Feel the fear

I told someone I was having a show jumping lesson today.

"Why?" she asked.

And I really struggled to answer. I don't have my own horse, I will probably never compete or do more than three jumps in a row and it's pretty dangerous jumping horses over coloured fences. So I had a little think about why I want to be a really good rider.

I believe it's what people call a mid-life crisis, a feeling of life slipping away before your eyes and heading towards the big 4-0. It is making me assess what I would like to do. Not what the kids need, or what he needs or what anyone else requires me to do. Something just for me.

But it's not just about trying to squash loads of great things into my life while I can, it's also about facing my fears. I am a little bit scared of jumping - there I said it. I really hate being scared of jumping because in the olden days, when I was 16 or so, jumping was the only reason to be on a horse.

I utterly hate the feeling of being scared when I didn't used to be. Motorway driving finds me holding my breath as I overtake lorries, taking off in aeroplanes makes me irrationally nervous and Africa had me terrified. Of course I still do all the things that make me feel frightened and I feel proud when I have conquered the fear. It's exactly the same with jumping horses. Feel the fear and do it anyway. So I did.

Because when I dismounted after an amazing lesson I buzzed all the way through the rest of my day, I am still buzzing now. I can't wait to do it again. Sort of!

Decopatch

We have found a little retreat for rainy day activities, a pottery painting place on the edge of a pretty fishing lake. I've been meaning to try it for ages and ages and finally got round to a visit on A's birthday, where 8 little girls happily painted pots and plates for a couple of hours. Easiest party ever.

On a return visit, on a particularly freezing and miserable halt term day, the kids wanted to try decopatch. Well, what a weird activity. You first choose an animal at great cost and then tear up little bits of paper (at great cost) and stick them on. The effect I have to admit was quite good and we came away three hours later with a patchwork elephant and a patchwork donkey. Three hours I tell you, three hours to stick bits of tissue on a cardboard animal.

P informed me 10 minutes into the craft that she didn't like glue, that it was sticky so I spent the next 2 hours and 50 minutes sticking and gluing for her. And came home £23 lighter for it. Blimey.

That night, while enjoying a particularly nice red and a good comedy, great sobs and heaves and frightened tears entered the lounge. A was very upset, another nightmare?

"I had a dream that I started the decopatch and ran...out of....paper!" A cried, big salty tears falling down her cheeks.

"Oh my goodness darling, that must have been the scariest dream ever!" I consoled her forcing my tongue out of my cheek. 

Pony mad

I was pony-crazy from about the age of eight. Mum suggested a riding lesson for my birthday and the love affair was instant, and expensive. There were pony posters all over my bedroom wall pushing Simon Le Bon out of the way, making room for the show jumpers and eventers. Our garden wall became the horse I dreamed of and I would sit up straight, heels down and boot the wall into action to which it never obliged. I then took to riding my bicycle and holding the brake wires as if they were reins, thumbs on top and wearing my velvet covered riding hat - 

"..and this is Sarah Williams riding Lightening over the last fence to win the OLYMPIC GOOOOOLD!" - the crowd applauded as I praised my steed and waved at the audience who gasped and cheered at my unbeatable equestrianism.

I was eleven by this point. I cadged rides from people, I persuaded Mum to take us to gymkhanas just to watch and I raced to the window as soon as I heard the clip-clop of someone lucky enough to own their own pony, drooling and dreaming that that would one day be me. I loved everything about ponies, their stables and mucking out, their saddles and bridles which I longingly wanted to clean as well as do-up and undo their shiny buckles. I loved stroking them, feeding them, sniffing them, grooming them and riding them. I wanted a pony so badly it physically hurt, I simply couldn't understand why I couldn't have one. 

Of course now it is obvious. They are obscenely costly. 

I did get a pony, this is Brandy and we loved him. I am welling up now just looking at his honest face and remembering the amount of joy he gave us all. He lived in the next-door-neighbours field and would regularly escape into their prized vegetable garden, he would roll around in the mud and cover his body in poo-stains but only on his white patches, he was a slow coach and a speedy gonzales, he could jump 4 foot gates - but only when he wanted to. He even walked into our kitchen once in pursuit of ice cream. He was part of us and part of me.

Why am I telling you this? Because even though I have kept ponies at arms length for my children, waiting until they pleaded and begged me to go riding, I want them to experience the utter love and freedom of cantering through woodland on your best-friend-in-the-whole-wide-world. So, tentatively we have bought the kit, gently introduced a couple of ponies, persuaded him that this will keep them off the street corners and fingers crossed - they may just start to understand what I mean; and experience the thrill and joy that are horses.

Half term

Thank crunchie for the holidays. I thought I was going to explode last week and lo and behold, half term pops up when you most need it. So far it's been a corker and utterly exhausting so today feels like a luxury, waking up lazily in a warm house as the world slowly defrosts beyond the windows. The children are making models out of cat food boxes, stamping ink precariously close to where it shouldn't be and I am drinking strong coffee grateful that the orange cat has returned - she looked like she had broken a leg and then disappeared to lick her wounds. Turns out she was OK and is asleep by the radiator - a sensible place to be on this chilly morn.

Sussex seems to be waking up from its deep winter sleep and has graced us with such beautiful sunshine that the children have taken to not wearing their coats (erroneously). The daffs are poking their heads out of the soil and some are even flashing a touch of yellow. Spring is on its way people. Spring is on its way.

The excitement and joy of their cousins being here over the weekend has calmed as we all slept like proverbial logs last night, catching up on the zeds and appreciating the quiet. The weekend was spent in a whirl of yellow food and games, of screaming and shouting, of mess and chaos and laughter, lots of laughter. Hastings was looking particularly fine as it yawned its way into action, ready for the onslaught of tourists. The fairground rides creaked and groaned as if arthritic and the children squealed and demanded more and more the more we gave them. The final meltdown was extraordinary, in the arcades and with the slot machines where the children learnt about gambling - coming away with nothing made them not very happy at all.

Perhaps we should have stayed on the beach and poked the dead fish and jumped down the pebbles instead.

Elephant saver

We have such power as parents. We influence daily, we persuade, cajole and they watch and mimic. Our children want to be like us when they are 4 and 7, they want to please us and they copy our interests and hobbies.

"When I grow up I want to be an elephant saver!" A said on my return from Africa, having told her all about the elephant orphans and the fantastic work of the Sheldrake Wildlife Trust.

My heart swelled. I could imagine A living in Kenya, caring for baby elephants and becoming an advocate for the trusts work. I could imagine being worried as a parent when I hadn't heard from her in a while. I imagined she would tell me of horrors, sadness as well as success and joy in her work. And I would be so proud, as secretly I would like to save the elephants as well. And live in Africa.

"What would you like to be when you grow up P?" I turned to P, expecting a similar answer.

"I would like to be a baker and bake cakes for your antenatal classes, because you are not a very good cake baker and then you wouldn't have to buy them!" she replied in earnest.

"Very true, I am a terrible cake maker, cakes for my antenatal classes would be very useful, thank you P," I agreed, grinning at her hilarious aspirations.

"And I want to be a farmer and look after the animals, and have a very good dog. And I will be a dog walker," she carried on.

"And a pop star. I want to be famous!" P exclaimed.

"Really darling? I think you should stick with the very good dog walking and baking cakes for my classes." I said influencing her whole-heartedly - refusing to entertain the thought of a Britney Spears in the family.