPEN AND HONEST ABOUT WHAT IT IS TO BE A MOTHER. STORIES THAT STAB AT THE NORMAL AND THE MAINSTREAM. STORIES THAT WANT TO GET OUT AND CAUSE HAVOC…..THAT WANT TO MAKE A BIG MESS THAT CANNOT BE TIDIED UP…STORIES THAT ARE SCREAMING AND SHOUTING AND HAVING TANTRUMS AND STORIES THAT ARE CLEVER AND INTROSPECTIVE AND ARE QUIET AND GENTLE AND TENDER AND SWEET AND SENTIMENTAL AND CALM. STORIES BY WOMEN THAT ARE MAN SIZED.
Last night P worked overtime. Last night I looked after the children, I collected them from school, I sorted out any emotional issues that they had at school during the day, I organised them to do their homework. I cooked their tea. I cleared up the dishes. I put Naoise in the bath. I ensured my teenager had a shower as well. I loved them, cherished them and guided them through the evening routine.
P had to work overtime last night and the night before that and the night before that.
His and my work are relentless.
Between the responsibilities of being mother I carve out some time for me and creativity and for research and asking questions and for being kind to others…………..I see that there is little time for me and P in all of this. I guess thats what it is like for many families raising children. The adult relationships become neglected.
I see that I live a singular life alongside my partner.
I see that however challenging I find life, however challenging I find being a mother, being an artist, being a woman. I need to always be grateful. Grateful for their love. Grateful for their health. Grateful for their ideas and creativity. Grateful for the tears and the conflict and the highs and the lows.
My family are never boring. Life is never boring. There isn’t a full stop. There isn’t a way to get off this roller coaster ride. We are in this crazy loving hating fearing ride together. None of us can get off, so we might as well make the best of it we can.
I haven’t eaten one slice of the christmas cake my mum made for me. Its more of an art object than a cake to me. If I can’t have my mum at christmas then a heavy white iced fruit cake will do instead, but its not very cuddly or comforting.
She visits me this weekend. I will at last see my mother and have some quality time with her. I just enjoy being in her company and the children love her being around too. I need the help as well, I need a little rest.
My great auntie celebrated her one hundredth birthday. How amazing is that, to live from the outbreak of the first world war to now. The changes she must have seen.
David Bowie died.
Alan Rickman died.
The world of Facebook and the media mourned them both. I shed a tear for Rickman not Bowie.
I had always imagined Rickman as my boyfriend; Truly, Madly, Deeply….
The ice and the snow eventually returned. I was upset that there was no cold. I am an ice queen. I cannot stand the rain and the damp. The rain and the damp that penetrates my bones and muscles and makes my back ache and my hands ache and my knees ache.
The snow fell for one evening and stayed for one day. We did the full snow mounty; snow man, snow angel, snow ball fight and sledging………….it was fun.
New babies were born. I see them each morning at the school gates, tucked up under cotton blankets, snug in snow suits.
Some mothers look completely energised by their new babies, others look tired, warn down, mascara smudged down cheeks. How do they have time to apply make up? I don’t think I ever achieved that. Maybe thats where I go wrong. I need a mask a mothering mask. I need to pretend that everything is ok, and everything will be ok.
I see the woman with the red pram. The woman with the black pram. The woman with the brown pram. I always smile and say hello to the woman with the red pram and she says hello back. We are strangers, but we share a knowing smile.
You cannot catch time…it moves and it all becomes a muddle, a mush and then its gone. I cannot record it. I cannot hold it. I try to record it. I cannot hold it. I fail.
Your hand is slipping, it is slipping. I listen to us all breathing together. Sleeping in this bed together. Two boys, one woman. Breathing together. I look at you, I watch you. We watch each other.
You are both horrified and beguiled by me. You love my body and caress my skin and my hair with your little hands. Our eyes meet. Love. Love. Love.
Cut the bread, cut the bread. Cut the body. Cut us from each other.
Endless enduring mother love and maintenance. Maintenance of the self and others. Me and you. Umbilical. The cord must be cut. I never want to let go, I never want to say goodbye.
I cannot see you, who is cutting the umbilical cord? Who has my baby now? Can I hold him? I am here ? I am your mother. I made you in my belly. I birthed you. I pushed you out into this world.
Lisa Baraitser writes some awesome stuff about time……about temporality about maintenance about waiting about care about boredom about repetitive labour and productivity about others about monotony about lack of perfect, the time we are constantly loosing, sustaining ourselves, sustaining love, carrying on and endurance……listen to this
LOVE. LOSS. LONGING. TIME GONE. AGEING. SELF. OTHER. REACH OUT. CONNECT. SURVIVE.
The pram pushing time is gone. The changing nappies time is gone. The clock ticks. The biological clock ticks. Hairs grow on my chin, my periods come and go. My hair grows dull. My skin and breasts sag.
I sit on the hill with my friend drinking strong coffee from a flask and eating pan au chocoalte. We stare into the fog. There is no view. There is only the fog in front of us. The telegraph wires disappear into nothing. Some rocks have become dislodged by the excessive rain. We talk about babies. We talk about our decision to only have two children. We talk about birth. We talk about death and writing wills. Its her birthday. I realise how intense I am, but I love these conversations. I love to sit on the rock in her company. We talk about ageing. Our bodies ageing. I talk about having thought about having a third child. That third child still haunts me.
I won’t have a third child.
I had this instead of a third child.
Its a disappointing third child.
Its not as satisfying as nursing a baby…
SO MAKE BABIES NOT ART….AND YOU WILL FIND A WAY TO MAKE ART…IT IS POSSIBLE TO DO BOTH.
I think the third child has been haunting me as I have been making drawings of my memory of my birth experiences. Trying to represent birth literally from the perspective of the woman. The woman giving birth.
I’m not interested in the spectacle of birth. I am interested in trying to communicate the physical and mental journey that the woman takes. I have my experiences as a point of reference. I have these memories. I try to re-enact. To re-create the moment. I crawl around the studio floor on hands and knees in the various different birthing positions. I try to go back. I rack my brains to remember. There was never the moment to record my experiences then. There was only looking after a baby. Looking after a baby 24 hours a day.
I have time now, but the drawings are dull, clumsy, I am out of practice. I need to find the feeling sensitive line. The line that seeks out and explores.
This year I plan to draw and make and write less. Do more. Think less. Be brave. Be physical. Get my work seen. Get it out there.
DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS? WHY IS THIS PROJECT IMPORTANT? TELL ME. I NEED TO KNOW WHY YOU THINK THAT IT IS IMPORTANT?
I think about how isolated mothers can become. How isolated carers can become. I think about all the support that I have received over the years from the local Sure Start centre. I think about how much better my the quality of support has been with my second child. My second child was born in 2009, my first child was born in 2001. Now we are so much more aware of the importance of maintaining good maternal mental health and wellbeing. But I worry about these cuts and the affect that they are having on new mothers and young families. I worry that there is not as much support out there as there once was.
Two steps forward two steps back.
Try not to crawl. Try not to crawl.
This is important. Its perfectly valid to make art about our lives. To look at life in meticulous detail. To unravel. To be vulnerable. It is undoubtedly challenging to raise children and make art work at the same time but it is possible. Its great when I am able to find creative solutions and new strategies of making. I want to share, I enjoy sharing. Artists need audiences.
Its helpful to explore the the emotional and physical work that is involved in caring for children as this is still largely unseen and undervalued.
This is about empathy. Empathetic connection.
Even P found this project helpful, because I find it hard to talk. I find it hard to articulate my true feelings to him. He could read my thoughts here. Here in this space.. He could try to understand me by reading this.
But I want to be BAD and NAUGHTY and have more FUN I am done with being too good. I am not a good enough mother. I am not a perfect parent. I don’t want to sound like a victim. I don’t want to fall into stereotypical roles. I want equality. I want shared care. I want to be able to earn money, to be independent. I don’t want to feel that I am stuck in a mothering trap.
I am ambivalent.
A child in the playground asked me What Are You Doing ? The bell had gone, he needed to go into school, but instead he stood and stared at me and asked the same question again.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
I was crouching down taking photographs of footprints in the snow. I was interested in how the prints revealed the colour and patterns of the tarmac underneath. I was interested in how the prints danced and traced the movements and paths of play across the ground.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
I am taking photographs of the playground.
First there is what we see, later there is what we think we have seen. There is an image. The image says something about what we were seeing and thinking at the time it was taken. The image has its own life. The photograph and the word are an expression of ourselves but they are not us. I am me and this is art.
The boundaries blur. The skin is porous, it breathes. There is a screen and light and a barrier. There is the body of the woman and the body of this project. The project contains the thoughts. Holds them.
I see a pink dummy dropped on the floor. I see a high chair thrown out on the street. I see things that have been lost, disregarded, that have no use anymore. I see snow men melting in the sun. I see a pram facing a wall waiting to be pushed by a parent. I see that the lollypop man has disappeared on long term sick and has been replaced by a lollypop woman. I miss the lollypop man. I see a school ball in the gutter beside the pavement that has been thrown out beyond the parameter fence. I see traces of footprints dancing in the snow.
I try not to become frustrated when all that Naoise wants to do is crack the surface of the ice on the way to school. He loves to hear the sound of the ice cracking. But we are late.
I wait for him.
This morning the whole of the canal was frozen over. I thought we would never see that again.
Naoise remembered when we threw stones on the surface of the canal last year. The lovely bounce and sound that the stones made.
Global warming. I thought that there would be no snow this year just perpetual rain.
There was a flood. The flood was destructive.
After the flood.
The community helped each other out. P worked to clean out a factory. He worked to clean all the mud from the floor, he said it felt like he was in a Russian gulag.
I stayed at home and looked after Naoise.
Naoise had a flood of tears streaming down his face when he came out of school. He had fallen out with a friend, he was distraught. I hugged him close. He was so pale and sad. Desperately upset. I was glad that I could be there for him. I was glad that I could be his comfort.
I am present. I am present. I am here.
I sometimes get it wrong, there is a cut on my chin from where Naoise caught me with his nail as I wrestled him into the car to take him with me to Syds guitar lesson. As ever we were late. I was stressed out, impatient, wound up. I shouted at both the children. I lost control.
But Naoise has no idea about time. Naoise was tired. I was rough. I said sorry. I said I am really truly sorry. Naoise forgave me and we had a hug.
We make mistakes. Society says mothers are not allowed to make mistakes when it comes to the care of children. Society has high expectations of mothers to be good, to sacrifice themselves and their lives for their children.
I am not always gentle and kind and patient.
I am roaring inside. ROARING with anger because I feel trapped. ROARING again as I need to protect and keep my children safe. ROARING again because I cannot break free from where I am at, from this localised existence.
I am stuck. Stuck between school runs and homework and baths and night time stories.
Sometimes, I think, are they safe with me? I doubt myself. I doubt my own abilities. Am I unsafe. What is a safe mother? What is an unsafe mother? Who made me think I was unsafe? I scare myself. Did you make me feel like this? Are you going to come knocking on my door and asking me questions. Question my mothering, my capabilities. What is a good mother? What is a bad mother? Who is allowed to take care?
I care and I love my children so much. I never tire of watching them. I sometimes tire of being with them, of the relentless jobs of care and domesticity. But when I am not with them I miss them. I need space and time away to be me not mother but I need to be in their company too.
I went to see Faith Wildings’s Womb Room at the Whitworth art gallery. The crocheted Womb Room has nothing to do with incy wincy spider. The children’s education room had devised an activity about the exhibition, where you were meant to find a childrens rhyme to go with each artwork. I dismissed this ridiculous activity.
The Womb Room does not make me think of incy wincy spider. The womb room makes me think about connections and women and being comforted and held.
Faith, I feel no shame. I feel no shame. Faith I wait and wait and still wait. I wait in the playground, I wait in the carpark, I wait for my mum to visit, I wait for the world to become a kinder, more understanding place. I wait and I listen. I wait and between waiting…..I make, I think, I draw, I paint, I mother, I am….
Faith I think of your poetic words and your performance Waiting
Naoise sat with red pencil crayons and paper on the gallery floor and drew a large round red picture of the vulva shaped central textile Above the vulva shape he wrote ARTISTS.
So are we ARTISTS, WOMEN ARTISTS or MOTHER ARTISTS. Is the term MOTHER/ARTIST helpful? What questions does it raise? Does it close down ideas. Does it open up space? What does it mean?
Naoise came home from school with a beautiful stone in the pocket of his coat, he showed me his stone. The stone was a piece of tarmac that he had found that had become dislodged from the playground with all the excessive rainfall. He held it up in his hand for me to admire. He clenched the hard black oily tarmac piece in the palm of his hand.
The tarmac against his soft skin
I will place it on a plinth.
Naoise held my hand and stopped me from crossing the road. He had seen the car coming, I hadn’t. I thanked him. He guides me.
He shows me a way. A path. We guide each other. I hold his hand tight as I know that one day he will let go, one day he won’t want to skip with me to school. I will be embarrassing, he will push me away, he won’t want or need my help or assistance.
One day he will let go………
I will let go….
WAIT. MAKE. SHARE. SLEEP. LOVE. MAINTAIN. SUPPORT. LISTEN. TALK. SHARE. BREATH SLOW. HUG. SIP TEA. SIP WINE. CLEAN. LOVE. SORT. WIPE. WAIT. SWIM. LOAD THE WASHING MACHINE. MAKE A WISH. HOLD HANDS. SKIP. READ. KISS BRUISES BETTER. LAUGH. HELP EACH OTHER. BRUSH TEETH. RUN THE BATH WATER. CARRY. SLEEP. PUT LUNCHES IN BOXES. RUN. COLLECT FROM SCHOOL.CUDDLE. ENQUIRE. WALK. HOLD HANDS. COOK. HANG UP WASHING. FOLD. PLACE IN DRAWERS. WIPE RUNNY NOSES. PICK UP PANTS. TALK. CALM.
MEDITATE. RELAX AND LET GO………..WAKE UP….
I am at the end of this year long writing, photography, performance. I have written 332 posts out of a possible 365. I’m not sure how many words, maybe I will add them up, maybe it is of no consequence.
THIS IS THE END.
Thanks to my beautiful family for bearing with me, for being a part of this, for inspiring my words and images. Thanks to my friends, you know who you are I see you each day at the school gates and at my studio, for all their kindness and support and to all those that have read my posts.
Special thanks to
Patrick Ward for helping me set up this website, maintaining the family together with me being patient and forgiving.
My mum for her emotional maintenance and enduring love.
Grace Whowell, Jenny Mc Kay, Mo Brown, Ellie Oliver.
My artist friends and contemporaries for their support and inspiration: Lena Simic, Eti Wade, Paula McCloskey, Tracy Kershaw, Jodie Hawkes, Mary Trunk, Rachel Fallon, Samantha Lippet, Paula Chambers, Sally Barker
For their words, wisdom, art and inspiration: Lisa Baraitser, Faith Wilding, Mierle Laderman Ukeles, Griselda Pollock, Bracha Ettinger, Mary Kelly
The Social Media groups: Mother/Artist, Society, The Mothernists, Mothers Who Make
Dr Elena Marchevska and Professor Valerie Walkerdine for organising the Motherhood and Creative Practices conference at The London South Bank University, where this project was first presented.
And finally two incredibly informative and brilliant projects:
The M/other Voices foundation
Since stopping writing this, I have been able to concentrate better on being with my family rather than outside over there. I have been feeling more relaxed and positive.
In the studio, I have been making more drawings and making plans for the next year in the studio. I have been thinking about photographs as drawing practice. I have been thinking about words as art. I have been gathering all my research on the maternal together in one place. Trying to hold it, grasp it, hold it close, give it a cuddle, have a conversation, see it all…its impossible to see it all. ..I have been thinking again that I really need to get on and stop procrastinating and apply to do a practice based PhD, something about the body, isolation and the maternal…….I am looking forward to delivering a talk and a workshop about visualising birth for Claire Harbottles brilliant Nativity Hub project at the end of February, I am planning some sort of creative event to celebrate the completion of this project and I have been invited to take part in a group show with other Mother/Artists in April.
At home I have been improving the night time routine with Naoise. Tea. Bath. Supper. Read. Meditate. Sleep. I have also been working on stopping myself from falling asleep at the same time as him so that I can spend some time with my elder son Syd and with Patrick.
Naoise has gone up two reading levels since Christmas and won the school shield for writing his very own version of Little Red Riding Hood, set in a city rather than the woods.
Syd has helped raise £10,000 by performing with his band at Sowerby Bridge Working Mans Club and has organised another benefits gig this weekend at the local pub.
P is enjoying work and is getting even better and faster at his web development.
The house is still a mess, I am yet to read the parenting advice books about teenagers, I have put on most of the weight that I lost last year and the christmas tree is still sits undressed, drying out, pines dropping on the stone floor in the front room.