As the sun came out more frequently, so did the grass. Soon the garden was its usual (ahem) mess. Swings, slide, broken plastic bubble machine, and tufty, tufty green shoots. Our bit of the back lane sported an exotic mix of dock leaves, dandelions, and grass so long it looked like a crop.
Mr HB was *not* happy.
‘Why don’t you cut the grass then?’ I said, silently adding, ‘while I go and take some video for that project that seemed a good idea four months ago and still isn’t finished.’
So he did. The weeds are still out the back, mind. I can see them from here.
But we’re lucky. If we’re grumping about having to cut the grass, it means we have grass to lie on, play on, make daisy chains from, even cut. Once in a while.
I was an over-sharer before that was even a term.
As a parent, it gets me into loads of trouble. My kids are six and eight now, and I love that they ask the most brilliant questions.
‘How did you meet Daddy?’
This went well. I talked less about love at first sight, so that it was realistic: what relationships are actually like. (Because we must all mitigate against Disney every day.)
‘What’s my birth story?’
Not as successful. I told the truth, that it was really, really sore and we nearly didn’t make it to the hospital in time. I also told them about going round the Carfraemill Roundabout banging on the car door and going Aaaaaaaaaah! I may have put them off children for a while.
‘What’s abortion Mum?’
I still told the whole truth. Was that OK?
It’s Easter Sunday, and he is risen.
I don’t realise that I hold a strong faith, until this rolls around again, and I clear my diary to come to Church on a Friday, and then twice on Sunday – including the early service in the garden, where the birds make more noise than the children and we share communion on dew soaked grass.
He is risen.
I don’t pretend there aren’t other paths and I would fight for your right to follow whichever one you want. For me, knowing that Jesus suffered physical and mental torture means that he walks with me in my tinylife.
He is risen.
Acknowledging this cycle: birth, death and everything in-between, in a Springtide when the world regenerates itself, reminds me to keep going – one foot in front of the other.
He is risen indeed. Alleluia!
I had decided we were going for a nice walk. Got the map out and everything, planned a new route. As we drove out of the village, spatters of rain started to hit the car windscreen. Mr HB and I looked at each other. Maybe we should do a shorter walk, in a wood, or something?
The rain intensified.
OK, let’s go do an indoor activity instead.
The kids were delighted.
After the fun, but expensive, indoor activity, the sun was beating down. I was gritting my teeth as we drove home. The little ones had a water fight, but I still wanted my walk. So off I went on my usual round from the house. A nice circular 4k. You know the one, if you live here.
As I reached the furthest point from the house – the heavens opened.
Seems like the easiest thing, when you see it on YouTube. You bash the cup around, and it makes a pleasing, percussive sound.
I had learned the ‘other’ cup song years ago, with my husband’s daughter. We had never laughed as much together as we did that night. And I mastered it, eventually.
So when a friend showed me a video of ‘Royals’ by Lorde, with cups, I left her house as soon as it was socially polite, (OK, possibly sooner) to try and work it out at home.
After kitchen table practice, we tried it together in public. I’ve been going to that particular music session for ten years, and have never been given a request … not that I’m bitter – that’s not what the session is about. But suddenly:
‘Play that one with the cups again
, you two!’