glory days

You cannot simply have a birthday in our house. It is not about just opening cards, opening presents, thanks, whoosh there goes another year. Oh no. Birthdays are super special and so the day deserves the elevated status of super-special-this-is-your-one-extraordinary-day. And so, birthdays in our house come with a few rules.

Get your theme on

There must be a theme. Mainly an option for the little humans in the house but the big, grownup, numbers with an 0 birthdays get a theme too.  This has ranged from super-heroes to hawaiin luau to Frozen to London Olympics 2012 to Lego to Bollywood to Eurovision for them and an N party for me and a black&white party for him (he's a Geordie...it wasn't a segregation party). Just prior to a birthday, we can be found huddled together, planning what this year's theme will be and then cue...Pinterest. I will then be found trawling Pinterest for decoration, food and of course cake ideas. More about cakes later.

Dance to the music

There must be a birthday playlist. Up until now, said playlists have been my area of expertise. With such an eclectic love of genres, a Mama Elsie playlist will take you down an 80s memory lane with a quick stop over at 70s disco, back to some Britpop, stroll with some reggae or country before hanging out with some good ole soul and funk. Since the 3G reckon they've 'discovered' music, they have hi-jacked the creating of playlists to consist of the top 15 songs that are played ad nauseum. These kids need some music education. And the steps to the 'Candy' dance.

Sugar, sugar

There must be cake. I like cake. We all like cake. I haven't got the patience to bake cakes. Before I got over my full-time working mummy guilt and started buying cakes, I used to make the birthday cakes. They usually took me three attempts, finishing well into the night and were presented with a slop of butter icing to resemble themed objects such as a disco dance floor, a princess dress or respective numbers. The best was a number three with orange butter icing; nicknamed by a good friend as the 'pizza' cake. This has now gone down in folklore.

Food, glorious food

There must be a birthday meal. Because they're a little bit young for me to introduce birthday beats, the deal is that the birthday person gets to choose dinner. Be it Sunday roast on a Thursday, Maccy-Ds in the garden, pizza in front of the telly, or getting spruced up for a meal in a restaurant. Your birthday, your choice.

So we got a theme, we got the music, we got a cake...of sorts and we might even get our gladrags on get someone else to cook. Time is running out. They are starting to protest. My theme party ideas will soon become a thing of the past. Although I do like the idea of my70th being a Superhero party so who knows?

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery:familyphotographynow.net: still life

running up that hill

The view from our hill, as painted by a good friend.

It was dark when we arrived. The remains of Christmas were hanging on by tinselled threads but we were still sprightly having just belted up the deserted M1; Chris Rea's Christmas classic booming out from our little, red Citroen Saxo.  Yes, we were driving home for Christmas. Well, his home (we weren't yet married) and it was now Boxing Day but driving to my boyfriend's parents house for Boxing Day wasn't a huge chart success. 

You know when you look back at a surprise event and spot all the little unusual markers with hindsight? Well, as we shuffled our tired selves and overnight bags into the GeordieLad's childhood hallway, the usual warm welcome from his parents was even warmer and lovelier as his Grandma was there. At the time, I ha thought it was odd as it was ever so late and she didn't often stay out in the evening. But it was lovely to see her so I thought nothing of it.

I'd barely taken a sip on my welcome back cuppa when GeordieLad shoves a warm coat at me and practically pushes me out of the door. He wants to go for a walk. This in itself was alarming as we'd just driven nigh on 200 miles and there was a roaring fire in the living room with lashes of tea and family chatter. A walk? In the dark? On a country hillside? Christmas madness, I tell thee.

GeordieLad appeared to be in some sort of rush and strode purposefully to the end of his parent's road and dragged me up a hill. Those alarm bells were ringing louder, because he'd been so quiet in the car and now he was isolating me away from his family. Maybe it had been a mistake to demand that we spent a Christmas alone together and miss out on his Geordie Christmas. Maybe he'd had enough and this was The Talk. Maybe he was planning to start a new year as a singleton again. Or he was going to kill me but I figured his mum would ask where I was when he got back, so I remained positive.

I trudged slowly up the hill to stand beside him. We were both breathless and our panting created a soundscape for the starlight view across the peaceful Northumberland village. For once, he didn't let me speak. I listened to a potted history of what home meant to him, of what he wanted in life and what he considered to be special and important. I heard his dreams.

And then there was a ring.

And a question.

To which I replied 'No Way!'. 

Soon followed by a yes. But not before I made him ask me again down on one knee. So with his dad's flat cap probably resting in a cowpat, he knelt down and asked me to marry him, again.

It's strange because I'd never been one for romantic gestures or someone who particularly wanted to get married. As a lover of 80's bratpack films I had presumed that if anyone was going to propose to me then they had to go all out; in front of a crowd, in song.

But when it came to it. A starry night on a northern village hill was just fine.  

Our first announcement came as no surprise when we returned to beaming smiles from my future-in-laws and of course, his lovely Grandma.

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery:familyphotographynow.net : courtship

hey soul sister

Original photo by www.budsandbranchesphotography.com/

So last week the FPG prompt was sisters, of which biologically I have the one. But this week's prompt of friends who are family means I get to tell of my other sister - gained through marriage.

Once upon a time my husband's only brother introduces us to a beautiful lady with a sunshine smile and a laugh that hugs everyone in the room. We all nodded, knowingly...this was obviously THE ONE. On her first official 'meeting of the family', we were concerned that BigL, who was a pre-schooler at the time, would position herself as a human barrier between her favourite person in the whole world and this lovely intruder.  Within a few minutes, she was founder of the AuntieS fan club; which has increased its membership over the years that she's been part of our lives.

I've gotta be honest when she first came on the scene I was a bit...rolls eyes and makes that sound like a cat choking up a hairball. There she was all young and bikini slim, with all that no-kid freedom and disposable income. She had come into the fold all laugh, laugh, laugh and perky sun smiley, elbowing my grey cloud grumpiness into touch. For all of that, read JEALOUSY!

But you know when you just click with someone? Whether it's over politics, fashion, food, attitude towards the outside world, shared experiences; there is a moment you know. And I knew she was gonna be more than just my brother-in-law's wife when we could communicate without even speaking.  When you can share a joke with me or communicate injustice with your eyebrows...we've soooo connected.

We always say to our respective brother-husbands that we are solely responsible for our family being so close because if we didn't get on as well as we do, life would not have been the same. We often laugh about a parallel-us giving each other cut-eye across Christmas dinner, outdoing each other's outfits at family weddings or over bragging about our kid's achievements. 

Instead she has become the woman who will tell me if I need to go change out of that outfit, or if I'm being too self-centred, or if I'm right...occasionally. She is the person who will listen to my tears and outrage and text my 'wait...what?' moments to during box set binges. She gets it when I want to hold another 'themed' event and dresses up accordingly, she is always ready with 'I know, right' and she loves embarrassing my daughters in public as much as I do. Result.

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery:familyphotographynow.net: friends who are family

young hearts run free

Those are my legs! 1980s neon swagger.

It's Sports Day season again. Across school fields everywhere, children are wearing their team colours with pride as they hop, skip and jump into sacks carrying eggs; teachers with clipboarded results forget about the marking piling up on their desk to fret about whether they can get through the staff relay without falling in the home straight; and primary school parents pretend to not care about the parents race and just happened to have their neon swooshed trainers in their handbag.

I was a sport lover in my younger days. And although it's more of the armchair variety these days, I still love sport and am a huge believer in the good it can do.

Sport got me through school corridor racism. I was good at it. The whispers and mean stares subsided when they saw me on the track and on the field. I got picked first for teams, I represented my school, my county and my country in athletics. And when I regale my daughters about my sporting prowess whilst rummaging around in the loft for my dusty medal collection, I regret giving up my talent every time.

Sport enabled me to appreciate the benefits of hard work, way before I realised that revision was a necessary evil; it showed me how to cope with the highs and lows that go hand in hand with sport and life; it widened my peer group so when things were difficult at school I had my team mates at training with a shared experience of frosty cross country mornings and nerves on the starting line; and it took me around the country and gave me a working knowledge of what was where (do you know I once got asked in class where in Wales was Scotland??).

But it's so very easy to look back and get all misty eyed about my teenage wins. I have to be honest and remember the evenings where I didn't want to go training and the day I feigned injury, missed out on an athletic event only for my coach Dad to return and find me dancing to the opening credits of the Pink Panther in the living room. 

Now I can look back and sympathise with the sorrow, frustration and probably the anger that he must have felt when I told him I was giving it all up, aged 17. With a promising athletic career ahead of me, I imagine he probably wanted to drop kick me out of a window. all those nights training with me through the four seasons and the years of trekking me up and down the motorways of Britain. And what for? No eldest daughter on an Olympic podium. No dedicated sportsperson of the year trophy to my coaching Dad.

Except...the love of sport remains strong. The sporadic forays onto treadmills get harder as the knees get creakier. I'll splash about whilst the offspring do a million graceful laps around the pool. I'll encourage my eldest around the Race For Life 5K only to witness her sprint finish leaving me for dust.  And if it wasn't for channelling my Mum's love of the exercise DVD, I would be a professional couch potato.

Now it's me ferrying children to pitches and pools at the weekend. Now it's me commenting on the natural athletic posture all three of them have. Now it's me celebrating hanging the medals and certificates that make it home. Every time my Dad hears me blah on about my kids' sporting achievements, it must seem like groundhog day, apart from the fact that he could never boast about winning the parent's race. That three separate Mum's race wins by the way. Yep still got it.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers writing prompt no87: You and Sport

two sisters

The day I became a big sister

I was playing with friends,outside and I was called in to have a photo with her. I probably tutted under my breath (it was the 70s and I'm from a West Indian family - I tutted at my peril) and dutifully ran indoors. For seven years I had been an only child. Eldest grandchild from eldest parents. A sacred place at the top of the lowest branch on the family tree.

And then she came along. Snuffling and crying with the tiniest nostrils I had ever seen. My baby sister. 

The whole dynamic of the house actually changed before she arrived as my Mum had to go into hospital well before she was born, meaning she missed by 7th birthday party. Notice I have no recollection as to why she went into hospital. I was only child and it was my birthday. I may have tutted a little bit louder that day. Anyway my fave aunt saved the day but I suspect there was always a little bit of blame placed at the tiny feet of my new sibling.

As a big sister, I imagined all kinds of spoils would be bestowed upon me. A crown, possibly a tartan cape or maybe just more time watching The Fonz, now that another tiny person had taken the attention from me.

Instead, I learnt about the 'go and get'. Go and get more nappies for the baby. Go and get some clothes for your sister. Go and get...I forget what else but whatever it was, it involved stairs. So a silent promise was made in the year of our Lord 1977. I would spend my adult life living in a bungalow. No stairs whatsoever. And, I chirped sagaciously, when I had children I would never ask them to go upstairs to bring things back down.

Hmm-mmm the beauty of childhood, right?

I didn't live in a bungalow. I do send my children upstairs to get things. And I love the fact that my sister is someone so very different from me except when it comes to humour - we have laughed to aching tummies about the daftest things - and Eurovision; now our most honoured family tradition.

this post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery:familyphotographynow.net : Sister

daddy lessons

There's no hiding away from this. My Dad was a strict dad.

A 'you better get your tail back home on time' kinda Dad.

A sit down and listen to me lecture if you know what's good for you type of Dad.

A jokes that will make you groan Dad.

A never got my mates names right Dad.

There was the time he took to riding his motorbike during my athletic training runs because he couldn't keep up.

There were the times he told me to take down my Adam Ant / Madness / Duran Duran posters so often that when I left home, I blue-tacked wall-to-wall posters that it seemed I had a heaven of popstars watching over me like Greek Gods - Britpop style.

There were the Christmas Eves where he baked bread loaves in the shape of plaits and bread buns with our initials on, then left the kitchen looking like a flour hurricane had swept through. His work was done.

There were the nights I would sit on the stairs listening to him talk with his custom officer colleagues on their way to / back from a drug raid. For those tiny moments I was an extra on Juliet Bravo.

There was the year he turned 40 and I was the cassette DJ forced to play The Clash's 'I fought the Law' over and over again.

He was the Dad my mates' mums (and my PE teacher) fancied.

He was the Dad who tried so very hard to instill a sense of my ancestry in me.

He was the Dad who drove us the length and breadth of Britain so we would know our home country.

He was the Dad who  caught me reading my football magazine instead of revising for my Biology GCSE.

He was the Dad who bought me baby dummies for my 30th birthday as a gentle reminder of what he was waiting for.

He's the Dad who would make me tea and toast and sit for hours watching box sets of 24 when I was on my first maternity leave.

He's the Dad that will discuss politics, race, racism, parenting, aging, football and Doctor Who in just one phone call.

He's the Dad who climbs mountains, swims in oceans and still insists on jumping over walls even though he's passed the Beatles age-related hit song.

He's the Dad who is greeted by his grand-daughters, like Norm from Cheers, with a 'Grandpa!'

He's the Dad who isn't strict anymore.

He's the Dad who became the Grandpa who still tells jokes that make you groan.

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery: familyphotographynow.net:My Dad

miss you like crazy

grinding cocoa before shaking the pineapple tree

We were never one of those families who had grandparents and aunties and uncles regularly popping by. In my infant days I spent time with my Grenada grandparents, who were in London when I was born but I was too young for these memories to remain. Into my toddler years I certainly remember hazy, lazy days with a wonderful great-aunt who's daughters became my surrogate sisters; but that too came to an abrupt end.

We became a nucleus. A fortress of four that occasionally journeyed from suburbia into the city walls of London to visit our Caribbean extended families; as the years passed, the gaps between visits grew wider.

The GeordieLad's experience is not the same. He comes from a family that were used to each other's living rooms, Sunday dinners and Christmases. The love, laughs, support and birthday money that he had taken for granted was extended to me well before our wedding bells; his family circle widened to include me from day one. So when we became parents I planned to ensure that our girls saw all extensions of our family more often than at the obligatory weddings, christenings and funerals. And they do. We all do the best we can.

However, my Grenada grandparents cannot be part of this, returning back to their homeland in the 70s we exist in each other's lives through faded photos and fortunately, the rare visit. Now great-grandparents, we took the opportunity to take our babies during my maternity leaves but they were so very young that it was unlikely they would remember them at all.

So last year's summer holiday at my Dad's Grenada home was invaluable. They were now of an age where they could interact with their Great-Grandparents - it was an opportunity we could not afford to waste. Despite my Grandfather being invalid and quite poorly, the girls were respectful of his unpredictable behaviour and made sure they chatted to him about their adventures, even though he would often not respond. They knew he was listening and the morning we spent manoeuvring him down to the beach will be a lasting moment for us all. 

And as for my Grandma. Well, depending on which branch you sit on the family tree denotes the relationship you have with her. I do pretty well, thanks very much. The girls, do even better.  We'll not mention how my Dad gets on. She might have talked in riddles and roundabouts that made them look to me for interpretations (which I  would respond to with a 'yes Grandma' until they got the idea) but she taught them how to roll grind cocoa and churn ice-cream on her birthday. She showed them how anything can be stored in a freezer and took them on a photographic journey of her life in 1960s London. She also made them laugh with her sayings and gave them nicknames that would have prompted tears had I thought of them.

Saying goodbye to my Grenada grandparents was one of the hardest things my girls have ever seen me do. They don't like to see me cry. It's unlikely we'll be back there anytime soon. Yet I'm certain the girls understood that just because you don't see someone everyday or even every year, it doesn't make your love for them any less. 

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery: familyphotographynow.net: familylivingfaraway

if i had a photograph of you

Do you have a plethora of family photos scattered all over your house?

Or are you one of those organised people who manages to get all your loved ones in one place to pose for a professional shoot?

Are you happy with the obligatory school uniform grimace or have you forgotten what colour your living room is because of all the holiday snaps adorning your walls. 

Or maybe you don't have any; for one reason or another.

I love a good photo. Now this sentence will have my Father chomping at the bit as I spent the greater part of my teens turning the other cheek before the shutter clicked.  I hated my photo being taken.  Still do.

But I do love to see family photos on my walls; meticulously levelled up the staircase, lovingly angled on every spare windowsill, protruding from holiday sand-filled bottles on shelves, perched on any unused flat surface I can find. And I love going into other people's houses and looking at all their family photos too. A physiognomy ancestry before my very eyes.

My goodness, she's the spit of your sister. 

Yes, she has your eyes doesn't she?

Which side of the family is he from?

Is that your childhood house?

And then there's my fridge. Magnets are demoted in favour of old passport photos and random images from disposable cameras that were fortunate enough to be in focus.  

The photos in our home tell of school, yes, and holidays, yes and of course weddings. But they also tell of that day when she wouldn't listen and the day I was glad I carried a change of clothes in the boot of the car and the day when we knew it was serious and the day our lives changed forever. These photos will tell stories when we forget the minutiae of the moments.

If truth be told, in this digital age of disappearing images, I harbour a secret desire to fill one entire wall in a collage of us. But something tells me that it wouldn't just stop there.  

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery: familyphotographynow.net:FamilyCollages

too good to be forgotten

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I would miss the coffee that kick starts my writing day; that takes an age to make it just so - three spoons, no sugar, splash of milk.

I would miss the sneaky Wispa bar that I pop into my Friday morning shopping basket with the milk and bread and fresh fruit and veg before we start the start the weekend, with everyone in the home peering in cupboards for quick snacks. I wave the Change for Life sugar swap app in my family's face smug with the knowledge that I have snaffled the secret chocolate treat in my car on the way home from the supermarket. Savouring each melting mouthful at the traffic lights.

I would miss the big Sunday Roast that has our dining table groaning under the dishes laden with everyone's favourites.  This is the dinner where all plates are scraped clean and no morsel left uneaten.  We rest full bellies in front of the telly waiting for the moment that we can squeeze in dessert.

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I would miss the cakes and cookies my middle daughter likes to bake on quiet Saturdays; the sweeties from my youngest daughter's party bag sweetie box that never seems to empty; the dishes that my eldest daughter presents with pride, hot from the home ec room, onto our kitchen counter.  These are their tastebud heavens and they share them with me.

I would miss the tiny bones that disappear in the saltfish salad, that detract me, momentarily from the sun-yellow plantain and the golden brown bakes. The food of my childhood. The meal that brings love.

I would miss cardboard boxed fries dipped in banana milkshake and the greasy wrapped chips shared on seaside seafronts and the first slurp of a cuppa getting home after dark and the silk of a rum punch in the garden, in the sun.

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I'd miss the way a bite or nibble or swallow or chew can take me to a moment that sparks a memory; a meal that creates a story.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers : Writing Prompt no72 : Lose your sense of taste tomorrow

MLK

Happy Martin Luther King Day!

"...the surest way to be happy is to seek happiness for others"

Apparently today is 'Blue Monday', the most miserable Monday in the year. After the bright lights of Christmas have been dismantled and unless you have a birthday imminent, your high street and home street are defunct of colour until Valentines. As a teacher, this week was bang in the middle of an uphill slog to the dark February half-term which would then be crammed full of the joy that is  assessment and coursework marking.

But luckily (and so immensely relevant in light of US activities this week) there is a little red, white and blue glimmer of light for this week. Today is Martin Luther King Day.

"If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way!

It's been a pretty muddy, rainy, cold, kids-in-the-middle-of-the-term-tired weekend so I'm looking to start the week with love and a bit of history thrown into the mix.

MLK's life and work may be taught in some schools but I'm going to add a little bonus learning to our afternoon and open up a discussion about prejudice and tolerance. I want to hear what they think (and see whether we' ve been raising 'em right!).

The 'apple' or 'egg' experiments could be a starting point and I'll let them take it from there.

Or asking them to imagine life in a time of segregation: How would it change the life they have now? What would happen to their friendships? Or family? Being mixed heritage, I imagine my 3G will be throwing some interesting questions my way.

"What matters is not how long you live...but how you live"

To avoid a 'you must talk now' moment, whilst we chat I'm hoping they're up for writing their views encompassing MLK's desires.

So a poem entitled 'I have a dream' or 'My dreams for tomorrow'.
Or filling in a template cloud with finished sentences : A dream for me, A dream for my family, A dream for my world.  Hang it up and display the wishes of your offspring...then tuck it a box ready to whip out on their 18th birthday!

"The time is always right to do what is right"

Then to the conjuring up the atmosphere of MLK's time - well the good bits anyway - the music and the food. My lot are used to hearing an eclectic mix of music at Twickers Towers and today will be no exception. 1963 Soul can ease our way into dinner time. This may not bode well for the 3G but I'll keep them busy with the cooking and enjoy some solo-boogieing!

Tonight will be a dinner that has been alleged to be MLK's favourite Southern Soul Food : fried chicken, sweet potato, green beans and mac & cheese.  This is definitely food to warm the greyness out of a grizzly Monday.

"I have decided to stick with love. 

Hate is too great a burden to bear"

And finally, forgiveness. Many of MLK's words reflect on the power of forgiveness. Something that can be hard but required during all our lives. Who and why should we forgive? What might happen to us if we don't learn to forgive others?

I'm not one for heaping my political opinions onto my children - they read therefore they will find their way - but the messages here are about being a good human. That is one rule in our home that they must abide by.

"Our lives begin to end the day 

we become silent about the things that matter"

the way we were

The older I get, the more I throw a rose-coloured spectacled glance back to my childhood. The 3G are always having a shared chuckle when I regale them of 'the good old days'. 

"Do you mean in the olden days?" they ask behind youth and cheek.

Well, maybe they are, since they are also the days before the internet, mobile phones, electric cars and a gazillion TV channels. But these are also the days from whence tradition comes.

When I initially considered a tradition I'd like to see carried on I contemplated my childhood Christmas - the day of the Long Road To Opening Presents. Christmas in my house would actually start with the soaking of Christmas Cake Fruits in March before the baking of said fruits at the crack of a December dawn.  The kitchen would swell with the baking of Christmas Eve bread, including the special plaited bread (!) and a bun with our initials on. No amount of protest would move the Christmas morning any faster as the ritual of opening presents did not begin until we had finished every scrap of saltfish and bakes, fried plantain and cocoa tea and then washed every speckle of every plate. It would seriously feel like Christmas Day had disappeared before even the first shred of wrapping paper came off.

And whilst I try and keep as much of those traditions as I can with my own family, it gets a little harder when you are also part of someone else's family therefore sharing in someone else's family traditions. Throw in a little cultural diversity and things can get a little busy. We cope by amalgamating and creating new rituals which can sometimes result in customs getting lost or feelings being hurt.

So I thought of a tradition transcending all the branches of my family tree which, by its very nature, will grow and blossom with each generation and it cannot be remain the same or cast in stone.

I bring you the family 'do'.

Sitting free of seatbelts in our orange Vauxhall Viva, I would excitedly watch the 1980s London - in all its greyness - cascade around me until the our arrival at one of three West London estates would thrust my parents back into the warmth of who they once were and us into this strange yet pleasurable temporary existence.  Enveloped in the beat of Lovers Rock, any attempt to conceal my lanky presence in the kitchen would fail miserably as West Indian fingers, fresh from cooking pig trotter sous, would pinch my cheeks forcing me to extrapolate myself and disappear into the melee of cousins.  The rumble and explosion of  West Indian laughs above tales of 'he and she' or the thumps of dominoes on the tiniest table ever made linger in my veins and the strains of the reggae forever remain.

My girls may not be submerged into the sounds and smells of my yesterday but  they have experienced what will be their versions of  family do's across the country; from the rolling hills of the North East to Midland dales to coastal towns to Caribbean villages to city dwellings and one thing is constant; the welcome.

Other constants follow swiftly: the hugs, the food, the laughter. And still more: the new recruits (babies or lovers), the music, the little ones getting taller, the older ones getting greyer. We exchange seats at the table as our generation mourns the loss of those ahead and welcome those who follow behind.

There was a time in my teens when it seemed family dos didn't happen or maybe they did and we just weren't there. The splinters from this time have healed in some branches, not so in others, so I am thankful of the dos that remain and those that we are welcomed to join. And I relish those moments when aging fingers pinch the cheeks of my girls making them scurry for the safety of cousins across the country.

This post is in response to a Post40Bloggers: Writing Prompt No.103 : a tradition you would like to see carried on 

evergreen

Growing up my perception of the family union was via Black American sitcoms, hip hop and soul songs or dramas and it was committed with utter perfection. Leaves of a family tree gravitating to a matriarch's kitchen table laden with food that would sustain ten armies. Generational branches momentarily re-twigging so aunts and uncles become brothers and sisters again, distant cousins break through the initial i-don't-know-you-but-i-know-we're-related ice to collectively roll their eyes at disco parents, and the elders get to reign supreme with a view of all that they have created and nurtured. 

My childhood experience amidst my Caribbean family certainly echoed with strains of what I was seeing on TV; add a little curry goat and lovers rock and you're there. I cherish memories of a beloved St Lucian aunt who would play the same reggae song about ten times in the course of a visit and would sing with glorious energy every single time and pull my awkward self to dance with her softness. Or another Grenadian aunt-cum-grandmother who would cook the Sunday dinners of all Sunday dinners then hold our mouth-watering attention whilst she prayed with us over the good part of an hour; but the food and the love of her was always worth the wait.

Two women who I wish my daughters could have known, two women who, through the prism of my young eyes, encapsulated warmth, love, joy, family. 

Life's demands can often fracture the ties that bind so I am now grateful that part of my clan have reclaimed and reconstructed our family union for nearly 8 years. Where I once stood as the child, cuddled and chided by grown ups, I now see the children of then having children of their own, the parents change their status to grandparents, the teenagers blossom into adulthood.

Our annual reunions which began as a necessary replanting of relationships, after a passing, have flourished into a happening that raises up the achievements and rites of passage amongst us, sustains the growth and collective need of an evolving family and cradles the sorrows within us. Our boughs reach from the newborn to the newcomers to the never-to-return; all life is within our roots.

And settling here on my branch, I will take time to cherish the view from here.

family business (things i have learnt about holiday-me part4)

Saying goodbye to aged grandparents that I've barely met in my 44 years was one of the most heartbreaking things I've ever had to do.

In the blistering sun, dressed in comfy airplane attire, I hugged my Caribbean grandma and grandad and (in my best West Indian vernacular) me bawl. My three children were agog at the dribbling mess that sat between them on the taxi ride to the airport; this certainly was a waterproof mascara day.

This is an unsual experience for me as my grandparents have lived for the majority of my life in Grenada so apart from the baby years, a couple of childhood visits abroad and taking a quick trip over during my three maternity leaves, I've never considered that I had much of a relationship with them. How could I? They were three thousand miles away and technology arrived too late for us to establish a true connection.

Life moves on doesn't it? We plough the seeds and scatter and all that.

Yet in researching the Caribbean journey from home to the UK, I found myself with more questions than answers. My grandparents came were post-Windrush generation and not from Jamaica so the footage and documentation regarding their experience was always sparse. I wanted to know what it was like on the boat on the way over, what it was like to arrive, live and work in the 1960's, what made them return home when those around them were putting down roots?

A memory lane trip around Shepherds Bush with my dad, who arrived in the UK at 16, was incredibly useful in painting a picture for the life I needed to create for the character of Gracie in my novel:a young mother who follows her husband from Grenada to London.  But I needed the first hand tales of my grandparents to understand how it felt to be in Britain at that time.

Having the opportunity to visit my grandparents and listening to grand-uncles and aunts regale stories of years past, I felt blessed that I was able to hear them first hand. Afternoons spent sifting through faded photo albums led to volumes of anecdotes that transformed my grandparents from the elderly people I saw before me to the young, spirited, hard-working people they used to be; people from a time that their children and grandchildren would never know.

So much is already gone and forgotten with a generation who left snippets of history from their own lives and I realise with sorrow the conversations missed with people I have not taken the time to value.  The simple fact is that everyone takes  a piece of their life-stories with them one day and I fear that in this selfie-life we are too preoccupied with the us and now; we are disregarding our past and losing pieces of our history puzzles.

Writing my novel led me to explore my family history which, amongst hurrah-inducing finds and foot stomping frustrating dead-ends, led me to question the who, whats, wheres and whens that contributed to little old me. Desperately trying to keep up with she who married Mr So-and-So's brother from down the hill who is also our family you know was a daily challenge and a daily reality as I was introduced to yet another cousin. But these revelations also opened up branches of a family tree I never knew existed; pieces of my missing jigsaw.

Although the goodbyes were painful I am overjoyed that I got some time with my grandparents because the bare-face truth is that I am unlikely to afford a return trip any year soon. But the time spent with four generations together have made life long memories and certainly reminded me of the importance of listening to those who came before because one day we will want our stories to be heard by those who will follow after.

it's a family affair

Back in 2006 we took our first holiday with BigL - who at this point was our only LittleL - to Grenada; the country where FantasticoDad was born, reluctantly left in his childhood, and had recently returned to. 

A moment happened on this trip that I am blessed to have experienced but unlikely to be part of again.

From a great-grandmother, to my grandparents, to my FantasticoDad, to me, to BigL. 

Here we sit. 

5 generations.

This post is linked up with  - ThePhotoGallery121Sticky Fingers

long hot summer

A number of events collided on this longest day. The aftermath of a minor operation leaving me a bit fragile and war wounded. The 2nd birthday celebration of the triplet daughters of BrillSis and B-i-L. And a rare moment of family members being in the same country / city / town at the same time. It was decided that a day in Yorkshire surrounded by wildlife was in order. 

Expecting cloud - as per numerous weather forecasts - we were all proper happy to enjoy a day full of suncream and sun, picnic packing, children chasing each other, woozy wildlife animals and fun, fun, fun.

All the parents sat down for a sarnie and swig of water and the 3G entertained themselves. 

The Photo Gallery 190 - Sticky Fingers

we are family

So I've been down in the dumps recently, that's no surprise.  But I'm amazed at the power you can get by turning to those who you often take for granted.  I hate asking for help. Hate it with a passion.  That sinking feeling I get when I know I need to call on someone.  Not for guidance or advice, I hasten to add - but real, physical, can-you-take-time-out-of-your-day kinda help.  I am so blessed to have family and friends that are always there. There has been many a time when I have dwelt on the negative and forgotten about the positive that surrounds me everyday.

Phew! Sounding a bit hippyish there - but you get what I mean.

This month has thrown me into the collective arms of my fabulous family and some hardcore friends. Do you ever think that there is no one, not one person at all who understands what you are going through or what you need? Take a look again at the people that you think can't help you. Despite feeling my lowest in many, many years I have not laughed as much as I have this month, this week, today!

I have taken time this week to remind a friend of a daft joke that had us giggling into our coffees on a Monday morning back at work, no beeyatching mind you -just pure childish silliness.  'Watching' a film whilst hurling questions at the GeordieLad, which he  humourlessly bats away - he can't take me to the cinema anymore apparently. Sharing 'guess what my kid did last week' stories with SuperSis and Brill-S-i-L and laughing about which one will end up on who's doorstop at midnight in the teendom years. And what'sapping the evening away with amazing ladies who know how to make the put downs something I shouldn't put up with. Not to mention the FantasticoDad worried phonecall which sparked another checking-on-you phone call from the World's Best Aunty.

And then there's the 3G. Being away from our natural habitat gave me time to look at them, talk to them, and hug them properly. Without the work or bedtime clock ticking. We hung out this week and I remembered how much I love them. Look I think everyday how much I adore the girlie-wirlies, but I took a moment out to just think about that. It is something I don't do often enough and it's easy to take them for granted.

I have supersonic beings in my life. I just forgot to take a look around me and remind myself that for every dissenting voice, there are more than double lifting me up.

Much Love.

Goodnight London, wherever you are.

Everybody hurts

Days like these are becoming too regular lately. My morning is by the mother of all clouds. I get through the day on a crutch of a smile, so that Geordie Lad and the 3G are none the wiser. By nightfall I no longer have the strength to resist; I allow the mist to settle and it feels like someone is kicking me down a bottomless pit.

I had thought about writing in depth about what it's like; to give some insight to those who see me through the dark days. However after a long, warm shower, the crewof5 asleep (well except me, obviously, but settled in bed so near enough!), and 3 hours of catch up iplayer I am resurfacing and feel that a lighter approach is called for.

And this is the thing, this is how my days, months, years, decades go. Not to the dizzying heights or hellish holes of my twenties, but still - it's all or nothing most of the time. It's exhausting you know, and not just for me I'm sure.

I know there are people in my life who just don't get me when I'm like I'm am, there are people in my life who don't know I am like I am, and there are people who accept the me I am. I belong in the first category. I refuse to accept it is okay to be like this, I get that it's natural and can't be helped, but why must it continue. I look around me and mine and we're okay; so why the misery, the insecurity, the self-damnation. I want to do and see and live so much, yet it feels like I have stone shoes on - co-ordinated with concrete coat and hard hat. I'm convinced there is a parallel me out there with a super smile and living my earthly me's dreams. 

So what gets me out of the hole? (I have just read a fantastic and insightful blog and learnt that this can also be referred to as the black dog) Music on the very bad days. I can barely move on these days but within 5 minutes of some good tunes, I am dancing like it's 1999 - literally, I was 28 then and a mover on the dancefloor!  Most of the time, my 3G and Geordie Lad see me right. Then there is my cushion of womenfolk. Some I see often, some when needed, and some not nearly enough, and one is missing...but that's for another day.

Goodnight London, wherever you are.