A Heartbreaking Decision

On the news this evening was an item that I found most distressing. It concerned a Japanese family: mum, dad and seven year old boy. According to the news report, the seven year old boy had been misbehaving. He had apparently been throwing stones at cars but, at best, the details are sketchy. It was not reported when or where the child was throwing stones nor whether he actually was or was not throwing stones. 

On discovering that his child had been doing wrong,.the child's father told the child to get out of the car, as a punishment. What the mother thought about this and whether or not she protested, is as yet unknown.

What is known is that the boy did get out of the car and that the parents drove off. They no doubt intended just to frighten the boy as a punishment for the stone throwing, though that has not been confirmed.

The tragedy is that when the boy's parents came back for him, they couldn't find him. The area they were in was very rural, the single road surrounded by vast forests of huge trees. The parents could not find their son. It has been three whole days now since he disappeared. There are hundreds of people out looking for him. One of the most awful aspects of this case is that the forest area is populated by bears.

If the boy is not found I can only imagine what the parents will feel. I just hope that he is found safe and well.

My mum - 93 today

Ninety-three years ago to the day, on May 24 1923, Mary Casson was born in Tinsley, Sheffield. Mary Casson, married name, Mary Brothers, is my mum. She is 93 today.

Over the years I have heard my female friends complain about their mothers - me, I have no cause for complaint. Women fríends relate stories of how their mothers made them feel inadequate, immature and even, at times, unloved.

Not mine. She is the embodiment of kindness  - generous to a fault. She is also selfless, unassuming, sweet-natured and witty She never puts anyone down, but always finds something good to say about everybody.

If all this sounds too good to be true, then there is nothing I can do to change it. She is as described.

Christmas just gone was difficult - she seemed to be unable to control her arms and legs resulting in strange jerky movements. The doctors wanted to keep her in hospital overnight so she stayed, albeit reluctantly. Despite various scans and investigations, nothing was found that was untoward and so the following afternoon my brother and I brought her home. Apart from feeling a little more tired than usual, for a while, since the blip at Christmas, she seems fine.

She tells me that, ' It can't be long now.' Well, she is in advanced old age, but, I would not be in the least surprised if she carried on for a few more years yet. When the time does come, I hope she dies peacefully in her sleep, or, she has someone with her to provide solace at the end of her long life.

Every now and then, she tells me, 'Oh, Ruth, before I forget, there's a hundred pounds in that vase - and in the cupboard where I keep the cereal boxes, there's an empty box with five hundred pounds in it.' Such are the vagaries of old age and, I'm sure, the long term effects of having lived through a war.

I often think to myself how lucky I am to have a mum like her. Today, especially, on her 93rd birthday, I thank my lucky stars that she is my mum and that she has been beside me for so long.

A Shocking and Untimely Death.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Marlene nipped out of her house to hang out her washing in her postage stamp sized garden. The task was never completed and Marlene never went back into her house alive. Devastatingly Marlene's heart failed and according to the doctor, she would have already been dead before she even hit the ground.

Marlene's youngest son, aged 24  had just popped out to buy some milk and when he came home, after just a ten minute absence, his mum was dead. Imagine the shock, the heartbreak, the loss he must have felt.

It is a commonplace to praise the dead, to say how kind, how loyal, how the deceased would have helped anyone and given away their last penny. But in Marlene's case, it is all absolutely true. She never had much, was living in a small terraced house, which she rented, and was very economical
because she had to be. She used to cut one of my children's hair and she would insist that she wanted no payment.  I would have to throw the ten pound note on the floor as we left or surreptitiously slip the money into her bag when she wasn't looking.

My son Daniel and Marlene's son David are great friends. They have known each other since they were three. David and Marlene have lived on their own with no other family members, for ten years. They were very close. Naturally, David is profoundly affected by the loss of his mum. One consolation is that just like his mum, he is a popular person and just as kind. His many friends have gathered round him and offered to stay the night in his house.  If there is any fairness in this world, good things will surely come David's way. He will miss his mum for the rest of his life but, with time's useful healing properties, the fierce ache he feels now will eventually dull.

Marlene's funeral was very well attended and though this is not an original thought about a person who has died, how I wished she could have seen the outpouring of love and grief from those in attendance.

Always well groomed, always a full face of make up, always a kind word, always a pearl of wisdom. How I will miss her.

Doing in Real Life what we do on Facebook

Yes, I am on Facebook and Twitter and I do enjoy social media, for the most part at least. Sometimes though, as I scroll through the posts, I find myself asking why someone would make public on social media what they had eaten for tea, or post wedding pictures of people you don't know, or something not really worth the effort of posting.

If, in real life, you were to leave the comfort of your sofa and actually walk down the street, accosting people to show or tell them what you had eaten for tea or to show them wedding photos of someone they didn't know, their reaction would be one of confusion and perhaps it would include a bid to walk on by a little faster than is normal. As they were walking away, and you might have to shout this, you could tell them what you plan to eat tomorrow and how you have felt today, including the rudeness of the shopkeeper, bus driver or your boss and how you feel about life in general.

Then you would catch up with them and show them pictures of your beautiful dog, your parents and your aunt Kate. Also you could show them your children as babies, toddlers, teenagers and the rest of their lives. You could show them pictures in your garden of you hanging out washing, talking to your neighbour and doing what everybody else does most days.

You could then stand next to people who are engaged in conversation and give them a thumbs up. to let them know that you approve of their exchange of words. You could then make them really happy by sharing their conversation with other people.

It would work, I think. You would also gain followers. These followers would be a police officer, a psychiatrist and a concerned friend.

Does Having Children Make You Happy?

I've often wondered what the answer to this question is. I have three children  - well they are no longer children. They are, in fact,  31, 29 and 25. Despite their ages, their childhoods seem such a short time ago. And I miss them. I miss my little children. I am also mightily proud of them and enjoy their company. But, I am confused now as to what my role is. It is inappropriate to tell them off in the way I did when they were children. They are adults. They have their own views, which, despite my being their mother, do not always coincide with mine. And why should they? They are their own people and can and do think for themselves. So, I suppose my role now is to be a kind of critical friend. I will tell them what I think if and only if, I believe that what they are thinking of doing is not for their own good.

I worry about them. They are staggered by this and a little annoyed, I sense.   They ask what I worry about and they tell me, when they hear my answers, that I am catastrophizing in my usual over-dramatic way. I cant help it though. My main worry is that they will be out late one night, a bit the worse for wear,  and will be attacked. One of my children lives in London, one in Manchester and the other in Sheffield, where  I live. These are all big cities and the chances of terrorist attacks are greater in densely populated areas. So I worry.

A philosopher once said that you can only be as happy as your unhappiest child. What wisdom! What a fundamental truth. When children are young you can meddle, you can interfere in their lives and you can put things right. When children are grown you cannot have their middle aged mother barging in and telling bosses, friends or whoever to stop doing whatever it is they are doing that is upsetting your 'child.'

A survey showed that once the excitement and euphoria of the birth is over, then there is no difference in the happiness stakes between those who have children and those who remain childfree. Very interesting. This result does not say whether or not those who are childfree are so by choice. Maybe they were included and maybe people become reconciled to their lives without children, even if they had originally wanted them. Those people would be richer, have more time and more than likely, worry free. Or not. Worrying is part and parcel of life whether or not you have children to worry about. Childfree people will no doubt worry about other things.

Family days out, in my experience are not the happiest moments. In fact, I can remember some horrific days out. Cross words, shouting - being sick, getting the 'face on' eating the rubbish on sale at Theme Parks and the like. And a lot of money spent on the misery. The best times are the ones that are unplanned. It's a moment of coming together, laughing at the same thing, an enjoyable conversation, or a moment of understanding.

So, to address the initial question, and I can only speak for myself, I know that if I had not had children, happiness, for me, would be hard to come by.

Horrors of the Office Lunch

If you work from home, go home for lunch, or go to a café each day for lunch, you are one of the fortunate and blessed ones who do not have to withstand the most irritating aspect of working in an office or staffroom and having to put up with people eating their lunch.at their desks.

One of the worst types of lunch takers are in fact those who have nothing at all. That's fine, their choice. BUT. Instead of eating they talk. They talk about why they're not having lunch, what they would have had if they were not so determined to lose about a stone, then they proceed to comment on other people's lunches. This is particularly galling, especially when they take the moral high ground. One non-luncher takes it upon herself to point out the calorific value of what people are eating. It goes something like this. 'You might be surprised to learn that even in a Muller light yogurt there are 99 calories, which, if you think about it, is almost 2 weightwatchers points. If you're on 19 points a day like I am then that leaves only 17 points for the rest of the day. What's that I see Sue? Cake? Well you enjoy it, though you might find you'll feel tired this afternoon as the sugar rush crashes. Salad for you tonight, I'll bet! Oh and is that bread, Phil? Naughty, naughty! Rather too much you've got there if you don't mind my saying. It bloats you, you know and as it's white bread there's not much nutritional value in it. It is tempting though - I should know. When I was pregnant with my first, all I wanted was doorstep like slices of white bread lathered in butter. Do you know,  I'm making myself hungry now just thinking about it. In fact, I might just nip out to the shop and buy a Mars bar, They're much smaller now, you know. And even if I am using up 4 points, it will be worth it.' As she leaves, the relief is palpable.

The quinoa eater is clearly out to impress. This luncher is restrained, worships at the alter of self-denial and tells us how her husband made it for her. Her perfect husband and perfect children are mentioned often. They don't believe in shouting, they discuss matters at pre-arranged family meetings. I couldn't have been happier when someone enquired, albeit tongue in cheek, how Ezra's cello lessons were going, only to discover that he would not be progressing with that instrument after a 'hiccup' at grade 6. A little more digging revealed that he had failed the exam. 'We don't mention the world failure in our home.' Nor, apparently do they mention sugar, ever, at all. 'We have quite simply turned it into an offensive word.'

The yogurt pot scraper is highly irritating. Every little last bit - the spoon scraping on the plastic in a bid to capture every tiny scrap remaining. It is yogurt, not gold dust! I think I'd rather have the dripping tap torture than the yogurt pot scraping torture.

Since we installed a microwave, staff have been bringing all manner of foods for lunch. Perhaps the worst of these is the left over curry eater. The smell lingers easily until the next day. Tuna hangs round too - and is unfortunately eaten by at least two people each lunchtime. Tuna bake, tuna toastie even, as we now have also acquired  a toaster. Nobody has owned up to putting the tuna in the bread then into the toaster as yet, but I strongly suspect someone This person ranted just a little too long to be innocent of the crime.

One very slim and active guy buys chips for lunch - every day. He has his own bottle of vinegar in his filing cabinet. The comments, daily, are almost identical. It seems that anyone eating chips must be commented upon. 'I don't know how you get away with it, You don't know how lucky you are. Having some chips with your vinegar are you? Ooh, they smell lovely! I only have to look at a chip and I put on half a stone.'

Most people bring their lunch in a plastic box. Some use tin foil. Others just use some sort of grease proof paper. The immediate post-lunch activities are also irritating, as well as the declarations people seem to feel obliged to make. 'If that was lunch, I've had it' is one such. Dramatic screwing up of paper, tin foil, whatever it is, is often  followed by a shot at the bin; a shot which, nine times out of ten, misses, and is followed by a groan. The plastic box lunchers seem to spend a disproportionate length of time fitting back the lids, clicking all four corners back into place - a sound almost as irritating as the yogurt pot scraper.  

By far the majority of these people are good, intelligent people who care about education and helping those in our classes to achieve their full potential. They work hard and they also care about their colleagues, showing sensitivity and awareness. Just not at lunchtime.

Sick of stuff - Time for Action

It was last weekend when the realisation slapped me in the face. It was STUFF - and there was far too much of it in my house. The time had come and the clear out began.

The magazines say that you should have three piles: one pile for stuff that you are definitely getting rid of, one for stuff that you are uncertain about, one for the stuff you are definitely keeping.

So, with this in mind, I began. I brought everything that was in the upstairs rooms into our spare room. This done, I was exhausted and told myself I was mad. Not for the first time. This was a bad idea. It was a really bad idea. I contemplated the heap of stuff in the spare room. I had other things to do and I simply hadn't got time for this impulsive project. So I went downstairs, did a few things I needed to do, then forced myself to return. I switched on the radio. Any Questions on Radio 4. A programme guaranteed to annoy and thus energise me.

The sorting of the stuff began. After a while I noticed that the 'Definitely Keep' pile was by far the biggest. More ruthless measures needed.

Gradually, the pile ' to keep' reduced and I had two full bin liners ready to take to the charity shop. I stuffed the bags into the back of my car and drove off immediately, fearing a change of heart.

Driving home, surprisingly, I felt no sense of regret - only relief. In fact I was keen to get rid of more stuff. I also made a promise to myself. For six months, I will not buy any clothes, shoes, or things for the house. Already I had too much stuff. I had no desire to add to it. But would the six month self-imposed rule work? The trouble is that for so many of us, leaving the house means going to earn money or going to spend money. The supermarket where you go with every intention just to buy food, now has household goods, clothes and even jewellery. All there to help us to indulge the nation's favourite pastime of shopping. Even Ikea said lately that we are at the peak of owning stuff.

Having stuff can get you down. How to manage it, buying extra storage to store the stuff and seeing the stuff daily can depress you. Although I didn't immediately feel ecstatic as some declutterers predict, I did feel a bit better. Enough to continue. I'm going from room to room and what's more I'm looking forward to it.

A friend of mine hired a declutter expert. My friend's declutterer advised doing as the magazines I'd read told me to do - the three pile plan. In effect my friend paid £120 to be given permission to throw some of her stuff away. She was also instructed to say goodbye to her stuff. Apparently that way, she would know that the relationship with her stuff was over. She should have saved her money.