the struggle to grow up

Watching your children struggle with learning how to navigate and integrate lifes' lessons is particularly heart wrenching. The words that tunmble out of my mouth at times seem clumsy and ineffective and being an adult, trying to explain or synthesis succintly into small consumable chunks, all of lifes' contradictions, unknowns and exponential possibilities confuses me and is daunting at times, especially with a weeping child to hand.

B1s issues of coming to terms with the reality of who her Dad is and not who she thought he was and wanted him to be really rip at the seams of my heart. Its agony watching her dreams crumble and her reality being forced to shift to account for the father she now experiences. For her, the stripping bare of the father figure; his limitations and inadequacies exposed, his apparent lack of ability to understand and empathsise and his inability to change behaviour that hurts her is making her grow up in a hurry.

Knowing I can do nothing really sucks. Talking, writing, engaging him is impossible. He lacks basic comprehension and empathy and is unable to change. He cannot commit, cannot make good on promises, cannot even remember what words he has said. His borderline personality disorder, which leaves him only half a person, one I was able to finally leave behind and make sense of, is now his oldest daughters turn to navigate.

Im just glad that I really understand , really know, the things about his behaviour and attitude she says hurt, frustrate and confuse her. He was my teacher about this disorder, now I am hers. Hopefully she can come through this next life phase with only a small wound. I have no doubt that he will blame me for her 'disillusionment', her perceptions and her experiences. I will be seen as the parent who is alienating his children from him; he is apparently completely unaware that his behaviour towards them and his conversations with them have real consequences. They are no longer little kids who can be manipulated and bought off with a piece of cake nor can their opinions be disregarded.

Allottment blogging

I really love this concept, that a patchwork of the faces of kindred spirits can form a literary quilt of a garden plot; an allotment of ideas, of 'how does your garden grow' (with designated space for fanciful food ideas and a nod to fashion).
This is quite possibly my ideal story , a heavenly tale. It comes attached to a giveaway of unimaginable delight. Ms Flint, you're all style.

Write a post on your blog about an allotment garden
real or imagined
what would you plant in yours?
what will you wear whilst tending it?
when you pause for elevenses, what will you have?


Here goes.

I would start with a border, an edible border of course, something tall, private. Espaliered fruit trees, a peppercorn too, bay and definitely a quince or two and honeysuckle and jasmine winding to enclose the space, I love to garden alone with my thoughts. Hidden. A wooden gate is essential, with a huge old lock. Memories of The Secret Garden. Inside this fragrant and fruiting fence i would hedge the line with lavenders and rosemary, some roses too. Gravel paths would form curving frames for a riot of vegetables of heirloom sorts; pinks, purples, yellows, whites, reds, oranges and stripes and spots complement an array of greens. A heavenly rainbow of edible offerings. The dark, covered ground would hold blood red beets, purple and orange carrots and creamy white parsnips. Asparagus fronds would tempt, peas dangle from natures poles, beans sway, cukes climb, potatoes rest and an earthen pile in a corner is forked, its goodness taken to feed the soil and hold the drink, unwanted growth pulled. Hours pass. A seat piled with cushions under the peppercorn would beckon. A book too. Sit. Boots removed. Feet aired. Toes wiggled. Ahhh. My back creaks and i stand and stretch. Age. An old worn, riddled cotton tank and cut off jeans even feel too hot. Panama removed. Wet hair shaken. The beloved bloke had placed a tray. A gin, some lemon, ice cubes melt. Mint is picked. Pheasant pate, fresh butter and toasted sourdough. Fragrant tomato, green oil, giant basil and coarse black pepper float on buffalo mozarella. I sit, I eat, I look and listen. My book waits.