Just recently my son (3) has started to notice that one of my arms doesn't work. As I fought the daily battle of buckling him and his sisters into the car he chirruped " this arm works Mummy but the other one doesn't."
I was quite surprised. Although our family talk easily about my arm being buggered and the reason why (that's a whole new post but the shortened version is I was riding pillion on a mororbike, we collided head on with another bike and both drivers lost their lives) this is the first time he has ever really mentioned it.
This evening when he got out of the shower, he complained of a scratch on his hand and then told me had had done it in a motorbike accident.
Clearly there are a few discussions ahead. The strange thing is that I rarely think about my arm but a week on Monday sees the 9th anniversary of the death of my lovely friend who was riding the motorbike. This time of year is quite heavy with nostalgia. He would have been 28 years old. That's an adult by anyone's standards. He may have had children. He may have travelled the world. He would certainly have laughed an awful lot. He would certainly have had lots of friends.
Everyone who knows someone who died young says they were special and kind but really, really there was none kinder, more special, more cheeky and full of deeply auspicious promise than my friend.
This afternoon was the kind of afternoon that makes me so grateful for our life here at the beach in New Zealand. By 5pm four of us were sitting my kitchen guzzling Sauvignon Blanc and eating crisps. Our 10 children leapt off the sofa, watched Kung Fu Panda, jumped on the trampoline and popped in and out of the kitchen to top up with crisps. I find Mums fascinating conversationalists. They can tell extremely funny stories about the vile things their children get up to, happily gossip and have clever fingers on all sorts of pulses.
There's a freedom about New Zealand which is so liberating and happy. Roll on tomorrow for more of the same I say.
I was quite surprised. Although our family talk easily about my arm being buggered and the reason why (that's a whole new post but the shortened version is I was riding pillion on a mororbike, we collided head on with another bike and both drivers lost their lives) this is the first time he has ever really mentioned it.
This evening when he got out of the shower, he complained of a scratch on his hand and then told me had had done it in a motorbike accident.
Clearly there are a few discussions ahead. The strange thing is that I rarely think about my arm but a week on Monday sees the 9th anniversary of the death of my lovely friend who was riding the motorbike. This time of year is quite heavy with nostalgia. He would have been 28 years old. That's an adult by anyone's standards. He may have had children. He may have travelled the world. He would certainly have laughed an awful lot. He would certainly have had lots of friends.
Everyone who knows someone who died young says they were special and kind but really, really there was none kinder, more special, more cheeky and full of deeply auspicious promise than my friend.
This afternoon was the kind of afternoon that makes me so grateful for our life here at the beach in New Zealand. By 5pm four of us were sitting my kitchen guzzling Sauvignon Blanc and eating crisps. Our 10 children leapt off the sofa, watched Kung Fu Panda, jumped on the trampoline and popped in and out of the kitchen to top up with crisps. I find Mums fascinating conversationalists. They can tell extremely funny stories about the vile things their children get up to, happily gossip and have clever fingers on all sorts of pulses.
There's a freedom about New Zealand which is so liberating and happy. Roll on tomorrow for more of the same I say.
"There's a freedom about New Zealand which is so liberating and happy". This sums up exactly how I remember it, and so fondly. My mum was from New Zealand and I'm planning when I'm going to take my two boys to experience this freedom.
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