Category Archives: Motherhood

Lemons

You know that expression, right?

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade”

Or alternatively:

lemons

Well, it struck me just now that there are basically two camps you can fall into when you hit a bump in the road and fall off your bike. It’s probably obvious and it’s sure to be something I’ve written about before, in another guise, some time ago. And I don’t want to get all verbose about it, since it’s really just the simplest equation in the world.

When life throws you a curveball, you have a choice.

You can add it to one of two lists.

You can add it to your victim story list: “And then, poor me, this happened.” You know the one, right? And you know when you’re on that kick because you’re not focused on what actually happened, or how best to deal with it, or how to fix it, but you’re reciting in your head how best to tell it when you next meet someone who’ll listen. And you know that you’re learning to kick that habit the moment it begins to feel less than comfortable reciting the same tired old lines; when, and I know you know this one, you’re actually beginning to bore yourself.

Or you can add it to your survivor list. You can add to the strings on your bow. You can hold your head up and say (to yourself because, come on, who else needs to hear it anyway? Whose opinion of you is more important than your own? Seriously. Whose? The number one person who needs to love and approve of you is… uh-huh… YOU) “I survived that, and this is what I learned.”

Victim consciousness is a honey-trap. You think you’ll feel better telling someone how unhappy you are and how it’s anyone and anything else’s fault other than your own. But you don’t. You never ever do. It just perpetuates the misery.

But when you take responsibility for your own happiness, it can change in a heartbeat.

Last night, watching a film with some of my family, one of my sons was, frankly, bloody miserable. From an objective perspective, I had grasped the storm in the teacup, I could see how simple it would be to forget it, to get over it, to let it go. But it isn’t something you can do for someone else. They have to do it for themselves. And it isn’t always easy. And unless you’re Buddha, you’ll still have times when you struggle with it.

In a lull, I leaned over to him:

“The only person unhappy in here,” I whispered, “is you. And you don’t have to be. You can choose to let whatever the perceived grievance is… go. Just let it go.”

He guffawed, somewhat sarcastically, but I know how it works with him. Plant the seed, walk away and let him think.

Shortly afterwards, during a particularly heavy and gruelling scene, and as though nothing had happened:

“If you close your eyes and listen to Tom Hanks in this film, it’s like Woody’s swearing. I can’t be the only one to think that, right?”

The rest of us fell about laughing and the entire atmosphere was diffused.

Because he chose to let it go.

Small example, simple principle.

Massive life lesson.

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Perfection? Pfffffft!

I was talking to some friends online today, about parenthood, its quagmires, minefields and opportunities for guilt and self-doubt. We were discussing the fact that, however hard you try, however much you put into it, however you beat yourself up, you’ll never get it ‘right’. You can do it well. Or sometimes you’ll do it badly. You will have successes and failures. Some things will make your heart sing, others will feel like total defeats. And when it goes well, you will file that lesson away for future use in similar circumstances. And when it bellyflops and leaves you scrabbling in the dirt, you’ll file that away, too. And try not to do it that way ever again ๐Ÿ˜‰ That’s not to even mention the decisions we make for ourselves that impact our children, and the hours, days and weeks of agonising over them… Being a parent is a part of our journey, of our learning experience through this life and it is as much about teaching us to be a more compassionate human being as it is about guiding them through their own pitfalls and giving them the tools to be independent and compassionate adults in their own rights. Where and if at all possible.

Because our children also have their own paths to follow. They will have issues they have to deal with when they are older, and we cannot avoid that. We cannot make it perfect for them. “Perfect” doesn’t exist! I had a long conversation with my eldest son a while ago, during which I explained that I would always do the best I could for him, but that I knew very well that some of the decisions I make during his childhood will translate into ‘issues’ when he’s an adult. Our issues come from our experience, and for the longest time our experience is our childhood, no matter how perfect our parents were or how hard they tried. And that isn’t their fault (I don’t find that especially easy to write, by the way, but I do know it’s true). It’s the nature of the beast.

Ah. “Perfect doesn’t exist. It didn’t feel right writing that. Because, actually, I don’t believe it. But not in the way I meant it. Not that I mean to tie you in knots.

What I mean is that you, and your child/ren are perfect. You are the perfect tools by which to learn… whatever it is you are here to learn. Each of you. Your combination is perfect. I know. I know this sounds controversial. But it isn’t really. It’s easy to get bogged down in horrific specifics but that would be to misunderstand the point. If, for example, you found yourself in an abusive situation, you would learn from it. Whether that situation had an ultimately positive or negative outcome, it would still be a learning experience. And the younger you are, the more helpless and dependent you are, which is why these ‘issues’ have to be tackled when we’re older. So, just because it’s a simple equation, that doesn’t mean it isn’t unbearably difficult sometimes. Does that make sense? I hope so.

In slightly other news, I found this today. I loved it. An extremely healthy lesson in empathy:

Walk a mile in my shoes

Walk a mile in my shoes


Dietary requirements

I know I’ve mentioned before that Teddy’s ‘connectedness’ with his environment is directly linked to the healthy functioning of his little body. If Teddy’s system is happy, he is with us. If it is distressed, he is disconnected. It’s really terribly simple.

But as simple as it may be, we didn’t work it out for the best part of two and a half years. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place in a beautiful dance of awakening.ย  Last Easter we finally admitted to ourselves that something was ‘not right’ with Teddy’s development. His father was talking to his own mother about it and they discussed autism. She then mentioned an article she had read about diet, and… the rest is trial and error.

Through painstaking trial and error, in fact, we have discovered that Teddy’s tummy is happiest when he is on a wheat-free, dairy-free and salicylate-free diet. What are salicylates? I hear you ask in horror… I did too ๐Ÿ™‚ (follow the link to Wikipedia for more) The unfortunate news is that they are a naturally occurring pesticide to be found in all those foods you are proud of yourself for persuading your babe to eat: broccoli, for example, which Teddy loved. Grrrrr. And so began a couple of months of being chained to the cooker whilst attempting to find foodstuffs and alternatives that our littl’un could eat and tolerate. One of the biggest problems with intolerances is that the ‘alternatives’ have so many additives, preservatives, and last but not least, substitutes that are also untolerated, not to mention the fact that they are ridiculously overpriced as they have a desperate captive market, that they are simply not viable as the alternatives they set themselves up to be.

Just as each child is different, just as each child with autism is different, so is each child’s digestive system and tolerance / intolerance makeup. And with Ted, we have discovered that while wheat is a big no-no (we also avoid it due to intolerances – check out Wheat Belly if you are remotely concerned you might struggle with its digestion, too), its ancient predecessor spelt is just fine. So home-baked spelt bread, biscuits and cakes baked using spelt instead etc are all fine, if a little labour intensive. We have tried a plethora of milk alternatives: oat milk (he was horrified), KOKO – coconut is no good, soya he can’t tolerate and almond milk contains, however trace it may be, cyanide, and the one he finally settled on is rice milk. While he won’t drink it, it can be substituted for any milk in any recipe. And PURE sunflower margarine, or Vitalite takes the place of butter. For a long while he had no cheese at all, but we have now worked out that goat’s cheese – the hard white variety – is okay.ย  The only fruit he is allowed is Golden Delicious apples, peeled and cored, or pears. Ditto. But a little imagination goes a long way. While shop-bought sausage rolls are no good, an allergy-happy alternative is mince with onions, grated pear, parsley, in a spelt and PURE pastry. And they’re delicious. But it is time consuming. It’s back to basics stuff. The simpler the better. All home-cooked. Motherhood at its most primal. The latest technologies, fast foods, easy meals… they may just as well not exist…

Can you hear the exhausting labyrinth of ‘cooked, rejected; cooked tolerated; cooked, loved’ through this monologue? ๐Ÿ˜‰

There is a wealth of cookbooks out there, and a wealth of information. You can find recipes on Pinterest, on Mumsnet forums, oh everywhere. But the difficult truth is, all you can do is work it out for yourself.

But it is all worth it.

For those mornings after the days you got it right, when you open his bedroom door and, rather than a small person who barely notices your existence, who is locked away in his own little world, a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed toddler bounces up to you, looks you right in the eye and says “Hello Mummy.”

That’s when you remember what it’s all for. โค

Teddy and Daddy.  Connected.

Teddy and Daddy.
Connected.

Note: I would dearly love for this, too, to be a place where we can share recipes. If you have any successful recipes you’d like to share, please do comment and we’ll get a page together where I can post them for everybody. Thank you. ๐Ÿ™‚

Trying on a new hat for a good fit…

autism3I’m considering having this made into a t-shirt ๐Ÿ˜‰

Generally speaking, in our daily lives, we are fortunate enough to have a wide circle of loving and understanding friends, who have made it their mission to investigate the situation we find ourselves in with Ted, and how best to interact with and understand him. Those who cannot understand it, or who expect us to ‘carry on as normal’, have naturally fallen by the wayside. Without rancour, but it is much too stressful to pretend to be something you are not, to have to keep apologising for something that should require no apology, to navigate places and people who have unrealistic expectations of what is possible. It is a much less stressful proposition, we have learned, to have a meal with friends at their house, or at ours, than to attempt to sit through a meal in a restaurant. Although we are learning those little tricks I have mentioned before (stocking up on little toys from pound shops etc) to get through such situations, should we have to.

We don’t encounter too many folks who clearly weren’t told not to stare as curious children, but the sad fact is that we tend to avoid areas and situations where there are too many people or too many expectations to conform to a standard mode of behaviour since, as I have mentioned before, judgment is never far behind when you are attempting to live a ‘normal’ life out in the big, wide world, with an autistic child in tow. And of course, as I have said before, part of the issue is that there is nothing obviously marking an autistic child as autistic. By and large, an autistic child looks like any other child. Which reminds me, I also love this:

met one

Because the fact is, while autism has many common traits, no two children display the exact same ones, and like every other child on the planet, each is different. So there is a very real danger of making assumptions or basing expectations for a child with autism on your experience of another, totally different child.

At the outset of Teddy’s investigations I, too, was guilty of the sentiment behind one of the most common exclamations I hear:

“Oh, I thought they weren’t supposed to be able to do that!”

It’s a difficult statement on many levels. First, your child is being lumped in with everyone else, which is never a comfortable situation, even without the challenges that autism brings. Secondly, it can engender a very uncomfortable desire to defend the diagnosis and, if you are not careful, you can find yourself listing all the ways in which he does conform to it. That brings with it a horribly dirty feeling of betraying your child, since you spend the vast majority of your life with this small beloved person focusing on the positive. On what he can and does do.

A simple example to demonstrate this point is that many autistic children cannot stand to be touched. Teddy, on the other hand, spends that small portion of his life that he is not running around his immediate environment, climbing furniture, or demanding food, snuggled into or onto either of his parents, usually with the command: “Big cuddle!”

You know what? It’s a minefield. You think one thing is positive and a sign of hope, and then someone in the field of paediatric care comes along and says “Ah yes, they often do that. It means…” something completely opposed to the hopeful spin you had given it.

But no matter what anyone else thinks, says, or has experienced, Teddy surprises and delights us every day. The moments in which we throw one another puzzled or dismayed glances at some particularly troubling new development or behaviour are regularly and completely eclipsed by the moments in which our hearts and souls soar with love, pride and joy at some tiny, tiny milestone we were never sure he’d reach.ย Speaking to his occupational therapist the other day, I said to her “It’s baby steps, really…” and she looked at me quizzically.

“Have you said that before, during this meeting?”

“No. That’s the first time.”

She paused.

“Then it was one of the mothers I saw this morning. The exact same words, in the exact same tone.”

There’s a reason for that.

As soon as the word autism has been heard (and you will never unhear it), the facts, experiences, and literature ingested and digested, the biggest and most helpful thing you can do is open your mind (your heart, of course, is already cracked wide open) to everything. And your eyes and ears. Because, if you are not careful, you can miss those baby steps.

Two years ago, when Teddy was progressing more or less as you would expect for an 18-month old child, he could tell you all the sounds the animals make. It was one of our favourite party tricks and I remember very clearly the pride we felt as we heard his beautiful responses.

As he became less and less verbal and responsive, he stopped doing that.

But with the acceptance of his challenges, investigations into changing his diet which produced immediate and dramatic results, we have watched him slowly coming back to us.

Driving to nursery the other morning, we passed a field of cows.

“Moo,” said a little voice from the back seat.

Baby step. Don’t miss it!

“Yes…! … Teddy? What does a sheep say?”

“Baa!”

“Yes! What does a dog say?”

“Woof woof!”

Once, such responses were taken for granted. Now, the smallest response can set you up for the rest of the day. Once, I was grateful for big things, and took the rest for granted. Now, the smallest things rock my world.

If you want your child to be understood, I have begun to learn, then you need to teach people how to understand him.

autism2


Peaks and Troughs

I don’t think my heart has ever been this heavy.

But, paradoxically, I don’t think it has been as light either.

Which, I suppose, brings a kind of balance to life, doesn’t it?

Yes, we’re on autism again ๐Ÿ™‚

It’s all so relatively new, and we’re wading through it, learning more each day, struggling through the hard times: the unpredictable and sudden lashings out and meltdowns; rejoicing in the good: taking Linsey’s hand and walking into nursery without a backwards glance. Grateful, oh so grateful, for people like Linsey, who understand. And friends, too, with children on the spectrum, or with other challenges, who are not only mines of information, but incredible support. These are the ones (and you know who you are) to whom you can make confessions nobody else would really know how to respond to. You can say to them “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this” and they know what you mean. They know you don’t mean “I’m about to run away, this is too much”. They know you do mean “I’m struggling. This is tough. Sometimes I just can’t get my head around it”. They know you’re not feeling sorry for yourself, but that you are full of worries: how will he be accepted by the world, what will he struggle with, how much will he be capable of, will he ever have any independence, how much has he progressed already, what can I expect for him, I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know what’s normal…?!

And then they tell you you need an SEN. And you look at them blankly. “A Statement of Educational Needs” they explain. And you nod as if you suddenly and miraculously understand. But you don’t, really. So you own up. Why? What is it for? “It’s so he can get the help he’ll need.” Oh. It will tell you how severe he is. If he gets a level this or a level that will make all the difference. You find yourself hoping he gets a levelย that so he can get more care, even though a level that means he’s more challenged… And you chide yourself for wishing such a thing.

They ask you to fill in a form about him. They explain that they will, too, and that when you read theirs you mustn’t be dismayed by how negative it sounds. It’s just so he can get the help he needs.

It’s a strange in-between world you’re asked to inhabit at this point. You spend your life looking at the positives, noticing the tiniest yardsticks of progress: “He just said ‘Where ‘loon gone?’! That’s a whole question!” “Did you hear that? He just said ‘Door’! He wants you to open it!”
And then there’s the other place where they want you to look at all the challenges, all the difficulties he has, all the things you spend your daily life glossing over, ignoring, attempting to improve without actually saying them out loud. You find yourself on this strange rollercoaster of believing the best whilst being asked to prove the worst.

I don’t mind telling you it’s tough.

Then you have nights like tonight, where you’re plum tuckered out with it all, and he’s just dumped two pints of water out of the bath all over the floor, and your strength is waning.

And you get him out, onto your bed to get his jim-jams on, and his chubby little arms snake around your neck. He sticks his little lips out, as he’s seen the frog do in his favourite film, and he pulls you in for little hot kiss after little hot kiss. Then he just holds you, around the neck, your cheek on his cheek, and before you know it, his breathing has become deep and even and he’s fallen asleep.

His world is exhausting.

And you dress him through his sleep, and deposit him in the strange makeshift bed on the floor (because he refuses to sleep in a real bed) and you’re on a strange and wonderful high.

Those little arms are still around my neck.

And, believe me when I say this, because it’s from the heart, suddenly I remember: I’m grateful.

Addendum: I guess, what I’m really trying to say, is that it’s all too easy to lose sight of Teddy in the sea of ‘requirements’… And Teddy, put simply, is perfect. Just as he is. ๐Ÿ™‚

My Two Wolves

I’m sure this story isn’t new to many of those reading this. But it bears repeating since, like so many things in this adventure called life, it is just a strand of the tapestry that has recently taken a more discernible form in my consciousness.

So here it is:

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life.

โ€œMy child, there is a battle raging inside us all. It is between two wolves.

โ€œOne is Evil โ€“ It is anger, fear, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

โ€œThe other is Good โ€“ It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.โ€

The grandson thinks about this for a minute or two.

โ€œWhich wolf wins?โ€

โ€œThe one you feed.โ€

It’s simple, isn’t it?

But, like so many things of such apparent simplicity, although 1) it’s true, 2) it’s much more easily said than done. Partly because the battle isn’t confined to an arena within ourselves. And ye gods, it’s a tough enough battle when it is confined to that arena.

Before I go any further, I’m not talking here about good and evil. There is no evaluation or judgement in what I am trying to say. What has become abundantly clear to me is that so much human relationship goes wrong when the relating is fear-based, and love is forgotten.

There is of course, the moment you start talking about love, a very real danger of sounding like a blissed-out hippie (which is no bad thing in itself, incidentally ๐Ÿ˜‰ ) I mean, the Beatles, man. They said it, right? “All you need is love”? And YES! I want to shout. It’s TRUE! And if everyone is operating from the same field, removing ego from the game, without becoming a doormat (another fine balance) then there’s nothing to fear. You’re safe to love, and to be loved.

Trouble is, as I see it, if one person is operating from love, and the other from fear, the wolf driven by fear will keep on, teeth bared, until one of you backs down. Usually Love, because Fear will just continue attacking, for fear of being attacked. At which point, after repeated attempts to stop the fight, a few bite-marks and battle-scars acquired, Love shrugs his shoulders, patches up his wounds, and whispers (inaudibly, to Fear) “When you’ve lost your snarl, retracted your teeth and claws, I’ll be here. Until then…”

It seems to be another truth that people will suspect you of operating as they do. Their prediction of your response is based upon the way they would respond in the same circumstances. And if you are driven by fear, then attack is your predominant modus operandi – kill or be killed – and you will expect attack from everyone else, regardless of the wolf they feed. You feed fear, so you expect everyone else to.

It is a very difficult thing, eschewing fear and embracing love. (It is actually also proving rather difficult to talk about without sounding… oh, I don’t know, trite, or naive, or as though you have all the answers – hah!) Maybe it’s something you can achieve once and for all. Eventually. When you attain enlightenment. ๐Ÿ™‚

But for most of us, it is a battle we are invited to on a daily basis. And the most important thing I have learned about this fight,ย every single time it comes around, is:

The more you feed love, the stronger it becomes.

And fear? Well, it just kind of ceases to matter….

 


A life’s work. A gradual dawning. Acceptance.

He bit someone today.

She loves him. But he bit her. Not out of spite or malice. But because she was trying to get him to follow the rules. Rules that he, in his little autistic world, didn’t want to follow. Rules that, if he broke them, would cause anarchy in the nursery school. So she carried him away from the wet, slippery, tyre playground. And he bit her.

Broke the skin on her arm and bruised it.

Even as she told me, as she showed me her arm, she told me how well he is doing, how brilliantly he is adapting to nursery school, how fond she is of him…

Being given an autistic child is, without a doubt, the toughest challenge yet. I’ve been through divorce, estrangement from my family of origin, house moves to different parts of the country… All processed and accepted.

But this is all new.

It is unconditional love at its purest and simplest. I don’t know what he thinks, how he feels, what he can process, what will set him off. I can guess at all these things, but I don’t know. Any given moment could be a ‘good’ one or a ‘bad’ one. He may throw his arms around me for a ‘big cuddle!’, or kick out at me, pull my hair and knock my glasses off.

He struggled as I strapped him in the car, kicked. Lunged for my hair. Reached for my glasses.

I drove home weeping. The sadness threatened to overwhelm me.

I parked the car, turned on my phone, found this:

“The 9th principle of Buddhist psychology in The Wise Heart: Wisdom knows what feelings are present without being lost in them.

From the perspective of Buddhist psychology, each sight, sound, taste, touch, smell or thought will have either a pleasant, painful or neutral quality – one of the primary feeling tones. Then, born out of this simple feeling tone, there arises a whole array of “secondary feelings” – all the emotions we are familiar with, from joy and anger to fear and delight. It can be quite a lot!

This stream of feelings is always with us, and yet we sometimes have the mistaken notion that life is not supposed to be this way… When a painful experience arises we might think we have done something wrong, and we try to get rid of it by ignoring or changing it.

As we become wiser we realize that fixing the flow of feelings doesn’t work. Primary feelings are simply feelings, and every day consists of thousands of pleasant, painful and neutral moments, for you, Condoleezza Rice, the Dalai Lama, Mick Jagger and the Buddha alike. These feelings are not wrong or bad. They are the stream of life.

Jack Kornfield

The low gives meaning to the high. The sad to the happy. The ‘bad’ to the ‘good’.

And vice versa.

So often I repeat these words to friends: this too shall pass.

This time, I say it for me: This Too Shall Pass.

I am grateful.

I am grateful for the love she showed my beloved son even through the necessity of showing me what he, through no fault of his own, had done. I am grateful for his ‘big cuddles’ and for his love.

I am grateful for the unlocking of my heart that loving him is giving me. For having him in my life.

And today. Today, I am sad.

But, with the help of Jack Kornfield’s timely reminder, I will not get lost in it.


Teddy. No more. No less.

http://firstolympian.tumblr.com/post/61590796969/a-break-from-beard-oil-time-to-focus-on


Leave the earplugs at home.

I’m in a bunker, hunkered down, eyes squeezed tight shut, head between my knees and hands over my ears.

I’ve been here for a while.

I’m not thinking, hearing, listening…

And then a little voice starts the pep talk.

“You know the drill…” it says, rather incompassionately, I feel. “You talk the talk. But it isn’t enough to talk the talk. You need to walk the walk, too.”

And therein lies the Practice.

“I’m busy being stressed right now!”

Then stop.

“I’ll stop when I’ve got this really stressful thing out of the way.”

No. Stop now.

“I’m not listening to you. I’ll listen to you when I’m good and ready, and not feeling stressed any more.”

No. Listen now.

“I can’t. I’ve got lots of things to finish, or I’ll just feel more stressed.”

How will that help?

“Stop telling me it won’t help! You’re not helping, telling me it won’t help!”

Then a third little voice chimes in: “But you know she’s right, don’t you? You’re just choosing not to listen. Why are you choosing not to listen? It’s okay. It’s your journey. It’s your choice. And when you choose to listen, you will have chosen to make it easier for yourself…”

*Slump*

That Inner Voice can be a bitch. She doesn’t corroborate your victim story. She doesn’t put an arm around you and tell you to go back to bed and only get up when it’s all gone away. She just, oh-so-calmly, tells you the truth. And you can choose whether or not to listen. And some days, it’s really easy to listen. And other days, it feels damn-near impossible.

And those are the days to practise walking your talk.

Everything changes.

Except the reality that everything changes.

That doesn’t change ๐Ÿ˜‰

“Muddy water

If let to rest and settle

Always becomes clear.”

LAO TZU


What next…?

Bertie (a whopping 6 years old) is… well… I guess boisterous is the best word to describe him. A little like Bagpuss (do you remember that kids’ programme?), when Bertie’s awake, the rest of the house is awake. He wakes up hollering, goes to bed hollering and does a fair bit of hollering in between. There’s no volume switch, no brakes. Bertie hurtles, headlong, through life, stopping only when he meets resistance, and even then only if he has to. And his demeanour is almost invariably one of noisy cheerfulness.

But just of late, as so often happens at around this age, he’s pondering the bigger questions. I guess Easter throws this up a little for children – they’ve been talking about it at school – death and resurrection. And it got me thinking about how confusing, and a bit scary, these big questions can be for our smallfolk.

“Can you ask god to give you a new body, when you die, so I can see you again?”

You see, one of his favourite bedtime stories just now is “The Mountains of Tibet” which is a rather surprising choice for one so apparently oblivious to the deeper potentials of his surroundings. “Gumboot’s Chocolatey Day” is far more up his street, you’d think. But the Mountains has obviously struck a chord somewhere. Resurrection at school, reincarnation at home… It’s beautifully written and illustrated, and provokes rumination on all sorts of levels… for an adult at any rate, I’d thought.

After all, his previous command had been far more in keeping with one his age:

“Be a boy. Then you won’t have to lay babies.” ๐Ÿ˜‰

I’m not afraid of death. I don’t want to die, you understand. But I’m not afraid of it. For myself. (My feelings around pain are much more ambiguous…) I have young children, so naturally I have concerns about their well-being were their mummy not around to look out for them. And I see and feel compassion for their fears when they talk about it themselves. I want to tell them not to be afraid. That it’s just a transition. That it’s all part of the design. But I know they’re a little young for all that, and that they’ll have to work it out for themselves a bit…

“I don’t want you to die, Mummy” said my 8 year-old at breakfast this morning. One introduces a theme, another runs with it…

“I don’t want to die either, darling.” I tried to explain that these days people tend to live a good long time, although we can’t rule out accidents or illness. We can’t know when we’re going to shuffle off. And I tried to tell him that if I did, I hoped he would be thankful for the time we had together, and would show me what a good job I’d done being his mummy by living as full and happy a life as he could. At that he nodded, and smiled again for the first time since the conversation had begun.

But by now I was worrying. I had this terrible vision of a young man slogging his guts out trying to be happy, to prove to his dead mother that he could be, that she had been a ‘good mummy’! ๐Ÿ™‚

It’s a minefield, death, life, happiness, spirituality, purpose… And it’s a sticky wicket when it comes to sharing it, too. I don’t subscribe to the theory that I have the right to tell my children what to believe. I can tell them what I believe, but to my mind they have no obligation at all to feel the same way. What they do believe, they will work out in their own good time. When they are ready and the time is right. They will, most likely, embrace, reject, struggle, and make peace with all kinds of channels of thought.

And that, as it is for the rest of us, is simply their journey.