The Foxgloves Return

    

It’s been a while since I’ve posted about Foxgloves. But today I went for a walk in the field where this blog all began with Esme’s Adventure with Foxgloves.

The foxgloves are out in force. Even more so than last year. They’re everywhere and they’re beautiful.

I thought I’d reached a point of coping with it all. I make jokes. I’m flippant. 

Sometimes people comment about how relaxed I am about it. I’m not. Beneath the surface I’m traumatised and frightened. The What-Ifs still haunt me. But less often than before.

This morning has made me somber.

Esme was with me on the wander. I held her hand and pointed at the flowers.


“Can I touch them?” I asked her.

“Yes.” She said, “Beautiful flowers.”

“Beautiful flowers, but they make you very sick. Don’t touch.” She nodded as though she understood. 

We came to another clump, “Can I touch these ones?”

“Yes.” She said firmly.

“No,” I repeated, “They make you sick. Ouch. Don’t touch.”


She nodded again.

Every time I asked if I could touch them, she said yes, and I despaired.

But she’s still only two. My tiny idiot is still small.

I’ve kept on top of the encroaching foxgloves in the garden. It hasn’t been easy. But they’re under my control now.

I don’t want to control nature. I don’t want to control the beautiful wildflowers in the field. I don’t want the bumble bees to stop bumbling into them. I don’t want the caterpillars to move on. I want it all to carry on as it did before it changed my world.

I want my tiny idiot to stick to her evolutionary programming that tells us not to eat things that taste that bitter.

But she’s decided to take a different path, and I’m going to have to parent the child in front of me.

As for her, she is great. She’s wonderful and perfect and infuriating.

It’s a bank holiday weekend, and we’re going to spend it outside, as so many will.

Can I just make one small request? Could you have one quick double check around the garden if you do have small children. Just a casual glance. 

If you’re planting foxgloves, I don’t blame you, they’re gorgeous, then just take a moment to think about putting them somewhere small children can’t get to them. 

Remind your children not to eat things they find outside. Don’t assume they remember you saying it last year, like I did.

The Problem with Counting Your Blessings

The point of counting your blessings is to remind yourself of all the good things that it’s easy to take for granted.

But I think there’s a tendency to look at broad generalisations, and that takes away the poignancy, and misses the point.

I can be grateful for my loving family. I can see that I’m really lucky to have my loving husband and my brilliant children.

But that’s easily said and just as easily dismissed, so I don’t get to linger on the joys that those things bring.

Of course it’s difficult to be grateful when the baby is ill and grizzly, I’ve got a hideous cold, someone’s just left their Lego out, and I’ve trodden on it, or I’ve just had a call to say Andy needs to stay late for a meeting, when I’ve been holding on to my last shred of sanity by my fingertips.

But there are still plenty of moments. Not the big all-encompassing “I’m glad I have my husband”, but the smaller, more valuable, “I was just thinking I’d forgotten to get some milk, and would have to go out again, when Andy walked through the door with some”.

I’m glad I have my baby, Ru, but actually, that moment this morning, after a rough and grizzly night, when he smiled up at me and cuddled in, that was bloody lovely.

I can be grateful for my children.

Or I can notice that moment when Polly (6) told Oscar (10), that whilst she couldn’t give him a piggy-back now (because he is so much bigger than her) when they are both very old, she will give him a piggy back then, because she’d seen how people get smaller as they get older, so hoped they’d reach a time when it evened out.

If you ever see an 85 year old giving an 89 year old a piggy-back, you now know why.

Or when Esme (2) decided to line up all her animals so they were all facing her, then jumped up with a panicked look, ran to me and said, pointing at the menagerie, “They look me!”

As though she was being surprisingly stalked, and had no idea why any of them should be looking at her.

“They look me” indeed.

Or when my eldest, Sam, just throws me one of his smiles.

They’re good things to count. Moments in time that deserved to be noticed and picked out and remembered.

The week before Esme had her adventure with foxgloves, I’d put a post up on Facebook about happiness.

We’re all guilty of putting smug, trite crap out there sometimes. I put my hands up.

Here’s what I posted:-

So yesterday I was listening to the box set (is it a box set for radio shows?) of Cabin Pressure, with Ru on my knee and Es busily undoing my daily good work of putting it all away.

We got to a bit where Arthur is describing how happiness isn’t sitting on a moonlit beach with your loved one, because in those moments you’re always worrying it’ll soon be over. Happiness is jumping into a bath that’s exactly the right temperature, and going “ooh”, or throwing an apple back and forth between your hands until you reach a state of bliss.

Douglas starts humming “I’m busy doing nothing”, and they all start singing it, and so did I.

Ru looked up at me in surprise and burst out laughing.

Es stopped what she was doing to come and laugh at Ru, and we all just sat there for a good minute, laughing at each other.

And I thought, “right now I’m really happy”.

I’m writing this not in some smug sense of “my life is perfect”, but as a reminder not to murder either of them today for only letting me have two hours’ sleep last night.

Hopefully they’ll live out the day and we can have more of our simpleton moments.”

Little did I know that just a few short days later, I would be facing what we faced.

Little did I know how fragile and small that happiness would seem a week later. How I would mock myself for being happy when I didn’t know what was to come. How stupid I seemed. How arrogant.

But even in that week, when Esme ate foxglove leaves, and ended up in intensive care, there were moments.

The time when I showed her a picture of Polly and Oscar, and told her it was a picture of Esme and Ru, and she spoke for the first time, because she couldn’t resist correcting me.

The day before we were finally allowed to go home, when she stood up in her cot, stole the stethoscope, that had been left on the end all week, and grinned at me with mischief in her eyes.

The week before, that stethoscope moment would have disappeared in the mix, but that week it was a headliner.

Sometimes it seems like there’s nothing. There are no little moments to be grateful for. But there always there.

When things get really bad, they hide in the little things. A stranger noticing you’ve only got a few bits of shopping and insisting you go in front of them at the checkout. Stopping to look at an iridescent beetle and the way it shines as it scuttles. The rain stopping for the 2 minutes it takes you to get to the door (even if it poured on you when going out in the first place).

When we were still waiting for the all clear for Esme, I had a bad day one morning taking the older kids to school. It wasn’t terrible. It was just bad.

It was horrible weather. It was one of those mornings when everything seems to take forever. No one’s shoes were where they left them. No one’s bags had what they needed. It was all messy and disorganised before we’d even left the house.

It was a gray day. I was in a gray mood. Everyone was bickering.

I dropped the first two at their school, and then was carrying on to drop off the eldest at college.

It was my right of way, so I drove, but a skip-lorry driver decided that I should have let him out, and gestured unpleasantly at me.

I was surprised, and whilst my son was asking what the man’s problem was, I then spotted the speed camera. I didn’t think I was speeding, but I’d been trying to get out of the way of the lorry as quickly as I could, so it was possible. So I worried about that, and I worried about my son seeing horribleness, and I worried about everything.

It wasn’t a terrible day. Compared to a couple of weeks earlier it was a walk in the park, but for some reason I couldn’t shake off this feeling of uselessness, hopelessness, grayness.

I dropped Sam at college and turned around to go back home with the two littlies.

Everything was bad.

Then I thought about how it wasn’t bad. It was barely an irritation. What was bad was in me. I was filtering the world.

On my way back something had changed. It was like all the lights had been changed from red to green. People kept smiling. Or rather, I noticed that people were smiling.

Not everyone, far from everyone, it was 9am on a weekday. That doesn’t make everyone smile.

I put the Radio on, and they played Bat out of Hell, by Meatloaf. I sang along. Loudly. And as I passed a white van coming the other way I saw he was singing too.

And I smiled.

Because that was one of those little moments.

So I have lots of things to be thankful for. One of which is “strangers who rock out to Meatloaf at just the right moment”.

We can’t all be positive all the time. We shouldn’t be. That should be the reserve of American Chat Show Hosts and not us mere mortals.

But don’t miss those good bits. Notice them. Notice more. If you realise you haven’t seen any lately, get a top up. Look at something closely. Notice a cloud looks like a turtle with a hat on. Overhear a ridiculous conversation.

It’s why people like cat pictures on the Internet. They’re looking for those moments that make them smile. They’re hoping someone else can manufacture them.

But it’s much better when it’s your cat that falls off the back of the sofa.

We’re all made up of our own moments. Enjoy them.