Monday, 13 May 2019

Grandchild 7


Waiting, yes. A particular kind of waiting like a string pulled.

This week I have been looking after Granma Grace, we call it our Girlie Sleepover time.
Grace holds this tautness most of the time, close to the bones of her. If I made representative art I would play with the idea of a pulled string twined with blooms - roses, tulips, cyclamen, all colours bold and pretty.
This day the wait has a clear focus. We are waiting for baby news.
Outside it rains heavy.
We watch geese cross the lawn and leave again as though they had discovered something. We hear machinery whirr next door and workmen chattering.
I have to recharge my phone twice from looking: no news.


Granma has stirred and gone back to sleep this morning, for rest calls her more and more. While she sleeps in her bed her foot tapping stops, while she sleeps in her chair it activates. I leave her have a lie in for this reason. Eighty-nine years to process, physical decline from age and stroke damage to accept.
Last night she sighed, 'I wish I had a Mummy to hug me and tell me everything will be all right.'

Luckily I am a mummy, so we could put this right. She laughed at her self: all frail, all loved.
News comes of slow progress - last time this took five days, we remember.
My stepdaughters arrive with flowers and teacakes. Sun pours in. Granma wakes and needs her dark glasses on. She's eating her breakfast in a room full of family. There's a nice cup of tea, there's yellow roses and purple iris.
The vases here are rarely empty.


Slow progress still, so I go to work. All the childcare is coordinated, in place through to Tuesday, just in case. I have my phone, which is old and glitchy. I tell my co-worker, so she knows why I am lingering over my phone. We take our care client out for some fresh air. We sit outside a cafe and I watch a man shake out change for a hot pasty. He holds it like the only good thing that has happened in his life. I wonder what his story is, where it began, if it will find better fortune. Today he is sat on a bench in the sunshine, in a brisk breeze, with hot food.
My phone has nothing to say.
We head for sea air. At Par the sand is glittery. Sun skims gold on the facets of waves. Happy dogs dart. Seabirds gather on a shaded rock. Seaweed twists in the water, moves in drifts, sea-confetti.
No news. I send reports of no news back to Grace. Both of her feet will be twitching by now.
We head for the market, to dally where there's bright things and music and the air is sizzling with onion and spices.
My phone has a photo loading. Me and my coworker are in the Food Hall staring and Oh!
We meet Grandchild 7, with his crumpled rosy face, his calmly stirring fingers.

Here's our new boy with one of his big sisters :-)

Tuesday, 7 May 2019


Summation of my blog posts:
- Weather
- Birds are singing
- Coffee
- Look, words

Today is no great exception; wavy minded, grey glare sky, geese-clatter lost under the roll of the washing machine and the volume of royal baby coverage that Granma Grace is entertained with, empty mug number 3, novel outline on a bit of foraged paper. 
It's hard to think so maybe I should take this as a sign.
A bolt of sun drops through the window. There's pink blossom wobbling on a potted bush. Daisy dots across the lawn, a backdrop of swaying willow. Grace is snoozing through the adverts, tapping her feet as she does for all the things that are going or may yet go wrong for the whole of the world, everything from a stain on your shirt to the sixth mass extinction. In balance of this she also is happy for everyone. If you are feeling anything less than splendid, she is sending you a hug right now, and love, and a biscuit/piece of fruit/check the cupboard, take what you fancy. 

Later I will do the Serious Writing. 
For now, make lunch, drink water, eye the flora, tidy up the expectations.