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

i hope you dance

Credit : https://www.facebook.com/budsandbranchesphotography/

I've always said I'm not raising girls, I'm raising women. The woman I am today is a direct reflection of the women I have come into contact with over the last 40 plus years. Whether the experience is inspirational, heart-warming, frustrating or downright infuriating, I've learnt much from many.

And so on International Women's Day 2017 I cast my mind to my future hopes for my three daughters.

I hope, first and foremost, that they are happy and healthy and look forward to waking up in the morning. But if at anytime, life's path gets too rocky, I hope they have choices to help them through the difficulty days.

I hope they find comfort when they look back on their childhood. That they are warmed by the memory of dancing in the kitchen and re-tell stories of their misdemeanours to the next generation. That the music and the clothes and the photos will be looked upon with smiles because the happy outweighs the sad.

I hope they seek guidance from the women in their family and friendship circles.  That they know who to turn to and to trust when, maybe, I am not enough. Right now, the women who fill our lives are honest and loving and spiritual and hilarious and carry each other in their hearts.

I hope they develop a voice that enables them to speak up for themselves, to speak out against wrongs, to ask for support when they feel downtrodden, to give advice when they are experienced enough to provide it. To say sorry but only if they mean it.

I hope they achieve what they set out to achieve.  That they follow their passions and share their enthusiasms and that they are able to carve escapes out of their ruts.  That they are encouraged by other women to succeed and then, in turn, lower the ladder for others to follow.

And lastly, I hope that they can spend time with each other to smile and laugh and cry and argue. That their sisterly ties become secure over time, distance and life. And I hope they dance together in their kitchens.

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.

somebody's watching me

With the family birthdays finally parked up until next spring and Christmas peering, menacingly, around the corner, I regularly stand agog at the mountain of toys belonging to my 3G. How on earth did this happen? Do they actually play with any of these toys anymore? Will they really miss any if I take half to the local charity shop? And if I hide the Argos catalogue would they be able to ask for anything at all this Christmas?

They don't need anything else.

They have food and shelter and free education, That should be enough right?

I think this because I didn't have a huge amount of toys. It's okay, pop your violin away, there are no regrets here. I had stuff; teddies, board games, a bike, my recorder, a piano and I think I managed to wangle a tamagotchi out of my parents at some point. But as most of you reading this will recognise...we were playing outside. So my feet were my toys - hah - I'm saving that one when the Christmas lists start being written next month.

The thing I do remember about my toys was how terribly afraid I was of seeing the collected button eyes peering out from furry faces that were cute and cuddly in the day but by night...

I had a huge, built in wardrobe in my bedroom that I shared with my much younger sister and every night the sliding doors would have to be firmly shut with the brood of bears obviously 'sleeping' behind. Especially the biggest one. A broad brown bear with the texture of Playschool's Big Ted but the expression of Hanbel the miserable doll.

I don't know who bought and burdened me with that bear. I imagine I should have have been grateful. But I was absolutely convinced that when I went to sleep the bears and ragdolls, lead by Beariarty would come alive, chattering about my Teddy Mother qualities, and possibly, very possibly, plotting.

So, despite incurring

the wrath of my toy charges, I ensured they were restrained nightly behind the heavy wardrobe doors. Surely those stitched fingerless hands couldn't open doors, could they?

This post is in response to a #post40bloggers #writingprompt no101:Childhood Toys

protection

It's 1980cough and I'm walking to school with my bezzie mate. We eat dairy milk chocolate bars - yes on the way to school - and chat about the England football players or members of INXS we're going to marry. We go to school, then at 3.30 we repeat the whole thing again.

It was all so simple then.

Prepping the eldest for the solo walk to high school I allowed the occasional bus journey to meet me on the high street. This was to encourage a bit of streetwise confidence and to stop me embedding a microchip in her neck whilst she slept. I needed to release the apron strings a millimetre or two and this seemed like the best way.

First few weeks of the new high school term I managed not to follow her down the road whilst she cycled or walked and all was good. Until the desperately sad news about the young teenager who was abducted on her way to school and endured an horrific attack before she was discovered knocking on residential doors four hours after her ordeal.

Stop the world I want to get off and I'm taking my daughters with me.

Yes miserable things happen every day but after hearing this news one school morning it took every ounce of strength not to knit an new umbilical cord and live life like this for ever more. 

Discussions about when do we let our children walk to school alone surface every year and having lived a pretty sheltered life I had aimed to nurture more confident kids on the street, not street corners mind or in the middle of shopping centres, just kids who have good street awareness.  But now I'm considering self defence classes and pointing out hazards along the school route yet will this stop me worrying or indeed reduce the dangers of the outside world. No, no, no.

I have heard parents on the radio saying how they wouldn't let their kids walk to school alone but then realising they are primary school parents, I'm thinking whether they will seriously maintain this attitude with their Year 10 son or daughter. The balking of a walking teenager may be placated by a drive-by parent drop but then are we creating a generation of lazy chauffered kids who will cower in a ditch come the first sign of trouble; unaware or unconfident of their options in a crisis.

So how do we protect and prepare our tween/teens for the outside world without frightening the socks of 'em?

Answers on a postcard please.