The phone rings.

“Hey Charlie!”

“I have your mum on the line for you”

“What? My mom? Really?”



I wish I could forget the rest of that phone call.

I wish I had never answered the phone.

I wish you were still here.

Six years.

And I’m still heartbroken.

I’m still angry.

I’m still grieving.

I fell. And I fell hard. And I’m still getting back up.

I watch tv or read the newspaper and can hear your voice, knowing exactly what you’d say.

I can picture you sat on the corner of the bed with your sandwich and pack of cookies, kissing your teeth and cussing politicians/athletes/etc.

I can picture you in one thousand different scenarios with each of your grandchildren.

And I can hear you snicker as you teach them something wholly inappropriate to say.

I wish for a lot of things, but what I wish most is that you got a chance. A chance to meet these five totally different but all so amazing little people that I know you would love completely and fiercely.

Some days are better than others.

But every single day I miss you.

And every single day I hope you knew how much you were and forever will be loved.

Sundays were the best days when I was growing up.  Not that I enjoyed church.  Especially in the Caribbean with no breeze coming through the window and everyone trying to fan themselves, and instead creating a very special, one of kind aromatic experience.    And not because it was Eat At Grandmom’s House day, though it was and I always loved that kind of day.   I loved Sundays because it was a definite Beach Day!  Frigate Bay, Banana Bay, Half Moon Bay … wherever! Playing in the waves, swimming, splashing, attempting to body surf, jumping the waves, eating soggy Pringles and drinking warm Coke out of hot glass bottles.  LOVED it.

What I didn’t love so much, was the mandatory hose down in the front yard afterwards.  No one lived behind our house or on either side of us, so you’d think that those options would be more suitable.  But no, it was always in the front where my Dad swore no one could see (oh they could, and those than couldn’t heard about it in school the next day).

Now that I am not naked in public with 3 perfectly fine showers inside of the house mere feet away from the puddle of embarrassment and sand I was stood in, I look back on those Hose Offs and laugh.

Unfortunately we live no where near a beach.  And in fact, this summer has been far more Autumnal than sunshine and swimming pools.  This has not given me much opportunity to create memories that will shame and embarrass the midgets while providing me with laughter.   I am failing as a parent.  Or I was until this afternoon.  The sun came out – too late to fill the inflatable pool – so I whipped the play sinks out of the shed and filled them up with water which was then carried back and forth and thrown on each other.  When the sinks were empty and their bums were covered in grass, I offered to hose them off.  They are smart.  They turned me down without a moment’s deliberation.

But they are not too smart, because they didn’t mind the offer of a bath; with no water.


1 Aug 2011


ME: 1 – Midgets 0!!!

No, I’m not about to pull a Van Gogh (Van Go to my North American peeps and Van Goff to the Brits apparently).

But I am still freakin’ deaf. Seriously now, this is getting ridiculous. Do you know how hard it is to try and keep tabs on two crazy midgets with only one good ear? Do you realise the joy they get when the phone rings and I am running around like a headless chicken because I can’t tell where the sound is coming from? And to make it all just that little bit worse, there appears to be action in the ear. I’m not exactly sure if it is good action or bad action, but heyzeus it is annoying.

Currently the midgets are asleep. Out of my good ear I can hear that there are birds chirping and Amy is stirring (so now I have to sit here like a statue hoping she doesn’t clock me and fully wake up. These damn singing birds! Don’t they realise that just because I can’t hear doesn’t mean the other people in my house are suffering the same fate?! Phew… she’s out again). Out of my bad here, I don’t hear much. But inside of it I can hear the din of a small plane engine. Or actually, it sounds more like there is a toilet running constantly in my ear.

If you’ve ever suffered in a house with an ever running toilet, you know how this can get quite annoying after a while. Though usually in that case you can stop it temporarily. Mine is constant and I can’t even flush it.

I haven’t even developed any extra senses to make up for it either.

And now I’ve blogged about it twice in a row which makes it not only annoying to me, but boring to you. Let’s hope that this clears up soon so my brain can obsess about something else that I’ll feel a burning need to share with the Internet!

(I’ve just realised that I wrote this only 3 days after the last ear post. That post was a week after I’d been to the doctor. I’ve gone again this week and she’s put me on antibiotics which ‘should’ help. THEY BETTER. Lee is getting really sick of me yelling when I speak and if I don’t snap soon, he will.)

Yeah, that’s right.  No funny title to this entry.  No play on words.  No hidden meaning.  Just the truth served hard and cold.  I. Hate. School.  It sucks.  There is no Amy at school. There is no Daddy at school.  There is no Mommy at school.  And you actually have to wear clothes.  What the baa boo baa boo is that all about?

Did I lose you with the ‘baa boo baa boo’?  Well you see, I am still in speech therapy.  That’s part of the reason I have to go to school.  I’m not even three, folks.  Close (so birthday cards, presents, money, spaceships  etc. are welcome), but not quite.  And I don’t even start ‘real’ school until 2012.  But oh no, I can’t stay at home and enjoy this special time with my Mommy and Amy.  You know, the days that we’ll never have again where we can run around in diapers (don’t even go there with potty training. I’m not interested!) and give each other hugs or ‘cuggles’ whenever we feel like it.  Nope, instead they are shipping me off to jail.  JAIL, I tell you.  Three afternoons a week.

Apparently I am supposed to learn to socialise and become more verbal.  Well so far all they’ve got out of me is that I like Buzz Lightyear and I can cry really loudly.  Oh and I kind of like farm animals.  But I haven’t started to speak in paragraphs or add words to my vocabulary that I don’t feel like using right now.

Sure, I like Carol (the lunchtime supervisor) and Holly (my team leader) and Ruth (the manager),  but can’t I just meet up with them for lunch once a month?  Why does this need to be so often?  And why the clothes?!  I mean, you tell me which is cuter …

The Uniform (just the golf shirt is mandatory):

Thrilled - Can't you tell?

Can I take this off yet?


The Pirate:

Arrrrr Matey

Aren't I so cute.. even dribbling milk..

You don’t even have to answer it.  It’s totally the pirate.  You know why? Because I like being a pirate and I do NOT like being a student.

So there.

To most people, yesterday was just another day. It came, it went, things happened, but it wasn’t memorable. It wasn’t the happiest day of their life, it wasn’t the saddest and by the end of the weekend they will struggle to remember what they ate for lunch or dinner.

I’m not most people.

Yesterday was one of the dates on the calendar that will always mean something to me and will never get easier. I wake up in the morning and the tears start to well. Throughout the day I try and stay occupied, but it is hard because I think about the What Ifs. By the end of the day I’m exhausted and I just can’t fight the tears anymore. And I can’t even blame the hormones.

My Dad should have turned 63 yesterday. He should have been sitting in St.Kitts saying how much he wished we could all celebrate together, but maybe next year. Though it wouldn’t really matter because he’d just be happy that his fourth grandchild in a year and a half was due to arrive at any moment.

And I know I shouldn’t think about how things would be or how I think they SHOULD be, but I cannot help it. I miss him. I miss him every single day of my life and cannot believe that so much time has passed and so many things have happened in all of our lives and he hasn’t been here to be a part of it with us. Each of us, his children, has had our life change in ways that he would be so proud of and ways he wanted so badly for us and for him .. and he doesn’t get to share any of it.

Sure, a lot of you would say that “he knows”, he’s always there, he’s better off … and a whole bunch of other thing that are meant to make me feel better, but don’t. I don’t need words, I don’t need hugs, I don’t need looks of “poor girl, you’ll be okay” and time will not heal no matter how many people say it.

Each year on the 22nd of May my heart shatters into a million pieces of sadness that cannot be helped no matter what. Sure, yesterday was better than the others that have passed as we were plenty occupied with two toddlers running around and falling over and into each other, but that just allows the pieces to shatter a little more slowly.

But this morning at 5.25am I was awaken with the pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter of two not so tiny toddler feet running across the creaky wood floors from his room to my bedside with arms out stretched wanting to join us in bed and it helped start to put the pieces back in place. And although I know my heart will never fully heal, moments like that help get it back to as whole as it can.

One year ago today I posted a card to my Daddy. A card that had no specified destination, but one which I hoped he’d get anyway.

In the card I explained how I’d been feeling since he had left (and I know that you say to leave it means he had a choice and he didn’t, Momma.. but it is what it feels like to me) and I ended it by saying that if there was any possible way that the card found its way to him, that I understood that I couldn’t have him back, but that I’d really really appreciate if he could pull some strings and see about a baby.

One week later Noah was conceived. Now you might think it was a massive coincidence, but not too long after that, Noah’s cousin Calleigh was conceived. Now Lee and I had been trying and had discovered that we were good at getting pregnant, just not so great at staying that way, so to me it seemed like much more than a coincidence. And although I am not a great “believer”, I can’t help but think he had a hand in it all.

The reason I sent the card at all, was because the 22nd of May is his birthday. Today he would have been 62 years old and it would have been the happiest birthday he ever had because he’d have two grandchildren to share it with.

The hardest part of raising Noah, isn’t the sleepless nights, the tantrums or the inability to communicate, but not being able to share this all with my Daddy. He would have LOVED Noah, and I know Noah would have loved him right back. Hopefully I can do my Daddy’s memory justice and let Noah know just how loved he would have been and how very very much me meant to me.

Everyone that said that this gets easier…lied. Not a day goes by that I do not think about him and wish that I could wake up from this horrible dream. But at least when Noah’s asleep and gives me the finger or cocks his leg in the air and farts without waking himself, I know that my Daddy is living on in my baby boy.

I love him and miss him more than I can explain.

Daddy, I am so grateful for this amazing baby boy that you arranged for me, now do you think you could manage to get him to sleep through the night?

Until recently, Noah used to spend over an hour looking out of the window at nothing. In this time I could eat breakfast, shower, wash bottles and get the TV tuned onto the BBC for a morning of property developing/purchasing and auctions. He’s now decided that he does not want to enjoy the wonders of the window/headboard/duvet alone. How heartwarming to know that my 5 1/2 week old baby loves me so much that he wants me around him so much.

At least I thought that at first. Then I realised that sneaking my way into the shower was near impossible. Even if he fell asleep, he’d wake up mid lather … not even wait for the rinse, repeat bit! And when he realises that he is alone, the lungs open and the tears flow. Not heartwarming, heartbreaking.

So my aunt suggested that I put him in his swing in the bathroom while I shower. It sounded like a good idea and with the Health Visitor coming for Noah’s 6 week check it was imperative that I could give the impression that I was a proper functioning adult. Not easy on the best of days, but since she was the one that tried to getmy GP to refer me to the mental health team for postpartum, I can’t take any chances!

This morning started out wonderfully! Noah was smiling like he never smiled before, and then decided he wanted a nap. My old baby was back! So I ran downstairs, had some cereal, got the swing and came back up. I got everything ready for the shower so that I’d be quick. I plopped Noah in the swing, turned it on and jumped into the shower. As recommended, I kept popping my head out to let him know I was there. He was so quiet and just watching … the shower curtain. I couldn’t help but think that Cathy was a genius!

And then the shower was over. I got my hair towel and put it on, dried off and was about to step out of the tub when I saw the look of horror on Noah’s face: He’d spotted … the stretch marks. Usually before he cries he lets out a little squawk, but his face went beet red and he wailed and wailed like he’d never wailed before. His bottom lip was quivering like he was wet and naked in a blizzard.

And my heart broke. Totally rejected by a 39 day old.

Mom, Sue and Cath… today I discovered the polar opposite of a Definite Reach Out.