My Husband

Living with my husband is akin to living with a whole household of characters. As I’ve mentioned, Chris is twenty years my senior. I have always maintained that this is just as well - because I couldn’t keep up with him if we were the same age.

Chris is fond of saying (he’s fond of many sayings, as you’ll hear) “We have a chronological age and a biological age.” This is generally his justification for being 64 and behaving like a teenager, or even a toddler.

And good for him. He explained to me when we first came to Petworth that he was making the most of his older years: “I’m old enough now to get away with all sorts of things, and too old to change if people don’t like it.” A brilliant excuse for doing exactly as he pleases!

And for years I cringed in my nice, well behaved, well brought up mind, as he talked to everyone, flirted with beautiful girls and told outrageous stories to all that would listen. 

Then in a moment of clarity I realised that no one was taking offence and that I was the only one worrying over any possible repercussions. I accepted that Chris is my husband but I’m not responsible for his behaviour. So I decided to go along for the ride and just enjoy him, as everyone else did. 

At least I try.

Groucho Marks once said: “Don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story.” That’s Chris. His over exaggeration is legendary, accompanied always by fluidly expressive face pulling,  the most extraordinary sound effects and a stream of ‘Chrisisms’.

“I swear to Rudy” - taken from Bill Crosby and used to emphasise every ‘true’ story.

“Plannin’s not doin” - this one is courtesy of Pa Walton and is wheeled out a lot when talking to his teenage son.

“To assume makes an ass out of u and me” - borrowed from an inspirational boss.

“It’s all a ghastly nightmare!” This is accompanied by heavy banging on the table with both fists and whirring noises as he mimes cutlery flying. It’s from a Billy Connolly story - a source of many of Chris’s favourite sayings.

“Will you let me finish!” Said frequently as I interrupt his monologues. I’m going to put this on his headstone: “Will you let me finish...” on the front, then on the back: “Oh, you did.”

I confess to being almost pathologically obsessed with ensuring Chris’s stories are factual.   Something I am not proud of and a habit which interrupts Chris’s flow every time. Imagine:

Chris: “So we were in Montana in November” (me: “October”) and there must have been 200 horses (me: “50”) and the Crow Indian Chief Harold (me: “Henry”)...

You get the picture. I seem driven to correct him every time. I think it’s a woman thing and also a wife thing. Whatever it is, it’s bloody annoying and that’s just my feelings on the subject. 

My husband is one of life’s performers, a tour de force who does as he pleases and is happy to take the consequences. In Petworth you’ll see him striding round town wearing his Stetson hat and talking to everyone he meets. Not for him any thought of intruding or offending. We’re here to relate to each other and that is what he does.

He has no concern for how he may be perceived by others. He is who he is and completely unapologetic about it. And so he should be. At 45 I feel like a younger sibling trailing in the wake of my older, more confident brother, marvelling at his bravery and his impressive cheek.

For all I am a thinker, Chris puts me to shame by just doing it. He reacts to what he finds - offering help, giving his opinion, dealing practically with a crisis - where many of us would pause long enough to talk ourselves out of contributing.

So whilst I often berate him gently for his outrageous behaviour and larger than life persona - still being the fearful ‘good girl’ at heart - I admire him. He is a good man, not afraid to stand up and be counted.

And as he so often says (accompanied by big eyes and a lopsided grin) “You wouldn’t have me any other way”.

And he’s right. 

A Mother Apart

I am a mother living apart from my child. My son is in his twenty fourth year - not so unusual then. But I have lived apart from my son for ten years.

How does that happen? What takes place that is so traumatic as to lead to a mother giving up her son?

Not so much a trauma, at least not of the earth shattering, instantaneous kind. More the sort that creeps up, inveigles - layer upon layer of life, weighing me down, rubbing me out.

I was twenty when I fell pregnant. What an odd expression, as if a careless trip could find me with child. Well I not so much fell as jumped. My future husband thought it a good idea, for reasons best left unsaid. And I said "Why not?", which was my answer to most questions, and which has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years.

Half way through my degree, I saw nothing strange in pausing to start a family. I had nothing to lose - no job, no house, no money - a perfect time to become a mother. And it was perfect. As our son grew up, my husband took on the role of carer, combining it with his painting. I went out to work and became the breadwinner. Unusual then but it worked for us.

I realise now that I’ve been overcompensating for my absence since  Max was young. My career as a fashion buyer took me away from home for six months of the year and the remainder was spent working long hours. I tried to cram all my mothering into the free time I had and made up the deficit with long-distance phone calls and presents from abroad.

By the time Max was 14, I was divorced, unemployed, recovering from depression, up to my eyes in debt and wondering if life was worth continuing. If you’re a parent I’m sure you can imagine the guilt. I’d put Max through so much and felt I’d let him down badly as a mother.

Living in Edinburgh with no prospect of work (believe me I tried), I took a job in London. How could I take Max with me? What did I have to offer? I had nowhere to live, the prospect of a new job working long hours. In Edinburgh he had a family home, an ever present father, friends, a familiar school. The choice seemed obvious.

So I travelled home every weekend, determined that my son wouldn’t accuse me of not being there. And I tortured myself with guilt while he grew up and we grew apart.

By the time we moved to Petworth I had a home to offer Max, but it wasn’t his home, wasn’t his family. It was too late. We continued our long distance relationship, intense and co-dependent, each of us trying to compensate for the distance between us. Oh I know we love each other and that we have an indelible connection - we both know that. 

But now we have no contact - his choice, and one that I respect. What else can I do? I practice “letting go with love” day in day out, with not a day going by that I don’t wish it had been different.

I fully accept that I made my choices. I understand that every action has a consequence, no more, no less. I try to manage the crippling guilt that has dogged me for the last decade, and I live as a mother apart from her child.

I am honest about my situation. I tell those who ask (however mortifying) that we are not in touch. What else can I do? This is who I am. However successful I may have been in my career, whatever adventures I have enjoyed, I did not put my son first. I wasn’t capable of it - whatever the reasons.

And so I try to be a decent person now, knowing that I cannot change the past, I can only learn from it. Once a mother, always a mother. 

Birds

I love the morning light here in Petworth. I have a ring side seat every day, sitting as I do in our turret overlooking the main square. The clock on the town hall is my time-keeper, the gold leaf hands passing over the wedgewood blue face, slowly illuminated by the rising sun.

Living in a tall house, we have the advantage of a bird’s eye view. We share our space with jackdaws and pigeons, sparrows and house martins. It is a bird’s world up here. I watch them swooping and nesting, feeding and fledging. I feel priviledged to share their space.

I love birds - they’re full of character and I delight in their presence. When a few summers back we erected a bird feeder on our roof terrace, our first guest was a green woodpecker.  I haven’t seen him since, but I was touched that Woody had welcomed us - that being my husband’s nickname of old.

I had to move the feeder twice due to the clumsy attempts of the local pigeons to gorge themselves. I couldn’t work out why my little conifers beneath were flattened until I spied a fat pigeon squatting patiently below the feeder awaiting his turn.

But this was nothing compared to my husband’s pigeon experience. Chris’s office is in the building opposite our house and looks directly onto our roof terrace. One windy day he looked up from his accounting to see a pigeon land in a most ungainly fashion on the weather vane that tops off our roof. 

As the pigeon scrabbled for a foothold, the wind caught the weather vane and sent it spinning round. The pigeon started to flap his wings, trying to maintain his balance. The faster he flapped, the faster the arm went round, sending him in ever increasing circles,  until he tumbled off and rolled down the roof, disappearing from sight.

Anyone who knows Chris can imagine his retelling of this story, complete with actions and sound effects. I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants!

Black Clouds

Talking of black clouds, I suffered from depression once. Now you know the expression “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy”? Well that’s how I feel about depression.

Mine sort of crept up on me due to a combination of circumstances including the break up of my marriage, the terminal illness of a very dear friend and the discovery that my mum had breast cancer. You could say that life had got too much for me.

I consider myself fairly resilient. I test myself every now and again, have done since I was a child: Imagine a situation (ranging from the loss of a favourite toy, via parents divorcing to the death of a loved one). Could I survive it? Yes.

But sometimes it doesn’t seem that way. Depression is familiar to many of us these days. You’ll know what I’m talking about then. 

Mine manifested in the beginning with uncontrollable tears (no surprise there then!); an inability to deal with the smallest situation; a fear of going to sleep; loss of appetite; terrible black thoughts; a desperate feeling of isolation.

I managed to work through all but the worst few weeks - my bloody mindedness and pride driving me on when my whole being was crying out to stop. It’s amazing how blind we can be to the blaring messages our body sends us.

I finally admitted defeat after a tortuous management meeting where I sat still and big eyed trying to give the appearance of normality and failing miserably (excuse the pun). Having informed personnel of my mental breakdown (try that one for scary), I made my way to the bus stop. As I stood waiting, it was as if my skin had been flayed off. Every noise, every movement was like a relentless barrage on my senses. I had no defence.

I was forced at last to ask for help - from my husband, from my son, from everyone. I was helpless. In my darkest moments I wallowed in a black pit, too deep and slippery to ever climb out of.

But I did. With the help of those around me and a brilliant man - Dr James Hawkins - I did. One step at a time, that’s all. Just one step at a time. Sounds easy, huh? To begin with I had to consciously move forward, every few minutes reminding myself of how to act, what to think. But as time went on it became less often and there were times when I forgot about where I’d been. (oh blessed relief)

I don’t believe I would have come through this experience having learnt so much if it hadn’t been for Dr Hawkins. My GP suggested he refer me to him when the anti depressants I’d been prescribed were making me more crazy, not less.

At our first meeting he asked me what I wanted to get out of our time together. “I want to feel at peace”, was my reply. 

How many of you have had therapy? Then you know just how much courage it takes. It is by far the scariest thing I’ve ever done...I’d recommend it to everyone! It’s not a comfortable place to be - in front of yourself, looking at who you really are. But by God did I sort out a lot of stuff.

I liken therapy to peeling off the layers of an onion. The outside layers are quite easy - toughened, familiar. Then we get to the first of the juice. That makes your eyes water. And as you peel closer to the centre it often gets so unbearable that you have to stop. 

But boy was it worth it. Dr Hawkins gave me the tools to cope with life. Information is king they say, and it’s true. The more knowledge we have the more conscious our choices become, and that has to be a good thing.

I recovered from my depression. My friend died, my mum died, my life was changed forever. But I survived. Just as I said I would.   

Hormones

Hi Folks, my dear friend Cara was berating me last night for not writing my Blog recently. But don’t worry, I have lots of excuses!

Don’t we always? I for one can easily divert my thoughts onto all the things I haven’t done, need to do or have just done. 

Every book I have ever read concerning living more peacefully and living more meaningfully talks about “living in the now”. 

Indeed there is in reality only now, since (as the scientists have proved) there is no such thing as linear time - that’s just a man-made construct. I don’t pretend to understand the mechanics but I like the idea!

But I’ve found, like so many things in life, the theory is easier than the practice. Living in the now is a bit like learning to ride a horse. Skyler, the young horse whisperer who was teaching me out in Montana, explained beautifully to me how to sit in the saddle while my horse was trotting. 

I concentrated hard and listened carefully to what to do...then my horse started to move and it all went out of the window. “Push your weight down in your stirrups and curve your butt into the saddle.” Yeah right. The horse was going up and down and I’m going down and up and the whole thing degenerated into an ungainly jiggle. The story of my life!

Just about sums up my last few weeks. 

We’ve had a lot going on in our business recently.Those of you who know our shops here in Petworth will know we closed our shoe shop last week. It has been a sad excercise. It’s never much fun ending something, and it was a bumpier ride than I’d imagined it to be. I’ve learnt over the 7 years that I’ve been a business owner that making decisions based on sound financial proof is the only way to go. But tell my heart that when I’m dismantling one of our dreams and admitting defeat.

But this is what I mean about living in the now. When we discussed this closure 4 months ago I was all for the streamlining of our shops. Our overheads were too high, our profits were too low - “you do the math” as the Americans say.

Four months down the line we have successfully managed the closure and secured a new tenant for the premises. I got exactly what I asked for - so why do I feel so lousy?!

Excuse number two: Hormones!! (men’s favourite) My husband keeps a closer eye on my Menstrual Cycle than I do. Which is why I found myself on Wednesday panicking quite spectacularly (and internally) about our future.

Now for those of you out there who don’t directly experience PMT I’ll describe my own personal symptoms:

Small dense black rain-cloud hovering permanently over my head.

A head full of demons (mine) who form a cacophonous background of abuse in my head. You know the stuff: “You’re useless. Have you made the right decision? What are you doing with your life? What about the future? What does your hair look like?!” Deafening and prone to cause paralysis.

Then there’s the leaking. Poor Chris is driven demented by my crying at this time of the month. The tears just leak out unbidden, all over the place. I read recently that crying releases the stress hormone Cortisol. Finally, the perfect excuse for a “good greet”.

No consolation when I’m trying to have a serious business conversation and have an overwhelming urge to throw myself on the ground and bawl. 

My old Jenners friends and I used to meet up regularly by the service lift to discuss work problems. Can you see the three of us, all dolled up in heels and big earrings, lipstick in place -  frazzled all to hell? 

On a really bad day when everything was out of control Sonya would say, our minds were going “whoop, whoop, whoop” (accompanied by eye rolling and upward hand gestures). The only answer was to call in a helicopter and be airlifted from the building. Picture it - a stressed out, hormonal fashion buyer flailing around on a rescue stretcher while the whump whump whump of the blades slowly fade away above the Department Store.

The rescue helicopter didn’t arrive this week and I had to manage through the morass that was my brain unaided. As we say in Scotland: “Ma heid’s mince”. Which literally translated means “my head’s full of minced beef”. Quite.

I make a promise to myself that I’ll keep up my Blog - no more excuses - being honest about what’s going on in my minced head and in the hope that some of you out there know what I’m talking about.

Laura x  

Teenagers

Teenagers - you can't live with them, you can't live with them.


We've had Chris's eldest son with us from Australia for the last month. It's the first time he's been back in seven months and I'd forgotten just what forces of nature teenagers are.


I'd forgotten also how set in my ways and used to my own space I'd become when, within half an hour of Jack arriving from Heathrow, a swarm of youths had descended on our once peaceful home.


I have now returned him safely to Heathrow and am once again mistress of all I survey - bliss. But spending a month in a house littered with teenage detritus (you know - electronic cables, empty glasses, stray friends, strangely bleeping machinery, random items of clothing) made me more tolerant. Far more tolerant than I would be if we were talking years of course, a month's enough! 


My own son is now twenty three - a fact that bemuses me as much as it does those who have never met him & remark on my youthful appearance. Well I can tell you, I'd look a lot more youthful if I'd never had a teenager!


One of my favourite authors, Steven Covey's, 7 secrets of success is: "Seek first to understand". It's an eminently sensible aim in any situation. But with parents and teenagers it often feels as though "there are no files" as my dear sister would say. Really, for both sides it frequently feels like we're speaking Chinese.


Which reminds me - too funny - my dear friend Dorothy is mother to 4 sons ranging from late twenties to pre teen. (She is also one of the most glamorous and gorgeous women I've ever known.) Her older boys used to say to her when she started to berate them over something, "Mum there's no point talking to us because all we hear is 'ning, ning, ning, ning'". See what I mean?


When my son was first a teenager, and we were living in our rather cramped flat in Scotland, I can remember one night lying in bed and thinking: "Being the mother of a teenager is like being forced to live with an ex lover". It's that exquisitely agonising pitch of emotions that seems to be sustained beyond all conceivable endurance...all the time!


Of course we all know how fearless they are about going for our weak spots. I admire the way our children can stab us right through the heart by using all of our demons against us with no qualms whatsoever. I think it shows a good survival instinct.


Did you know: It's not a teenager's fault that they're rude. Turns out that every time they lose it and disown you or seem oblivious to your wisdom, they're not just being obtuse. The part of the brain responsible for empathy is still developing. 


Yeah, so what's our excuse?!


And don't forget, it's a teenager's job to reject their parents - they're programmed to do it. So next time they tell you to p**s off remember that they're only growing into adulthood!


It turns out that even our teenager's inability to get out of bed isn't a deliberate ploy to raise our blood pressure. No, it appears that a teenager's body clock runs slower than an adult's - so 8am feels like 6am to them. Now it all makes sense. Oh how I wish I'd known all this when I was a young mum. 


But I'll tell you what's changed since Jack was last living with us. I did what Steven Covey suggested and I sought first to understand. I admit that it's taken me 23 years and a lot of mistakes to get here, but better late than never.


Or maybe I just took the time to remember: To be a teenager - to not have done enough yet in life to feel guilt; to not have the weight of experience to carry around; to have your entire future ahead of you; to feel immortal.


It seems to me that teenagers, if they're having a good time, are doing just what they're supposed to be doing - living in their own world, involved in their own passions. Surely this is the one time in most of our lives that we can? And all the while that they're driving us parents demented, their brains are growing and developing, preparing them for adulthood. Neat, huh?




Last week a fabulously mesmerising friend of ours had three of us in fits describing her boarding school escapades. These ranged from breaking into Chapel and drinking the Communion wine to exploding out of a cupboard onto an unsuspecting teacher and emptying a fire extinguisher over her. I know it's shocking but I have to confess to being envious of her exploits. Okay so I worked hard and have a degree to show for it, but oh how I wish at 45 that I'd been a little bit more of a teenager.


Well you know what they say, youth is wasted on the young. Which is why I'm practising being a Forty-Something Teenager: I'm fortunate enough to be in a position where I am finally able to put myself first. I can indulge my passions once more, happy in the sure knowledge that other people's business is none of mine.


As Kalil Gibran so beautifully put it in his gem of a book The Prophet, in the chapter On Children: 


"You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday."
x

Here Comes The Sun

Aah, the delectable George Harrison singing Here Comes The Sun. Isn't this the perfect song to accompany the first of the Spring sunshine?

Let's all sing along!