Mirror Mirror on the uhm...whatever.

OK I apologise. (especially to you Iain Dunlop :) )
It's been ages since I last blogged but, it's been odd of late, and it's been tough to know what to blog about.

It's not that I have nothing to say.
If you know me, you know that I have never nothing to say. In fact, if I ever say to you,  "I have nothing to say," that means, pretty soon. I'm going to have a lot to to say, and it's not going to be pretty when i say it.
(Add "indignant sulk" to my list of natural talents.)

And it's not that nothing's happened of late.
(If anything it's the opposite)
It's been a month of extreme happiness and sadness. Four weeks with great intelligence and great foolishness.

For a start, my youngest turned 6.
That there's enough for a whole series of blogs.
About how 6 years seems to have flown by so fast,  and yet because he's so strangely worldly wise, it feels like he's been here a whole lot longer.
About how we stressed about having a pool party and the hiring of lifeguards and safety in general. And whilst we were stressing, how all he cared about was cake and water-pistols and what present he could open next.
Same event. Different perspectives.

Then how his six year old body suddenly broke into a dance routine, Gangnam style:  All on his own, without a care in the world,  eventually leading a little dance-a-thon.
And then all perspectives were the same.

But these past four weeks were not all stories of birthday parties. For Colette and Mark, and for Carl and Jo, I wish so much it could have been. And nothing can be said to make it better. No words will repair.

My dad, was a firm believer that if there's nothing to say then don't say it.  It used to drive my mother crazy.
My mother was like me. The only time she was saying nothing, was directly before she was properly going to be saying something - pretty loud!

They never experienced Facebook,  but I've often thought about what their pages would be like if they had.
My Mum's full of inspirational memes and random diets from Doctor Oz, and features as to why cream cakes might be good for you,  and pictures of grandchildren.
My Dad's pretty inactive: Perhaps the odd Youtube video of Shirley Bassey.  Something about bowling. Pictures of grandchildren.

I used to have great talks with my mother. In my head, I still do.
We'd talk about all manner of things from the right way to make a clootie dumpling,  to the effect of the Romans in Britain and on random stuff like, do you think trees get apprehensive about Winter or about how a person's skin could become mirrored.
(It's nothing to do with sci-fi. It's to do with words.)

For example. You announce you're pregnant, everyone you meet will talk about their pregnancy. You decide to get married, people talk about their marriage. You say you hate your boss, you'll hear about everyone else's boss. You get bullied -so many other people were bullied too. You deal with a bereavement... that there are some points in life that when a person speaks,  the person listening to them will only be able to see themselves

It used to drive me crazy. "Why can't people be allowed to have their stories? Why is it that when something happens to someone, everybody else has to chime in about when it happened to them"

My mother was much more charitable:  "Because people want to connect to one another. Especially in big life events.   That's why it's important to talk," she'd tell my dad, "Because when one person speaks, others respond and amazing things happen when a person is brave enough to open their mouth"
And my Dad would nod and smile and say, "Especially if that person  is an idiot"

This week my eldest came home from school after what has been a very tricky year, armed with a special commendation certificate for reading and a math one to match.
And I was so proud.
And then I discover he was awarded them at a ceremony I forgot to go to.
And then so ashamed.

(Amazing how rapidly his show of success could become about my failure)

I set his certificates down of the dining room table and picked up my mobile phone to take a photograph.

"What are you doing?" said my other half, irritatingly,  because he could see exactly what I was doing.

"Taking a picture of Ferg's awards."

"Why?"

"Because I thought I'd post them on Facebook."

"Why?"

I looked across at him. His face wore that expression of "Wtf" that had nearly been included in our wedding vows.
"I, Mark, promise you , Lynn, that I will try not to do that 'wtf' face that pisses you off so much"
 In the end, I'd only relented as he claimed it was down to allergies.
10 years on,  I know the truth. Anyway...

"Because I want to show him how proud I am of him."

"He doesn't have a Facebook account."

I found myself distracted by a potential scratch on the dining room table.

"Yes. I know but..."

"You could just tell him. He's in his bedroom."

I decided the scratch was possibly just a trick of the light and headed for my son's bedroom instead.
I opened the door to find him (as usual) engrossed in Minecraft on the computer.

"I took a picture of your certificates to post them up on Facebook."

"I don't have a Facebook account" he said.

"Yes. I know."

"I wanted one but you said I was too young and..."

"Yes. I know I know. And you are. I'm not posting the pictures up. But, I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you."

"Thanks. Can I have a Facebook account then?"

"No. And I just wanted to say I'm sorry for completely forgetting to come to the ceremony."

"No problem. When can I get an account?"

"When you're old enough."

"Ok. Well you should probably hold off on posting the pictures till I'm old enough."

"Sure."

"Though by then I could just post them up myself."

"Good idea."

I've kept the pictures on my phone. They remind me that my son has his own story. That the event is not about me forgetting, it's about him achieving.  His skin is not mirrored.

And that it would be pointless posting them anyway.  My parents can't use Facebook.

No news is good news.

My husband is always amused by my attitude to news.  In that, I generally do my best to avoid it. When I turn my computer on in the morning, I prefer to know what happened, 'today in history' rather than what's actually happening today.
I've pretty much always been that way.
It's a guilty secret of mine.

In the days when there used to be newspapers, I would be reading a book.
When I was a kid and the TV news was on at 6, that would be the time I remembered my homework.
I'm sometimes so completely uninformed, that I have to nod knowingly in conversations. ( In fact, if we're ever in conversation and I nod knowingly at you, be re-assured I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.)

Nowadays though, it's almost impossible to avoid the news entirely, because it's everywhere and 24 hours. So instead, I try my best to be selective.
If there's news of a new invention, I like that. If there's news of a cure for some disease, ooh I like to be informed.
I'm on it for local news: burglaries in the area? lock those doors. Cafe opening down the street? - ooh must remember to try it.
But the lead story, the one everyone's talking about, my position on it is "head-in-the-sand."
I know.
And I apologize.
Sorta.

But in my defense, when May 2013 is history, I'll look back on those girls in Cleveland and how amazing they are. How they managed to endure unimaginable punishment, for an unbelievable amount of time and even raise a beautiful little kid. How it shows the strength of humankind. The force of human spirit.

But right now, it's news. So, instead of considering the magnificence and bravery and extraordinary resilience to be found in three young women,  I seethe every time I turn the tv on,  or when Google news appears on my computer.

I see the squat little face of that pathetic excuse for a nervous system, bowing his head. Ashamed. He really didn't mean it you know. He had a difficult childhood. Life was a struggle. He was poor. Ya-de-ya-de-ya.
Poor thing. he didn't manage to make bail so he'll be incarcerated till his trial. Don't know where to put him? Well, there's a basement in a place in Cleveland that's just become available.

Right now, where I am, the sun is out and my current concerns, re motherhood, are that I have to get cookies ready for the bake sale, and that my kids are due a dental check up. Both remind me of three human beings who didn't get to see the sun, and a six year old who has already seen the unimaginable.

And today, though I should be writing up little pieces about history, when I sit down to write, the same story goes through my mind.

There's a little yellow school bus with a squat, little driver and the only passengers on it are the two Boston bombers and they're driving to the desert. On the way they stop off to pick up Geoffrey Portway,  whose car broke down when he was out shopping for stuff for his torture chamber.
Anyway, as they get further and further into the desert, the road gets rougher and the little yellow bus bumps up and down, so detonating the pressure cooker bombs, those two douchebags were so smug at having made.
And suddenly there's this massive explosion and the four of them and the little school bus suddenly are wiped off the face of the earth.
And all that's left behind is an indistinguishable pile of dust, under a beautiful, clear, blue sky.

Then I realize that's a terrible story.
What an awful waste of a school bus.

I plan to work really hard at avoiding the news over the next couple of weeks, because I teach my kids that hatred is wrong.

And now I'm heading off to make cookies and book dental appointments. And for Amanda Berry, Gina Dejesus and Michelle Knight, I wish for them, the normality of getting to do the same.

Nothing to explain.

My 10 year old and I had a conversation at the weekend about naked dancing.

The comedy improv class he goes to is moving venue. I am relieved, because parking outside the current one is a complete bitch. He is relieved he says, because 'there are inappropriate billboards outside class, and hopefully there's won't be outside the new venue."

Whilst driving, I am racking my brains as to what these "inappropriate billboards' can be.
"What do you mean honey?" I ask.

"Like that one!" he points, "That one there. Full nude dancing. Why do people do that?"

He waits for an answer. My Saturday afternoon is taking a turn for the worse.

"Well, sometimes people like to feel powerful and seeing strangers dancing with no clothes on sometimes makes some people feel powerful."

"That's just dumb."

"Well..."

"And why would people do that? Why would someone dance naked?"

"Because they need the money. Because they might think that's the only option open to them....

I try to move this cunningly on to, 'that's why it's a good idea to work hard for your CST's conversation' but he's persistant.

"But do they enjoy it? The people dancing naked. "

Inside my head I've decided that until the class moves venue, his dad is going to be picking him up.

"I dunno honey. I've never danced naked. I'm guessing they don't really think about it that much. I'm guessing they do what they do because they think it's the right thing to do for them and... You know what pal, there are things in the world I can't really explain.  Sometimes it's good to consider why someone who isn't you, might do something you wouldn't do. Because, when you understand the "why" then a lot of the time, you can let it go."

"Well I think that's just wrong."

"OK"

He is silent for a moment and I am hopeful the conversation is resolved.

"I am never dancing naked"

"Good. Good for you. I'm glad to hear it"

"And I'm never going to be a gentleman if you have to watch someone dancing naked to join a club"

"That's OK too."

Yesterday he came home from school.  He'd been watching about the events in Boston on his phone.

"This is one of those things you can't explain right?"

"Right"

"Well, I want you to know, I'm not ever going to try to understand the "why". OK?"

"Totally son. Totally. Me neither"