Moments // May 2021

I collect Chief Rascal from childcare at lunchtime and on the way home he asks if we can have lunch in the garden. It is warm in the sunshine, a slight breeze rendering the shade that little bit too cool to be able to completely discard sleeves.

He gets out his plate and cup from his cupboard, and places his order with the kitchen staff: one ham and cheese sandwich – no pickle, thank you – and a glass of water. Oh, and don’t forget the Pom-Bears and the grapes. Whilst he waits on lunch, I watch him inspecting the plants, delighting in the colours of the various flowers: the white of the vinca minor and the aubretia, the lilac of the calendula, the pink of the saxifraga. He peers into the pots with seeds yet to emerge from their slumber, brow furrowed.

I bring out our lunch and we sit on the step, talking about our surroundings and soaking in the warmth of the sun, the kiss of the slight breeze that dances past, listening to the constant hum of the red mason bees on the ornamental cherry tree blossom, and the birdsong emanating from the trees around us.

He asks me questions about what we can hear, about the multitude of pots and their inhabitants. How big will the sunflowers grow? When will we see the poppies? And what about the Rote Bete and the runner beans? Which bird is singing now? Where is the bird? Was that a dog we just heard? Why are the leaves on the borage fuzzy? What do you have in your sandwich, Mama? Can I leave the grape for Herr und Frau Amsel?

A lunchtime spent in the present, enjoying our surroundings. I feel gratitude. I feel grounded. I marvel at Chief Rascal’s refreshing fascination and genuine joy at the simple things, and suddenly my world feels that little bit brighter.

Moments // April 2021 // II

I get the lamb shoulder out of the oven. It’s perfect. To my dismay, I see the trivet in places has burnt. No matter, my usual A-Team combination of secret ingredients should save the day.

I open the fridge, and discover the crucial element to counteract the slight tart, singed taste is missing; its place in the fridge door ominously vacant. Condiment down.

I panic and do the culinary equivalent of picking up the Bat Phone: “Gravy SOS” is all the text reads.

Moments later she calls. A few minutes of expertise and debate on the merits of including various jams, honey or sweet chili sauce and the day is saved.

I may be about to turn thirty, but you’re never too old to phone your mum when your struggling with your gravy game.

Moments // April 2021 // I

A quiet moment of reflection after another long day. Tomorrow is Easter Sunday and after finishing my work for the evening, I’ve hidden a couple of brightly coloured eggs for you to find.

As with Christmas, nothing brings me greater joy than seeing the excitement in your eyes as you take it all in. I’m beginning to think that, religious origins aside, the modern Christmas and Easter are in fact designed with the adults in mind more than the children.

I lie in the dark at the foot of the bed, listening to you gently snoring; spread-eagled across both pillows. I will forever be amazed at how someone so small can take up so much space in a bed.

At least one of us will get some sleep tonight.

Moments // February 2021

Sometimes this lone parenting business is soul-crushingly difficult. Sometimes, it is the best thing ever to have happened.

Chief Rascal had finished breakfast, got down and begun to play. I found myself eating leftover custard straight out of the jug in the kitchen. Toddler catches me, spoon in hand, mouth full of cold custard. (Don’t judge; waste not, want not.)

He looks at me, then the jug and spoon as he realised I was serious about custard for breakfast. No tantrum. He looks back to me and opens his mouth. I sit on the floor and offer him the spoon.

The custard is gone. A quiet moment of spontaneous indulgence on a sunny Friday morning.

Je ne regrette rien.

Moments

I often find myself bemoaning my current situation or failing to appreciate enough the little things happening on a daily basis and the experiences I have, often accompanied by my little helper.

Rather than allow myself to be overwhelmed with the drudgery and stress of, say, work pressures or the challenges of parenting in a pandemic; or force myself to write a “gratitude diary”, I’ve decided to make a point of jotting down moments that have brought warmth, happiness and joy.

These short literary doodles are my attempt to be more present, and to appreciate things more.