Families, Inspiration, real life, Uncategorized, Whatever

Best laid plans, and all that nonsense.

I don’t often plan my life, it rolls along quite randomly. I might suddenly decide to go shopping, or I might suddenly decide to go out for a sneaky drink with my poor long suffering husband.

Not today. On the way to work I said – ‘I’d love to go for a drink tonight, a cool cider would go down a treat. It’s a hot day, and the  local watering hole Woodies Freehouse would be just the kind of place to stop’

OK he said. So a plan was hatched.

The problem is – I’m now the emergency baby sitting a sleeping granddaughter, and not holding a cool pint of cider. Things sometimes don’t turn out as you plan do they?

Perhaps next time I’ll stick to the randomness of my life.

 

 

 

 

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Families, Family, Inspiration, loss, love

Purple balloons

Each year on your birthday

We will send purple balloons skyward
Filled with love and loss.

The breath of loved ones

Floating to meet those perfect hands

And everlasting youth.
You will be forever in our hearts

And your name will be on our lips

And in our minds and dreams.

Skye Lilly darling baby.

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Families, Inspiration, real life, Spirt and soul, Uncategorized, Whatever, women

I see a different me.

I wonder how many of us have the same feelings. That we are moving forward, but somewhere part of us stays back in the past when we were young without a care in the world. I often say to people, my body is 50+, but my mind is still 19. Dancing the night away, drinking a little too much, laughing a little too loudly, and staying a little too long.

 

I know what my chronological age is, but my mind thinks I’m someone else. It doesn’t see me as the lady of mature years, who often has a back problem, who suffers with her hips, and who has to colour her hair to cover the grey. It hasn’t quite got the hang of the crow’s feet and the worry lines around my eyes and my fore head. And for that I’m very grateful. The shadow I catch walking alongside me on that warm summers days, is mine. It’s slim and lithe, purposeful and dare I say elegant. It’s certainly not the description I would use for myself.

 

And the young person who dances to the rave music, waving her arms in the air. She was around in the 90’s, she joins me often when my favourite music comes on the radio, and we spend a while dancing the time away. I catch a glimpse of her in the kitchen window, or in the shadow of the fridge. She keeps me going, she makes my heart feel young, and all the time she is willing to follow me on my life’s journey it makes me feel happy and contented with my life now and in the past. We have been together she and I, 30 years of loving the same man. We both had babies together and she carried hers in the shadows, while I rocked mine in the light. But I would see her holding the hand of her young son, and hear her comforting words, in those same shadows. And I often thought how like mine they were reassuring, and gentle. We have walked the same path together, me getting older, while she has remained young and fresh. She watches over me like a guardian angel, and when I see her – she often give me a sideways glance of reassurance. And that is why I love that shadow of mine who follows me trustingly and with dedication

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Families, Family, Food, Inspiration, Laughter, real life, Uncategorized, women

Love is shown in many ways

Don’t raise your eyes to the sky in frustration

To the one who’s love is unconditional & everlasting!

For love is shown in many ways –

A warm hand on an arm for support,

A kiss of acknowledgment when you come from a journey.

The offer of food or drink as sustenance and love,

Or the sharing of good fortune and hard work

To make your burden a little lighter.

 

For until I give my last breath

And ever onwards

I will share my love with you

Whatever form it takes.

So learn to say ‘thanks’

And take the love to nurture it how you want.

 

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Families, Family, Inspiration, New life, real life, Spirt and soul, Uncategorized, women

Mums of the world unite

Mums  of the world unite. In love and hard work, through the pain of child birth, or the tears of a child. Your not defined through the reproduction of offspring  but the late nights with hot foreheads or scuffed knees. Maths homework or growing food and the collection of water together. Through feast and famine, through blood or love.

Mums of the world stand united with hearts of love and arms of support. 

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Adoption, Families, Family, history, Inspiration, real life, Uncategorized, women

Of course I’m special

Please believe me when I tell you I’m special. not in an arrogant way either.

I was born into a loveless relationship, I have no idea who my father was and my birth mother wouldn’t speak of him. I was born in a mother and babies’ home in Wales, and Wales is where I stayed for most of my young life. I was given up at 6 weeks old. When I say given up, I’m assuming I was. I’m assuming she didn’t want to keep me. Probably not.

I never really asked her when I met her. Her mother knew, but not her father. He was something in the church, so I can imagine the shame of finding out his daughter was ‘in the family way ‘would have been terrible. So I couldn’t stay with her. Perhaps I do her some injustice, by saying she probably didn’t want to keep me. Sounds like she had no choice.

So I was given up for adoption. And this is how I know I am special. I was told by my mam that when I was 3 years of age, we all went out for a picnic together, my mam and my dad and myself. I can imagine the picture in my mind, she would have put my very best frilly dress on, crisp white sock, and lovely red patent leather shoes with a little silver buckle. So that I looked my best. She would have taken time over her appearance, her hair as curly as she could make it, and with a lovely summer dress on too, and a dab of her CHANEL No 5 behind her ear. The very best sandwiches, and I know there would have been a slab of fruit cake and a hot steaming flask of tea. My daddy would have had his favourite red and grey jumper on, and his crisp flannel trousers, hair slicked back, and that crooked smile on his face, that was – my daddy. Those long fingers and strong hands carrying the wicker picnic basket, and the checked blanket. We were probably on holiday somewhere.

She told me what when I was a little baby, all cosy and cuddly in my cot, together with rows and rows of other babies, they went to choose the baby they wanted to take home. And that baby was me. I was chosen out of lots of other little ones, and so I was very special. Apparently I was so very excited when she told that, and kept running round and round.

She kept reminding me of this story when I grew up so I never forgot it. That was their fairy tale, and mine. It may not have been highly accurate, I’m not sure how there would have been such an incredible choice, so many unwanted babies, just lying there for the picking. But I don’t care about the reality of it. I know that my dad was tall and handsome, my mam bubbly and vibrant. And I am a mix of the two of them. You wouldn’t know I wasn’t conceived from their union, I think there is a little bit of both of them in me.

So you see that I was made to feel special. At 3 I wouldn’t have known what it all meant. I wouldn’t have understood about the concept of adoption, to have been left by one mummy and then given another! But a 3 year old would understand the idea of being special, being wanted, loved and cherished. And that’s what it was for those two people who were unable to have their own children.

And that feeling of being special, having a life with two people who loved me very much has carried me through all my adult life. I’m so very grateful to those two people, who took me in and loved me unconditionally, and gave me an amazing start in life.

All I can say is  – Thank you.

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Families, Inspiration, Laughter, Motivation, real life, social media, Uncategorized, Whatever, women

People watching

My favourite pastime, people watching. Although I’m sure the people I’m watching, are watching me, watching them!

I could be anywhere, sitting on public transport, watching the non- communication of travellers, head phones on, phone in hand. I’m wondering that they are listening to. Listening to the newest songs on Spotify. Perhaps they are listening to the same as I am? Now that would be a coincidence! Or reading – a furtive message from a loved one, someone they didn’t want to leave in bed this morning, that little knowing smile turning up the corner of their mouth, forgetting they are on a crowded train, still imagining the duvet snuggled around their shoulders. Or the usual message about being on the bus/train, and a countdown of minutes till they get to their destination, looking up at the station sign, following the same journey day-in day-out. 16 ½ min to their station. Positioned themselves in the 3rd carriage along, in the optimum place to alight by the station exit doors, 25 pounding steps down to the entrance, one swipe of the train ticket and out into the fresh air! Or an angry message to someone who has annoyed them. You’d read that in their faces, angry eyes, scrunched up at the corner, tapping furiously on the imaginary keys on the screen. Using both thumbs to get the message across quicker. Angry, angry, angrier.

Now the coffee shop is a place for serial people watchers, you can look out of the window at the people scuttling past on their daily journey never making eye contact. That would be too much to bare, if they did, they would have to stop and buy that creamy hot liquid gold latte. No time, too much to do, can’t carry a coffee, 3 shopping bags, 1 phone and concentrate on the list in their heads. You can see them looking around, getting their bearing, wondering what shop next to go into? The concentration etched on their faces, oh why did they leave it to the last minute to get the elusive gift for the friend who is so very demanding. Or those with more time, and less shopping. Contemplating the warm drink to sustain them as they flit from shop to shop, feeling the fabric of the shirts and coats, scarves and smelling the leather of the handbags. Or is that just me? Am I the fantasy of every people watcher, as I pick up warm cotton checked shirts eyeing up the colours. Feeling the material falling through my fingers, wondering if the hues of blue and green match the newly purchased bracelet of glass and silver beads. The look of curiosity on my face imagining if the cut is too tight and figure hugging, the thought of popping buttons makes me wince and quickly hang it back on the rail. I love looking at the fittings in a shop, rough wood, and cold metal bars, or glass and sleek white wood. All a great contrast against the fluffy clothes and shiny leather. Do others look at my face as I see my reflection in the mirror, and catch the thought going through my eyes ‘ I wonder if I need to put more lipstick on, I’m looking a tad pale’ or the look of shock when I’m realising my hair is messed up after trying the wide brimmed hat on? Or is that the look I see in the faces of other shoppers on the high street?

I never make eye contact when people watching, or ‘being people watched’ if that is a new job description. The eyes are the road to the soul, why would I want someone following me down into my place of sanctity!

My favourite place to do this – the hairdressers, when they sit you on one of those lovely comfortable ‘watching’ chairs looking out of the window. You can be anonymous. A faceless person on a chair, no one will ever know who you are with a towel half covering your head. You see the couples walking past arm in arm, purposeful and determined. Groups of young people milling and laughing and joking with one another, full of hope and enthusiasm, often with the glint of young sex in their eyes. Men in suits, white shirt cuffs and sparkly cufflinks peeping out from beneath double buttoned jacket sleeves. An impossible to recycle, take away coffee cup grasped in their sweaty little hands. Imagining they look cool and trendy, when in fact they actually do! Little men with little dogs on long leads, stepping briskly around to avoid street furniture and rubbish bins.

Hungry boys, hands holding paper napkins and blue and white bags – you know the kind- filled with warm pasties, or sausage rolls, eating with enthusiasm and greed. Girls equally as greedy, munching sandwiches of salad and chicken, on brown rye bread with green leafy salad peeping out between thick crusts. Always followed by those hungry pigeons, hippedy hopping after the food…never the people, we just happen to be carrying their lunch!

The blues rinsed, cardigan wearing older ladies and gentleman, holding their green carrier bags like shields and warriors going into battle. The battle of the youths crowding the pavements, the dog leads, and the discarded coffee cups. Who will win? Maybe them, but more likely to be the young families in mismatched colours, young who have dressed themselves in favourite wellies and summer coats, beany hats with bobbles, stripes and dragon tails swinging down their backs. They will win the pavement war. Buggies like tanks, pushing their way through the hordes of shoppers.

And cars parked on yellow lines, tucked away at the end of parking bays. Drivers furtively waiting to be pounced on by traffic wardens, enviously watching parking meters ready to swallow up shiny coins and click and clack so that they can park without fear nearer to the shops. Not everyone is successful in shopping and parking!

You see why people watching is a skill to be practiced whenever possible? You will never know how much fun it gives. Time and again.

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