Monthly Archives: March 2014

Word of the Week: Roots

Today the word that sums up the week that was is:

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As someone who moved around a fair amount when I was growing up, my roots have always been important to me. I was born in Wales, and for the first eight years of my life lived an idyllic existence of hanging upside down from trees and running through actual cornfields. Then we moved to Birmingham. I’ve nothing against Birmingham – in fact eight years later when we were relocating again, this time to London, I was on the verge of moving out of home so I could stay. But it’s never held quite such an important place in my heart.

I’m very proud of my Welshness. Technically I’m half English – but having been born in Abergavenny the Welshness always wins. I’ve always felt a bit bad about not speaking any Welsh – I can just about manage the national anthem, but I definitely deserved the incredulity levelled at me by a group of Bangladeshi boys I once worked with as a teaching assistant when I had to admit that I didn’t speak the ‘language of my country’ as they put it.

Anyway. I digress. The real reason I’ve been thinking about my roots this week is because last weekend we went to Wales: to Cardiff – to catch up with family, and of course for that great bastion of Welshness, the rugby.

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It was Arthur’s second rugby International at the Millennium Stadium, and his first Six Nations. I wasn’t sure at first about taking a baby to such a big and busy stadium, but with the trusty Connecta it was remarkably easy – and he loved it.

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There were at least two other babywearing mums there this time too: one who even made it on to the big screen, and another who I chatted to as we walked down the stairs after what was a undoubtedly successful game for Wales. It always impresses me how civilised the city is on match days. The whole place closes down to traffic, and I’ve never seen any trouble amongst the swarms of pedestrians who take over.

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Despite this we didn’t stay out on the town for long – I think that would have been pushing it with Arthur. We had a lovely evening with my Dad catching up with my Aunt and Uncle. I love that Arthur’s getting to spend time with his extended family – though to be honest he was most interested in the dog.

The next day we managed to catch up with my Great Aunt and my Grampa. I think it was the first time Arthur’s met his Great Great Aunty, but his Great Grampa has been there since day one: he was in the pub with the rest of my family when Arthur was born at home, and climbed the two flights of stairs to meet him when he was only three hours old.

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It was pretty special taking Arthur to Grampa’s house. I have been going to that house since I was a baby, and it’s remained a reassuring constant with all the different family homes we’ve had over the years. Whilst he wasn’t too impressed with our conversation, Arthur was very taken by the drum that has stood on Grampa’s stairs for as long as I can remember. He and Granny brought it back from Africa having lived there for over twenty years, and I have fond memories of playing it with similar enthusiasm with my brothers and cousins.

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I know that Wales will never hold the same significance for Arthur as it does for me: he is setting down his own roots in Brixham, and I’m happy that this will be his home town. But I’m glad I’m getting the opportunity to add a touch of Welshness to his early memories – between the rugby and his extended family he’ll never be able to escape it altogether.

The Reading Residence

Becoming a mum: babywearing

Alongside breastfeeding, I think the most significant choice I’ve made as a mother is to wear my baby. A lot. Getting to grips with babywearing transformed my experience of motherhood, and it continues to give us a special combination of closeness and freedom that I’m not sure how I would have otherwise achieved.

One of the first books I read as a new mother, once I’d decided that actually some informed advice would be useful before I scared myself silly on internet forums, was ‘The Baby Book’ by William and Martha Sears. I had a hunch that I might be leaning towards an attachment parenting approach – not something I’d really considered before Arthur was born – and reading this book seemed to help everything fall into place.

Of course in the early days I didn’t have much choice but to be attached to my baby. Our struggles to get breastfeeding established meant spending an awful lot of time snuggled up in bed, and even when Arthur wasn’t feeding I found I rarely wanted to put him down. We’d bought a Babasling before he was born having been recommended one by some friends, but though I used it for our first family stroll when Arthur was only a few days old neither of us really got comfortable with it.

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I figured I’d maybe try again when he was a bit bigger, and consigned myself to spending my days stuck on the sofa. The turning point came when I had a visit from a neighbour. She’d just come across to check up on me really – make sure I wasn’t struggling on my own. I remember saying that I was fine, that I was loving being a mum, but just couldn’t imagine how I’d ever get anything done when I was permanently attached to Arthur on the sofa. And she asked whether I’d tried wearing him.

I felt a bit silly when she’d gone – of course that was the solution, everything I’d read about attachment parenting indicated that babywearing was the answer. But after those tricky first experiences I’d just put the whole thing out of my mind. I certainly wasn’t ready to give the Babasling another go, but then I remembered the Moby Wrap. I’d ordered it, taken one look at the intimidating length of material, and put it back in its bag. Maybe now was the time to put my nerves to one side, read the instructions, and see what all the fuss was about.

By the time Leigh got home that evening I’d already been wearing Arthur for a few hours and was loving my new found freedom! It’s safe to say we never looked back.

At home, I wore Arthur to settle him and to reduce the wind he suffered after feeds. It soon became apparent that it was the best place for him to nap, too, leaving me free to get on with things round the house. It was soon after my babywearing revelation that I got started on my first novel. With Arthur safely strapped to me I didn’t need to worry about him – we were physically attached, so for a little while at least I could allow my mind to wander elsewhere. Leigh got in on the game too: it was a lovely way for them to develop their bond, even when he had work to do.

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It also gave us the freedom to get out and about. Our local terrain is not best suited to prams, but wearing Arthur meant we could go for walks on the beaches and up to Berry Head – even just going into town was easier without needing to negotiate a pram up steps and round cafes.

The first big test though came when we took a trip to see my brother in Paris when Arthur was three months old. We were travelling by Eurostar, and as well as the usual sightseeing we would be taking Arthur to his first gig. We decided that babywearing was the way to go, and it made everything so easy.

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As summer approached we were looking forward to lots more adventures, but it became clear that the Moby might no longer be up to the job. Arthur was growing fast, and I found his weight made the stretchy wrap sag after I’d been wearing him for a while. It was time to find a new solution, and the best solution we could find was the ERGObaby. Leigh tried it out first, and both him and Arthur loved it.

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I was a little bit disappointed with how utilitarian it looked, but I couldn’t deny it worked well. Easy to slip on and off, and its handy pocket particularly useful for when we were on the go. We used it to take Arthur to festivals, and even on an epic journey from New York to Toronto and Halifax by train. It made his first plane trips a breeze too.

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But despite the convenience of the Ergo, I was longing for something a bit – well, prettier. Arthur and his carrier had become my most commonly worn accessory, and I was getting a bit bored of sensible khaki. I thought about dabbling with woven wraps, lusted after some online in beautiful fabrics, but after the ease of the buckles it seemed like such a hassle. And then I came across the Connecta.

We were actually asked to do some modelling shots for them through a friend and were given a couple of carriers in return. I was sceptical at first, not having heard of Connecta before, but they soon won me over.

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The Connecta shared the ease of the Ergo with its simple straps and buckles, and was just as comfy if not more so despite using much less padding. I find now that Arthur’s getting heavier by the day that the way the Connecta holds him high and close really helps protect my back – I can wear him for hours at a time without so much as a twinge. The Connecta is really easy to breastfeed in too, which is definitely a bonus. And, even better, the Connecta is available in a huge array of fabrics! From funky prints to wrap conversions, from gorgeous silks to warm tweed: my yearning for something stylish and practical as a new mum was more than satisfied.

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What my adventures in babywearing have taught me so far is that the key thing is finding a way to do it that suits you. I never would have imagined that I would still be wearing Arthur so regularly at fifteen months, but now I’m on the verge of upgrading to a toddler Connecta so I can continue for, hopefully, a good while longer yet. Arthur is of course walking now, but he’s not confident or strong enough to walk for any length of time. Even when he is I imagine I’ll have my carrier in my bag ready for when he’s tired or needs a cuddle.

I honestly believe that babywearing has been key to the relationship I’ve developed with Arthur. Studies have shown that it has a whole raft of benefits for both mother and child – and in fact for developing closeness with other carers, as Arthur has done with his dad and my mum. For me, though, it’s really just helped me maintain my independence and sense of self whilst navigating this new territory of becoming a mum. It might seem like a contradiction in terms as that independence has been won whilst having a little person strapped to me, but if he wasn’t I doubt I would have managed to write or travel or just hang out quite as freely as I have.

I’d love to hear your babywearing experiences so please feel free to add them in the comments. I’m also happy to answer any questions you might have about babywearing – and if I can’t answer them myself I’m sure I can point you in the direction of someone who can!

 

Seeds of Creativity

Ever since I can remember I have loved the coming of spring. I don’t suit winter. I quite enjoy  snow, in moderation, and find the rare cold, crisp, sunny days as exhilarating as the next person, but it’s the interminable darkness that really gets to me. The darkness that sets in before you get a chance to get outside at the end of a hard day’s work and hangs around for way longer than it’s welcome after you’ve dragged yourself out of bed in the morning, fighting your body’s desire to hibernate.

For years I thought I suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder – I didn’t just dislike those months of darkness, they consumed me like the fog that rolls in over the sea. Even the anticipation of the shorter days that set in as early as the summer solstice was enough to instil that sense of dread that would just get worse and worse as the seasons closed in.

Now that I’m not operating on someone else’s timetable I’m not so sure. There’s no doubt that living by the sea helps too, and spending most of my time with a little person who sees the world without a trace of my weariness. Despite not having slept for more than two hours at a stretch for the past fifteen months, despite the challenge of juggling nearly-new motherhood with writing a second novel and trying to find a publisher for the first, despite the fact that this winter it has rained for days and days on end, I don’t need spring anywhere near as badly as I have before.

That’s not to say it’s not exciting. The snowdrops pushing through the sodden ground, the bare branches beginning to burst with buds, the daffodils that have suddenly taken over our neglected garden in an explosion of yellow. And alongside all these things the seeds of new ideas that are taking root inside my writer’s brain.

I seem to be settling into a pattern with my writing, one which I hope is sustainable and suits my rhythms. In the autumn, as the days begin to close in, I lose myself in researching and planning a new novel. By January, typically my lowest point, I’m ready to bring the plan to life, spending long chunks of time writing, letting my characters take the story where it needs to go. This year, as with last, I’ve set myself the deadline of Easter to complete the first draft. I’m on track to achieve that: I’m about two thirds of the way through with another month to go, and as the story gathers pace and urgency it’s all I can do to pull myself away from the keyboard when motherhood calls. Once that first draft’s done I’ll let it sit for a while before going back to it with fresh eyes, handing it over at the same time to a trusted few initial readers. With their ideas and mine I’ll then attempt the redraft in the height of summery optimism, hopefully having something I’m happy with as summer draws to a close.

Alongside all that redrafting, though, the seeds of the next project need to be germinating, shooting up into the light so that I can work out how to help them grow in the next phase of their development. And with that in mind I had begun to panic a couple of weeks ago: the end of the current novel was in sight, but I had no idea what I was going to work on next. I have several ideas for new novels in the Lili Badger series, a couple of distinct directions in which things could go. But I don’t want to start working on those until I know whether the original has legs. I love it, and would enjoy nothing more than to lose myself in Lili’s world again, but however much I try I can’t justify it to myself. I need something new.

In the midst of my panic, I went for a walk. Just the usual walk into town, taking the long way round by the pool, allowing myself to tread more slowly than I normally would so Arthur could soak up his surroundings. I began to notice the dedications on the benches, stopped to read them. And without me even noticing the seeds began to embed themselves.

By the time I got home I had two reasonably formed ideas for new novels. Both with their heart in Brixham, and both with stories which spread out across place and time in their mapping of life and love and death. Both have strong female characters at their core – something which I am beginning to realise is emerging as a pattern in my work. I haven’t decided which one I’ll run with yet. I hope I’ll write them both, in time. But now the seeds have been sown I’ll leave them for a while, trusting that they will germinate in my mind as I bring my current project to its conclusion, ready for me to nurture when I can shift my attention to them more closely as spring turns into summer.

Thank you to Sara at ‘Mum Turned Mom’ for inspiring this post with her prompt: “Spring is the time of plans and projects” (Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina).

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Happy to be home

We’ve had a busy couple of weeks here – last week saw us heading up to London for my first author reading event, and then this weekend we were in Cardiff for the rugby. Both were brilliant trips: travelling with Arthur is a bit more of a mission than it used to be, but it’s always worth making the effort to catch up with family and friends. However as I sit here now, tapping at the keyboard with a sleeping baby strapped to my chest and looking out over Torbay, there is no doubt that I’m very happy to be home.

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This photo was actually taken last Thursday on our first day back in the bay after the London trip. We were on our way to Arthur’s fab baby music class up at Lupton House and as we were making uncharacteristically good time were able to stop for a stroll on Breakwater beach. The tide was low, revealing a huge expanse of pebbles and sand, and the calm sea lapped gently at the shore before disappearing into the mist. There was a man walking up and down with a metal detector – an image I’ve loved since my childhood, so full of promise and anticipation. There were a couple of other people with children and dogs, and Arthur loved watching them all running around.

We didn’t have time to stop for long, but it was so lovely to take a few minutes to breathe in the sea air. I think Arthur presumes that everyone gets to live in such a beautiful place, but after many years living in cities since my childhood in the Welsh countryside I’m not sure I’ll ever take it for granted. 

 

Linking up with Charly Dove at PODcast for What’s the Story?


Word of the Week: Separation

Today the word that sums up the week that was is:

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I took quite an important step this week in my journey as a mum. It’s taken fourteen and a half months, but this week I had an evening out on my own. No Arthur, no Leigh. It was the first solo night out I’ve had since I was about eight months pregnant: even then Arthur was with me really. I haven’t really felt any inclination to go out on my own since, but on Tuesday I’d been invited to read from my first novel at a writer’s salon in London. You can read about my evening as an author here, but it was also a very important evening for me as a mum. My instinct on first hearing about the night was that I’d just take Arthur along in the sling: I soon realised that this was something I had to do on my own.

I can almost count the number of times I’ve been separated from Arthur on one hand. Leigh and I have been on two dates: one last summer when my brother’s girlfriend babysat for us in our hotel in New York whilst we went to the restaurant for our wedding anniversary dinner, the second time only a fortnight ago when my parents looked after Arthur whilst we went for dinner again, this time to celebrate the anniversary of our first date. Both times we were gone for only a couple of hours. Then there have been a few governors meetings where Leigh or my mum have looked after him. And that’s about it!

Neither Leigh or I would have predicted that this was how things would work out. And it’s not like we haven’t been out at all – we’ve done plenty of things as a family, including restaurant meals, gigs, festivals, parties. We have just always wanted to keep Arthur close. I guess breastfeeding’s been a major factor – with everything being so challenging in the early days we never taught Arthur to take a bottle so it’s been hard for me to be too far away. But to be honest we haven’t wanted to leave him either – we have all, as a family, become decidedly attached.

But this time I really couldn’t take Arthur with me. I am intent on building a successful career as a writer, one which in the long term will hopefully be much more conducive to spending time with my son than teaching could ever be, and I needed people to take me seriously. I needed me to take me seriously.

Leigh couldn’t join us in London – another first, being separated from Daddy for so long – so on Tuesday evening Arthur was looked after by my parents. I filled him up on breast milk before I left, knowing that he was unlikely to take much water let alone milk from his cup, and made sure they were preparing a dinner he would like (mild Thai curry with lots of veg and rice seems to be his current favourite). He sat with my mum as she began to make the dinner and I made myself presentable, and then trying not to turn it into too much of a drama I slipped out into the streets, alone.

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It was a bit odd. I felt very light on my feet without my usual accessory strapped to my front, and I noticed rather more of the world around me. I read over my chosen extract from my novel on the tube journey – I hadn’t had much time to practise, and my run through the previous evening had been punctuated by Arthur’s cries. Any pangs of missing him were soon overcome by nervousness and excitement, and when I got there the pleasure of catching up with friends over a drink and being just myself for a change. The evening went brilliantly, and though thoughts of whether Arthur was hungry or thirsty or had been able to go to sleep occasionally intruded I had an awesome time.

I made it back to the flat soon after eleven, about five hours after I’d left, and despite all my trepidation Arthur was of course fine. He was asleep, in fact – my mum snuggled up to him in bed. He hadn’t drunk much, but he’d eaten. And he was fine. There’d been a bit of a whimper apparently, and at one point he’d toddled purposefully towards the door, but all in all they’d had a lovely evening too. I swapped places with my mum, Arthur had a sleepy feed without even really waking up, then rolled away and slept better than he has done in ages.

He was most definitely pleased to see me in the morning, snuggling up and being even more super cute than usual. But we had both survived our first proper separation.

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I’d genuinely been worried that with our very attached approach to parenting it was going to be a real wrench for Arthur to be without us, even just for one evening. So I was definitely relieved to find that in fact he is secure enough to cope. I’m not in any massive rush to make a habit of going out on my own, but it’s strangely liberating to know I can if I want to. I expected a part of me to be sad – sad that my baby is taking little steps towards independence, that he doesn’t need me quite as intensely as he once did. But I suppose by waiting I was finally ready for that separation too – to take my own steps towards the new person I am becoming since he made me a mum.

Thanks to Jocelyn at The Reading Residence for the brilliant Word of the Week linky.

The Reading Residence

Lili Badger hits the town

On Tuesday night, I got to take Lili Badger for her first public outing. It’s not that no-one’s met her yet: she’s been introduced to my Dad, my Grampa, a few select friends. And of course my agent, who in turn has introduced her to some lucky YA editors. But it’s the first time I was introducing her directly to a literary audience of (mainly) strangers, with a reading at Speakeasy at Drink Shop Do.

As someone who trained as an actor and taught for ten years you’d have thought that eight minutes of reading aloud wouldn’t phase me. But I was surprisingly nervous. Choosing an extract to read was the first challenge: the opening chapters seemed to have too much exposition, some of the later ones too little. I was also keen to avoid having to recreate some of the dialogue as whilst it sounds suitably street when spoken by the voices in my head I doubted I’d be able to make it convincing enough when I opened my mouth. Even at drama school accents were never my strong point. In the end I chose an extract which almost stands alone as an event in the story. It was actually one of the first scenes I visualised when I was planning the novel, and made it into the final cut more to enrich the fabric of the world I was creating than to drive the plot forward. It’s a bit dark though, and I spent the tube journey to King’s Cross panicking that it was going to set completely the wrong tone.

My mind was put at rest by one of the lovely friends who’d come to support me – she also handily was one of my initial readers and I definitely trust her judgement above my own on such matters. Once that was sorted, beer in hand and catching up with mates, I was finally able to chill a little. Until of course the comperes announced the beginning of the readings and my heart was once more in my throat.

Nicci Cloke and Ian Ellard were actually completely wonderful, putting me at ease and warming up an already very friendly audience. Listening to Tom Easton’s seriously chuckle-worthy extracts from Boys Don’t Knit chilled me out still further, though as the room was collapsing in hysterics I was wondering how they were going to react to my very different and somewhat depressing choice. I really needn’t have worried though.

Stood at the bar, microphone in one hand and iPad in the other, suddenly it felt like I was absolutely supposed to be there. A hush came over the room, and for perhaps the first time I really felt like an author. Not just someone who writes, which obviously is a role I step into most days, but someone whose words get listened to. I had really enjoyed revisiting the novel I wrote this time last year in preparation for the evening, and stepping into Lili’s shoes to release her into the world as I told a part of her story was a real thrill.

I have to admit Tom Pollock’s super dramatic reading from The City’s Son passed in a bit of a blur – I was buzzing, and grinning from ear to ear.

There was still one more challenge to come, one which I’d been dreading even more than the reading itself: creating a piece of flash fiction on the spot to be read at the end of the evening. Again my worries were completely unfounded. We worked collaboratively during the interval, me and the two Toms led by Ian, writing a story on the theme of ‘a dustbin knocked over in the backstreets of Whitechapel’. With perhaps a little scientology thrown in. Armed with a celebratory glass of cava the writing itself was a blast: as authors our styles are very different, but the story we produced with those styles meshed irreverently together was, even if I do say so myself, a work of genius. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to write collaboratively. I always used to love improvisation as an actor, and it’s basically the same thing just with added speedy handwriting.

I was able to relax into the second half a bit more. I was captivated by Tanya Byrne’s reading from Heart-Shaped Bruise, loved the unexpected tenderness of Non Pratt’s Trouble, and soaked up the spookiness of James Dawson’s Say Her Name. Once the author readings were over, Nicci and Ian took it in turns to share the stories we’d concocted earlier. And ours of course won – who could resist Tiny Tom Cruise being humiliated by a Thetan? You can read both stories here: I very much recommend you do.

All in all it was a fantastic evening. I left feeling a little bit more like an author, and Lili Badger left feeling a little more real. It was a privilege to begin to get her story out there, even if only a part of it. I cannot wait until I get the chance to unleash the rest of it on the world.

Arthur and the mural

So I woke up this morning and realised that Sunday had completely passed me by, and with it the fab Silent Sunday linky. Amazing how a trip to the big smoke with a feverish baby can throw things! However the photograph I wanted to share yesterday actually has an important story behind it, so perhaps my absent mindedness was meant to be.

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I took this photo during Arthur’s exploration of our neighbourhood earlier in the week. It shows him standing in front of the wonderful mural that adorns the wall beside Shoalstone Pool, a mural that gives him so much pleasure with its depiction of a captivating and colourful underwater world.

This is only one feature of what is an incredibly special local landmark, a seawater lido built into the rocks of Shoalstone Beach. The pool is a fantastic place to swim and enjoy the sunshine, and has been a favourite spot for locals and tourists alike for many years. And now it is under threat.

Local councils are squabbling over funding, and private arrangements have fallen through. It has been touch and go over the past couple of years whether the pool would open for the summer, and this year there is uncertainty again. One councillor even suggested that perhaps the best solution was to fill the pool in with concrete, an unbelievable insult to the local community and the history of the pool itself.

You can find out more about Shoalstone Pool, its history and the ongoing struggle to save it here. I hope I will be able to post many more photographs of the pool in action this summer, as it is most definitely one of the best places to while away a sunny afternoon – or in fact a stormy morning – I have ever found.

Thanks to Charly Dove at PODcast for the ‘what’s the story?’ linky that saved this week’s photo!

*Update!* I’m very pleased to be able to say that since this photo was taken Shoalstone Pool has been saved! For this year at least… Brixham town council has agreed to take over the lease. Looking forward to many sunny summer days by the lido!


My little mirror on the world

Since Arthur was very small a recurring theme in our wonderment about him has been how he reflects our world back at us.

There’s the very physical reflection: the way his genes manifest themselves in the image of me or Leigh or another of our relations. Though his hair was dark when he was born it soon turned blonde, and that along with his piercing blue eyes made him look so much like his dad. Then as his features have developed he has come to more and more resemble me. Our colouring will always be very different, but there are definitely strong similarities – and especially since my mum cut his hair in a style remarkably similar to the one she chose for me at his age it’s a bit like looking at a reflection of my younger self.

 

Arthur’s facial expressions and mannerisms are often also strangely familiar. There’s a picture of my dad at our wedding where he is uncharacteristically overcome with emotion, his lower lip wobbling and eyebrows furrowed. It is the exact same face that we see on Arthur in the rare moments when the world all becomes a bit too much. Then other times he looks exactly like his cousin, Anna – the beautiful and forthright daughter of Leigh’s brother with her determined lips and wise eyes.

It’s not just the physical characteristics that reflect our world though. Since Arthur was tiny, as all babies do, his emotions have hung on the energy projected by others into the space around him. Sometimes I realise I’m getting stressed out not because I’m feeling tense but because Arthur’s getting antsy. Or my already good mood is amplified by his giggles and adoring gaze. It’s made me very conscious of the moods I choose to project – and more than that, the moods I feel. More often than not whatever it is that’s stressing me out isn’t worth passing that negativity on to him, so with his mirror-like qualities he’s helping me reframe my emotions and learn to see things in a more positive light.

Of course though we are learning from Arthur he is learning so much from us, and this too forms a facet of the world he’s reflecting back at us. He’s picking up gestures rapidly at the moment, from blowing kisses to copying our silly dinner table dance moves. He’s copying words too – developing an increasingly sophisticated vocabulary including words like ‘raisins’ which we offer daily as his favourite snack and ‘turtle’ which is the form of the starry nightlight that lulls us all to sleep. He’s even started saying ‘right!’ in mimicry of my teacherly call to action. It’s definitely the time to keep the swearing out of earshot.

I’m aware that I’ve been posting lots recently about how much Arthur is teaching me, but where he is now, on the cusp of baby and toddlerhood, really is quite magical. I cannot wait to see that little mirror reflect back more and more of the world as he grows older, shaping it into a whole new universe in that wonderfully unique way he does.

Thank you to Sara at ‘Mum turned Mom’ for inspiring this post with her prompt of ‘reflection’.

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Word of the Week: Exploring

Today the word that sums up the week that was is:

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Now that Arthur has this toddling thing pretty sussed we’re beginning to venture into the outside world more and more. We had a little bit of a false start when we managed to lose one of his gorgeous new shoes after he’d only worn them a couple of times. I’m pretty sure he’s hidden it somewhere really clever, but having searched for a week we had to bite the bullet and get a replacement pair.

The beginning of this week was actually full of lots of writing – I had a couple if pithy blog posts I needed to get out of my system, and the novel is going really well. For Arthur this has meant my preoccupation with the computer extending beyond his nap time, and whilst he’s getting very good at keeping himself entertained whilst turning my study upside down I thought I should make up for it with a bit of an adventure.

So on Wednesday afternoon we set off on our very first walk out of the house with Arthur standing on his own two feet: I didn’t even take the sling! We were headed for Shoalstone Pool – in summer a glorious seawater lido, but out of season a great place for an explore. It took a while to get there even though it’s right on our doorstep: whilst I held tight to his hand Arthur marvelled at his new perspective on things. He was fascinated by the window ledges, the pavement, the (parked) cars – and had to stop and look at every leaf and flower we passed. But when we got to the empty carpark above the pool I let his hand go – and that’s when the exploring really began.

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He was so excited to be free! He kept looking back to make sure I was following him (which I was, very closely) but was clearly loving the freedom, the sensations of the sea air and the early evening light. He got a bit distracted by the railings at one point…

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He held on and rested his face against the metal, and I’m pretty sure actually licked them too. Can’t do any harm though, right?

When the inevitable happened and he took a bit of a tumble, his feet not quite keeping up with his enthusiasm, I was ready to sweep him up and cuddle away the cry. But then I realised he was exploring the tarmac, taking the time to run his fingers over it before carefully bringing himself back to standing without so much as a whimper.

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After a bit I carried him down the steps to the poolside. I was caught up in the beauty of the setting sun reflecting on the water, watching the fishing boats come in with seagulls circling their catch. Arthur though was more interested in trailing his fingers along the wall by the mural, looking up occasionally at the giant multicoloured fish but just as intrigued by the pebbles and puddles, all the different textures each new step brought.

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It was quite an eye-opener for me, that Arthur-led exploration. I found myself focusing on all sorts of things I wouldn’t usually notice – I’ve really had to rein myself in with what I’ve selected here as I could go on for hours! And all in a walk I’ve done countless times before that would normally take less than five minutes.

After a definite taste of spring this week, I cannot wait for summer with my new little explorer – I have a feeling there’s an awful lot he’s going to teach me over the next few months.

 

The Reading Residence