Author: ChanAtkins

Stream Of Consciousness for Dillydots

~ ChanAtkins ~ 2 Comments

There are words that I think of, words that invade my mind when I see you, when I think about you or talk about you…Images too..I see the sun because you are my sunshine boy, my smiling boy, and the word is lovely, he is so lovely, just so lovely, god he is lovely…Lovely is not enough, not a big enough word with not enough impact, yet it sums you up so well, everything about you, from your white blonde curls to your gentle blue eyes, to your dirty laugh, to the trembling of your rosebud lips when you are trying desperately not to cry…You were born…a boy, and you looked like one! Wide nose, flared nostrils, deep frown, huge hands balled into fists held up under your chin…what a bruiser they said! What a toughie! He’s gonna’ be trouble! Look at that face!  You won’t wanna’ mess with him…You’ll know you’ve got him…In days the frown had gone, the fists relaxed, the face had opened up…You wouldn’t sleep in the pram, instead you lifted your legs and waved them about..same in the moses basket, pointless, you wanted to see what was going on, who was about, but you didn’t cry much, just took it all in…

Your sisters adored you…especially Roobydooby when you could hold and broom a car…a friendship was forged over car mats, within traffic and parking and the strict rules she enforced…You aimed to please…I can see you now, toothy grin and dribbly chin, tight blonde curls, crawling backwards at six months and forwards at seven, pulling yourself up, and crawling straight for the TV every time you heard the Cbeebies recycling song! Made us laugh every time…here it is…here he comes…up you’d go, big blue eyes on the Tv, what drew you to that song, who knows?

You walked at ten months and hated being dressed or changed..that was your only struggle, your only rebellion, twisting and screaming until the last popper was secured…just made us laugh…Toy rocket for your first birthday, Thomas the Tank engine set for your second, and a party at the hall…you spent most of the time hiding in a tunnel, food clasped in one pudgy hand…You didn’t mind anyone touching your stuff, have never been possessive of anything…as soon as you could walk you wanted to walk everywhere, holding my hand, trying and failing to carry your huge Rory the Tiger toy all the way to school and back…you’d keep going, marching on, and I’d always be saying he’s so easy, so lovely, so good, I’m waiting for it to change, I’m waiting for the fights..but they never came. You clung to me at toddler groups, took my hand to where you wanted to play, backed off if confronted by the snarls of other children, wouldn’t ever join in the singing or the actions at circle time, just sat patiently waiting for your drink and biscuit with a frown on your face and your hands in your lap…

You had no fear, and you still don’t, not of things or pain…you’d climb trees, try anything, jump off things and declare that it didn’t matter mummy, we won’t worry mummy…a hole scooped out of mud that kept you quiet for hours one summer day, kneeling in just shorts, your hand digging out more dirt, your body caked in it, your blonde hair hanging in your eyes, your tongue sticking out the corner of your mouth as you concentrated…the day your sisters buried you in another hole and washed your hair in mud…you shrieked with laughter…on car rides home, plastered in dirt and food, smiling behind the muck,, straight up and into the bath…racing down  the lane on your balance bike, off and into the stinging nettles, trying not to cry, proud as ever to show anyone your bruises and scrapes, counting them up in the bath at the end of the day…

Third birthday, so many friends, bouncy castle in the garden, toy helicopter and monster cake with straggly hair, you with your pants on your head and your tongue sticking out…you called milk wonk, and cars were bars, you couldn’t say f, so it was dood, not food, dace, not face, dend, not friend..you were scared of the muckoos because they came out at night…you would turn up in our room, Tiger under one arm, or was it Snakey by then? You were scared and you wanted to sleep with us and you always did the same thing, a kiss on the cheek for me and your arms around my neck, and then snoring again, just like that, kicking the covers from us…

Figures were ‘biggers’ and one summer you carried them everywhere, Rory the Tiger and Bradley the bear and you were always dropping them and losing them and we’d have to go back and find them..where are my biggers?  Where are my biggers?  You did the same with cars, Lightning McQueen and Mater, buried in the gravel! Somehow they always turned up again…with your sister you laid planks of wood across the gravel and pushed cars and trucks all day long…hid your biggers in the sandpit…at night we read you Room On The Broom and The Gruffalo and The Little Red Train..you screamed in laughter at Rattletrap Car…you liked playing shops, counting money, or mums and dads…you always did whatever made everyone else happy, whatever was easiest…train tracks and duplo, cardboard boxes, playdough and baking cakes…anything messy, anything that meant sticking your hands into muck!

The ‘shop’ game on dog walks…certain trees were shops and if you made it to each one you could buy a snack from my bag…You liked to be carried but I never minded, you were like a monkey clinging on, burying your face in my neck and playing with my hair…I still expected drama, was still waiting for trouble but it never came…he’s so good, he’s so easy, he’s no trouble…he’s an angel, he’s so lovely, so lovely…

The tickle test…where you would lie on the floor and I’d ask you where was more ticklish, under the arms, the knees, the belly, the ribs…you’d screech laughter and beg for more…Sleepovers with your sister, by now your best friend, your loyal comrade…Duvets and blankets on the bedroom floor and draped from chairs, midnight fasts, maltesers rolled through the banisters for you to catch and collect…

You are easy to distract, easy to talk around, easy to reason with, easy to manipulate…sometimes I have to tell you to stand up for yourself, to be mean back when your sisters try it on..,one day you said to me, I don’t know how to….And my heart ached for you, because you really don’t..and I see it in your face, you don’t understand when others are mean or cruel or push you away…you have a tendency to run off, to run away and be on your own…you try not to cry, and that’s even sadder to see, like you think you’re not allowed to…I see you when I am putting washing away, sat on your bed running your finger over the pages of the book you are trying to read, made more important by the fact your sister has allowed you to borrow it…you don’t see me because your thick blonde hair is over your eyes, and you are concentrating too much…you get upset when you get spellings wrong…you try your hardest at everything you do…I walk past your room and hear you playing schools and I think oh he’s so lovely, he is just so lovely….my dillydots, my dilly, my chubby cheeked boy and our jokes about how much we love each other…a billion, a million, a dillion! All the way to the moon and back, then double that, double whammy you say…and you have to get the last kiss, but I try to dive in one last time to steal it from you, but you don’t let me go…I have to get the last kiss you say…and for now my big boy, little brother, big brother, doe eyed cousin, one of a cheeky trio of friends since babes…you’ve still not changed, and you still slip your hand into mine and kiss me at the school gate, and I’ll never forget you walking into the room when you were about four, or five and exclaiming ‘this is all my life, and I love all my life.’ The sweetest thing from the sweetest boy…

Your gentle nature, the kindness that exudes from you, it will carry you through life and make you many friends…you always do for others like in the summer when your little cousin wanted to hold your hand down the lane, we knew you were embarrassed but you didn’t tug away, not once, even when the bigger kids surged ahead without you, you kept her little hand in yours…

I hope life is as kind to you as you deserve, I hope I never forget a single sunny thing about you, you are the sunshine in my eyes….

 

 

The Reason I Write

~ ChanAtkins ~ Leave a comment

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The Reason I Write

The Mess Of Me by Chantelle Atkins

Why do I write? How do I find the time? Where do I get my ideas from? I get asked these questions a lot. I expect most writers do. As these lines of questioning open up though, I normally hear one statement that annoys greatly: “I’d love to write but I don’t have the time.” Like finding the time or the energy has anything to do with it. “I’ve got great ideas but I don’t have the time or the energy to do anything about them.” This kind of insinuates that I have bucket loads of time on my hands, which couldn’t be further from the truth. With four kids and another job walking dogs to bring the ‘real’ money in, I have as little time as anyone. But the thing is, it’s not about time or energy, it’s…

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A Little Book On Trees

~ ChanAtkins ~ Leave a comment

You see the thing is, there is only so much time. You know that, and I know that. It creeps up your spine every once in a while, reminding you. You see it in the dead leaves on the ground, in the flattened squirrel, in the lines that deepen on your skin. So there is not much time before I cease to exist. I am fighting a losing battle to do all the things I want to do, to see all the things I would like to see, to read all the books, to listen to all of the music, to write all of the words…This is just me making excuses though, because most days I am sickened by my own ignorance.

So I was thinking about this the other day. About how old I am, and how much time there might be left for me, and about all the things I do not know. It caused me panic. Not knowing things. It led me to thinking; what do I know? What should I know by now? What have I already forgotten? Have I forgotten more than I will ever remember? Chances are I have. Chances are this will only increase as I get older. How much does the mind allow you to hold onto? Snippets and fragments. Important things come first. Like walking and breathing, and riding a bike, making a meal, driving a car. What remains once your aged mind has sieved through the rubble? How to tie your shoe laces? Bake a cake? Send an email? But what happens to the rest?
What is probably worse though, is all the things you never knew in the first place, all the things you never read about, or learnt about. Time wasted? Opportunities missed? I am embarrassed by how little I know. How little I have to hold onto and pass on.

So what do I know?

I know how to drive. Just about. I know how to plant seeds and help them grow. I know a thing or two about writing, a thing or two about parenting, a thing or two about how not to train a dog…I know a few things about politics, but so much of what I believe is personal and emotional, heartfelt rather than researched. I have forgotten most of what I learnt at school, college and University.

But what I don’t know shocks me and holds me back. It is staggering in its enormity. My mind closes itself in a panic, shouting there is not enough time, it is not my fault! I can’t help it. But I wish I knew so much more.
I do not know the names of all the trees I love so much. They are a green canopy sheltering me, filled with birdsong, they surround my walks and my imaginings, and I like to look at them and think about how old they are, and I like to stop and touch them if I can. They make me feel close to nature and to the point of everything. I know the oak and the sycamore…pines…conifers. I will learn more and then forget them. And I do not know the names of the hundreds of birds that fill my world with song. I know the robin and the pigeon and the blackbird and the magpie…the easy ones. I will try to remember what I have seen, and I tell myself to go and look them up, go and learn, but I will forget to do even that.

Flowers like the daisy, and the rose and the geranium and the daffodil..of course everyone knows those ones, but there are so many more, ones I have planted myself in my own garden by my own hand, and they still live on nameless to me. Not to mention the flowering weeds that line the lane, pinks, yellows, purples and blues – what are you? Tell me your name and your purpose. It is like all of nature is sat there being ignored. It is becoming unknown and unused.

Space and time and maths and physics…What is electricity and how does the TV work? Mobile phones, and the inter-net. I live with them and I rely on them, and yet I do not have a clue how they work or how they came to be. I am soaked in ignorance. I am weighed down by the guilt of not knowing enough. There is so much to know. Maybe I should make a list and start ticking them off. I would like to expand my knowledge and I would like to not have to keep saying ‘I don’t know’ when my kids ask me things. I would like to know what my ancestors knew, and what weeds to pick and cook, and how to fix a broken bike, and how to change a fuse and what kind of bird sings like that and why…I would like to hold onto the little that I do know before it gets bored and wanders off. What would I be left with?

Self-doubt and rising panic.

I could have done so much more. I could have learnt so much more and put it to good use. If only life was not so short. If only life was longer and not so stuffed full of washing clothes and hoovering mess and sweeping floors and changing beds and making ends meet. I’m running out of time and fear so many things will remain a mystery to me, languishing in the pile of ‘I’ll do that later’, ‘I’ll read that later’, ‘I will ask about that later’. But what if I never do, and just keep scurrying on towards death and getting by on the little bits I have picked up and held onto along the way?

I don’t fear death.

I won’t mind it because I will be at peace and not in a panic.

Meanwhile I will experience the turning of the days and the missing out on knowledge, expertise and experience. So many things I wish I had done. But I didn’t have the money, or I didn’t have the time, or I didn’t have the courage. I played it safe and stuck to what I knew because it was enough to survive on, enough to get me by. I won’t be a wise old woman passing on essential knowledge. It saddens me. I am sickened by the shame.

But I found a little book on trees and I keep it in my pocket.

Hope is a heartbreak

~ ChanAtkins ~ 4 Comments

Children are a heartbreak from the moment you know you are having them, from the moment you find out they exist.  This hope starts to grow inside of you, because that is what they are and that is what they become.  Hope.  For better times, for a decent life, for smiles, laughter, health and memories.  You can have all this without children and it is probably less painful.

I look at my children and it hurts.  The love itself is terrifying, and you would like to run away because it brings such hope, and hope is painful.  They never told you that, did they?  That is can rip you open and rub you raw.  They are a heartache from the start, I tell you.  From the moment you feel the love you are doomed.  They start ripping you up inside.  They grow too fast for one thing.  They make you fall in love with them.  I mean, you would kill for them, as well as die for them, but what you start to do is live for them.  But soon they don’t even need you anymore.

See one moment they are helpless without you, dependent on you for life itself.  Then the next they are pulling their hand out of yours.  It’s a piss take.  They are slipping through your fingers from the start, and they are never truly yours, although you are theirs forever.  They start growing and changing, and you start falling behind, because that is what it feels like.  Like you can’t catch your breath, can’t keep up, can’t hold on.  And the slipping gets faster and faster, every day, every week, every year gets faster than the last.

You would like to hold time still, fix it in your eye line and challenge it not to move.  You would like to grab those moments, those ones that sink your guts and moisten your eyes. You would like to be able to grab them and feel them and stuff them somewhere, hold them somewhere they can’t get free from. But the moments slip faster, one blink and they are gone.  You smile and carry on, but deep inside is a pain that will never heal.  Because it all starts going too fast.

The pain and the hope exist side by side; they are one and the same. They feed off each other. The happier you are, the more hope you feel lifting you up, the more the fear swells with the realisation that it could all fall away at any moment.  That’s what hurts, that’s what kills.  They are fragile things like all human life.  And the trouble is, their pain is now your pain, their sadness will be yours as well.  You would take it away for them if you could but mostly you are pretty helpless, and all just at the mercy of life, and whatever lies around each corner.  Living life with a constant squint in your eyes, ready to duck or dive should trouble come your way.  Try and see it off.  Try and see it coming.  Never knowing if this happy moment you are in is going to be the last for a long time to come.  Never knowing if each simple perfect day is about to fall off the tracks and change everything.  You live in hope and you live in fear.  I don’t know why we do it to ourselves, but we do.