Phew........ new year...... reflections on times past, and the imminent future.

Here we are on the 2nd January 2019. What is it about the New Year's celebration that tends to make one reflect?

Christmas has been a maelstrom - to put it politely. The boys all came to stay for the festive season, which was wonderful - but you forget how big they are! Our house just doesn't seem big enough for all those three big sons, one partner (and kitchen comrade - thank you Jaye)  and one small grandchild. I reflected (more than once), on how I coped when they were all small and we first lived in this very same house., which is not a small dwelling!

Our grandson, Zephy, is going to be 4 in April, and when his dad was this age, the smaller boys were 22 months and 7 months respectively - we also had a puppy..... yes - that WAS my idea! I don't remember it being impossibly difficult, challenging, yes, but not impossible. Well- if it had been impossible, I don't suppose any of us would be here now! I do recall that the Health Visitor made a couple of unusual and unscheduled house calls, and she must have been concerned that I might not cope......

I did. And here I am telling the tale!

I have also found myself reflecting upon the situation my paternal grandmother, Dorothy Cordwell found herself in, in 1961.

My mother died very suddenly when I was five...... (details are worthy of a separate blog) and my Nanna was informed by telegram. She lived in the East End of London with my Grandfather (Pop) and as soon as she heard the devastating news, she picked up her handbag, and made the journey by public transport to our house in Green Street Green (near Farnborough, Kent).... and never went home again.
Pop stayed to pack up their house, for selling, and she was there caring for her only child's family for the rest of her days. I was five, and my older brothers were 11 and 12 respectively, as yet undiagnosed with the ghastly neurological condition that was to manifest itself in the next few years (worthy of another blog)........ CAN YOU IMAGINE????
I simply cannot understand how she managed this.

Nanna was 67 years old. She had only had one child herself (a horribly difficult birth that left her scarred and traumatised), yet she came to care for us - a motherless and grieving tribe, with gentleness, tenderness, huge compassion and a great sense of humour.
I can only remember her laughing mostly.
What a bloody saint. When she was near the end, aged 92, I remember telling her that she had to keep going so that she could meet my children (who were a few years from conception, I might add) and she just smiled gently, and said "I'm tired, darling. I don't think I'd be much use...." She died the following day - the last words she uttered were "no more...."

I try hard to remember my Nanna Dorothy. Not having a mother as a child growing up, I often felt ashamed. This is quite ridiculous, I know, but I did. There's something about being motherless that leaves a child vulnerable. Mind you. I have loads of friends who are single mothers, (and some are single fathers) whose children are wonderfully well adjusted. Norms change...... Fathers play a bigger role now. Families are extended, parents are not necessarily heterosexual. What does a child need to grow up well adjusted? Kindness, love, safety, and a strong moral code.

My Nanna was a boon and a godsend. If my mother hadn't died so shockingly and suddenly, I might not have known my Nanna so well........ There. I shall keep my glass half full!

I was always loved and cared for, as were my brothers, my cousins and all the other children who lived near us. In the early sixties, life was very different. As children we only stayed indoors if the weather was too bad to go outside. We would have breakfast, and if it was school holidays or the weekend, we would rush outside to play. No-one knew where we were or what we were doing. We had casual warnings about strangers, but mostly, we were just free spirits. We were told to mind our Ps and Qs (what does that mean?...), and there was often an enquiry about whether or not you had a handkerchief (clean) as you ran out of the house. We went home when we were hungry, or when someone was hurt, or we were tired, or when we heard our names being called from one or other of our houses....... we tumbled in and out of each others homes in those halcyon days, having wonderful adventures, using our imaginations, borrowing (and sharing) other childrens toys, bikes, scooters, skates, and go-carts, and generally being fearlessly feisty. We climbed trees. We scrumped apples. We charged through cornfields. We were chased by farmers. We hid from the dustcart when it came up the street (the ghost lorry). We made dens and camps in the woods. We played forty forty (a game I introduced my own children to) and dared one another to do deeds which seemed exciting and perhaps reckless. The youngest in our gang was trailing around with us still in a nappy....... he assures me that we (perhaps I) made him do unspeakable things, and that he is scarred for life. I don't think so Guy!

We rarely came to any harm. (Although I do recall a nasty accident which involved slipping and landing astride the metal handrail on one of those conical roundabouts....... still makes my eyes water)

My grandmother Dolly was "Nanna" to everyone, even the local shopkeepers called her this...... and the tramp who would pop in and out for his bottle to be filled and sit down for a cuppa in our kitchen every few weeks, also started calling her Nanna.

I like to think that she's smiling at me now - wondering what I make a fuss about when I'm feeling tired or stressed.........

In 5 days I start my brachytherapy programme - and I admit to some nervousness. The side effects that I've been warned about are not nice........ hopefully, I shall escape without too much unpleasantness - but needless to say - I have made no plans for January!

Happy New Year everyone..........