Filed under: Comment, Dad, Daddyhood, Family, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
Today would have been Mum’s 88th birthday.
Oh how I wish she was here for it.
I’d have gone to pick her up to bring her to our house.
I’d have a chair set up just for her so she could look at the garden.
I can see and hear her now.
Her face lit up, gently shaking her head as she said, “Oh Robert, it’s so beautiful”
We would sit and chat and she would tell me how happy she is that we are now in the same country.
Around 3pm, Otis would come bouncing in the house.
He would see Mum and shout, “Nona!!!” and run into her outstretched arms.
She would envelop him into a big hug and kiss his cheeks and tell him how much she had missed him.
Then they would chat and I’d see Mum’s eyes shine bright while worrying she may be distracting him from things he wanted to do.
But he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but with her. Nattering. Talking. Explaining what he had for lunch at school that day.
Eventually he would get on to Roblox and ask Mum if she would like to play it with him.
Mum would gently explain she doesn’t know how and then he would say she could watch him instead … if she liked.
And she would.
And I’d watch my Mum and my son have the sort of moment together I always dreamt about.
Eventually it would be time for presents and cake.
We would start with the gift Otis got her.
God knows what it would be … maybe a mug that he chose from Sainsbury’s or something and a home made card … and she would treat them as if she had been bathed in jewels.
Eventually it would be time for the cake.
She would tell Jill she shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. Jill would respond by telling her not to be so silly.
And we’d have a load of candles and she would ask Otis to help her blow them out.
Then, as we cut it up, she would ask for a small piece and then proceed to tell us how delicious it was and how wonderful a baker Jill is.
Then ask for a little more.
Because – well – it is her birthday.
And as the day turned to night, the lights in the garden would start to shine and Mum would treat it like it’s an encore performance – marvelling at it’s beauty while I told her that it was because she left me our family home, that we were able to do this.
To have a place that was so perfect for who we are and who we will become.
To tell her to stop worrying that she wasn’t going to leave me much.
Because the love I was given and the encouragement I received was more than I could ever hope for.
But for her and Dad to leave me our family home as well …
Well, that’s an abundance of generosity and love.
And I’d kiss Mum and thank her for everything and say I hoped she understood why I had to sell her house.
There would be a moments pause before she would break into a smile and say, “of course and I am so happy it has helped you have this beautiful home” and I would kiss her cheek and tell her how much I loved her and missed her and how I wished she would stay the night.
And she would look at me.
Right in the eyes.
Her bottom lip would slowly curl into her mouth and I would see her gently biting down on it in an attempt to try and control her emotions.
Her beautiful brown eyes would gently glisten and say everything without speaking a word.
And I would be doing the exact same back to her.
Because we both know she can’t.
That she has to go. To return to Dad.
To hold his hand and feel safe in her other place.
A place I wish I could visit to see the parents I miss so much.
Happy 88th birthday Mum.
I love you so much.
Rx
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, America, Comment, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Fatherhood, Friendship, Imagination, London, Love, Otis
When we lived in LA, Otis met a little girl called Elodie.
Quickly they became inseparable.
While I didn’t write too much about them – though I did here – anyone who knew us in LA will know how deep their connection was.
To help you understand, here’s some evidence.
It was so beautiful. They protected each other, looked out for each other and – as much as a 3 year old can – loved each other.
In all honesty, the hardest thing for me moving from America was breaking the friendship Otis and Elodie had, so I was utterly thrilled when she and her Mum came to visit us in London in 2018.
While there was a hint of nervousness when they first saw each other, within minutes they were back to their old selves.
Now I don’t mind admitting that what has helped is Elodie’s Mum and Otis’ are best mates – so they stay in touch even if they didn’t want to. But what’s wonderful is it’s not ‘just staying in touch’ … it’s two people who share something special.
The same energy.
The same compassion.
The same – albeit shortly lived – history.
Which leads to the reason for this post.
A couple of weeks ago, Otis was playing Roblox when Elodie’s Mum facetimed Jill.
Now you have to understand Roblox is Otis’ god.
HE LOVES IT.
When he’s in the Roblox world, we basically have lost him to it.
But then he heard Elodie’s voice and immediately put his iPad down, ran to his Mum’s phone and started nattering away.
Talking about what they were doing.
How old they were.
Playing daft games that made them giggle.
Then they showed each other their cats.
Then their feet.
Then Otis showed Elodie around his new house.
His new bedroom.
And Elodie showed him her garden.
And it went on and on and on for ages.
Seeing and hearing 2 kids who have been in different countries for over 2 years – which is half their life – reconnect with the force as if they had never been away was absolutely beautiful.
Life for many people is a bit shit right now.
There’s not much good news out there … especially with insane politicians trying to make it worse for all of us.
So I’m just going to leave you with a photo.
A photo of Otis talking to his beloved Elodie and hopefully that smile on his face … and the back story I’ve just written about … will remind you it’s not all doom and gloom out there.
And while it can’t change your own challenges and situations, it will hopefully put a smile on your face.
Like it did for me.
Have a good weekend.
Filed under: Advertising, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Chocolate, Comment, Context, Craft, Crap Products In History, Culture, Emotion, Family, Fatherhood, Jill, Love, Otis, Parents, Premium
I remember when the ice cream above first came out.
It was 1982 and it was like nothing I’d ever seen before.
For a start it was sold as a lump of ice cream.
Oh no, Viennetta was a ‘dessert-cake’ … a blend of sophistication and excellence, crafted by experts for the most special of occasions.
I wanted to try it soooooo badly, but I remember having to wait an age before I could … but as it was light years from any other ice cream I’d ever had, when I finally got it in my gob, it absolutely lived up to the anticipation.
38 years later, and I know this ‘sophisticated dessert cake’ is only £1 at the local Co-op – which means it’s about as sophisticated as an episode of Tipping Point – however it still feels like I’m having a very, very special ice-cream experience whenever I have one. Which isn’t often because somehow, I still think it is only for rare occasions of celebration.
What’s interesting is that when I had it, I posted a photo on instagram and the response was of equal adoration.
And then people went into celebrating other low-rent, mainstream shite we thought was the height of sophistication.
Like After Eight Mints.
Or Ice Magic … the sauce you poured on to your shitty Asda vanilla ice cream [or Neopolitan, if your Mum and Dad were feeling extravagant] that then TRANSFORMED INTO A SOLID LAYER OF CHOCOLATE TO ELEVATE YOUR SHITTY ICE CREAM EXPERIENCE.
Incredible.
But of all the comments I got, my fave was from Kev Chesters with this …
And while I loved it for a whole host of reasons, the main one was his order of using a teaspoon.
Not a dessert spoon.
Not a table spoon. [Though this might be the same as a dessert spoon]
But a teaspoon.
Because regardless how old you are.
Regardless how many Viennetta’s you could buy and eat.
A teaspoon was the psychological way of making your favourite desserts last longer.
Smaller spoon.
Smaller amounts of food on it.
More spoonfuls to enjoy.
I still do it and it made my day to know Kev did too.
Which all should act as a reminder that advertising is an incredibly powerful force … especially when it’s targeting people who know no better but dream of being more than they think they will end up being.
Thank you Viennetta. For the memories, the experience and the taste.
Filed under: America, Attitude & Aptitude, Australia, China, Chinese Culture, Comment, Culture, Dad, Daddyhood, Family, Hong Kong, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents, Paul, Relationships, Rosie, Sentimentality, Shanghai, Singapore
Today would be my Dad’s 82nd birthday.
That means he’s been gone 22 years.
In a few years, I will have lived longer without him in my life than in it.
Yes, I know that he is still in my life, but I just find that fact so hard to deal with.
I live in fear that one day, I will only think of him when a significant date occurs.
That he will become a figure of my past, rather than my present.
Of course I don’t believe that will really happen, but to be coming up to the point where I will have spent more of my life without him in it, is really tough to take.
What’s worse is he died just as my life was getting started.
The only thing he knew – mainly because he and Mum pushed me to continue with my plans, despite his stroke – was that I moved to Australia.
While both my parents missed me so much, they were adamant I had to go.
I had planned it for a long time.
They saw it as an opportunity and an adventure for me.
And they also – and rightfully – knew that if I didn’t go, I’d never go.
Of course there was nothing wrong with where I was.
I loved – and continue to love – Nottingham. But both my parents knew the possibilities for me outside of my home city were probably bigger than were in it, and they just wanted me to have a chance of exploring what it could – regardless what turned out.
That’s unconditional love.
A level of support and encouragement that – now I am a father – takes my breath away.
Oh the things I wish I could talk to my Dad about.
The adventures – good and stupid – I’d love to discuss with him.
I think he would be proud. He might raise his eyebrows at a few things, but I think he would be happy with the choices and decisions I’ve made.
He would love to meet Jill.
He would be delighted to meet Otis.
He would be thrilled to know my friendship with Paul is still rock solid.
He may even be happy to meet Rosie – the most well travelled cat in the universe – despite never really liking cats.
And when I was to tell him that journey to Australia led to me living in countless other countries – including Shanghai – he would be so happy.
He always found China fascinating.
Part of it was because back then, China was still an unknown quantity.
A huge place that was kind-of invisible to the World.
For me to have lived there … had for his grandson to be born there … would be a topic of conversation for years.
And I would love it.
Watching his eyes twinkle with curiosity.
Watching his brow wrinkle as he processed my responses.
Watching his smile as he held Otis and said, “Ni Hao” as if a local.
Oh Dad, I wish you were here.
What I’d give for one more conversation, one more hug.
What happened that night in Hong Kong is still etched in my heart … but I want more.
I’m greedy, but you were gone too soon.
For you, for Mum and for me.
Happy 82nd birthday Dad, I know none of us believed in God, but I do hope one day we can have that conversation.
Love you.
Give Mum a big kiss from me too.
Rx
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Context, Dad, Daddyhood, Emotion, Empathy, England, Family, Friendship, Fulfillment, Happiness, Home, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Nottingham, Otis, Parents, Paul, Relationships, Rosie
When I was growing up, our back garden was a disaster.
Overgrown.
Tall grass.
Brambles.
Bushes.
Beautiful mayhem.
As a kid, I thought it was amazing.
Me and Paul would run in there and it felt like we were in the jungle.
From playing hide and seek to pretending we were soldiers, it could all happen there.
Then around the age of 5, Mum and Dad had an extension put onto the house and because the loan they took out for it was a bit more than they needed to have it built, they spent the rest on the garden.
Oh how they loved it.
They spent hours there.
Creating it. Cultivating it. Nurturing it. Admiring it.
My god, the way my dad treated his ‘sweet peas’ was enough to make me think he loved them more than me sometimes.
And while I still could play softball tennis with Mum on the patio, I always felt I had had something robbed from me – despite the fact there was a massive park down the road and huge fields of nothingness around the house.
So from there on in, while I could appreciate a nice garden, I always saw them as something that pushed me away rather than welcomed me in.
Until now.
I readily admit I had nothing to do with the garden we have in the home we have just bought.
I readily admit part of its appeal is that it’s mature, so feels natural rather than contrived.
And I readily admit I am still as shit and unenthusiastic about gardening as I ever was.
But my god, I am shocked at how much I love it.
I can stare at it for hours.
Sit in it for days.
Doing nothing but looking at it’s beautiful vibrancy and shades.
Seeing Rosie the cat stretch out on the deck like she has just hit ‘peak cat life’.
Watching Otis play on the swing hanging from the tree then looking at Jill picking up all the apples that have fallen from Otis’ adventure. Turning them into pies that we scoff or give to the neighbours in an blatant attempt to mitigate the mayhem we’ve caused in the first few months of living here with huge moving trucks blocking the road and electrical blackouts that we absolutely, definitely did not cause.
The idea of all this is about as foreign to me as you could get.
I’m a city person.
I like noise and bustle not nature and quiet.
Yet … yet … this is something very special.
Something I feel a real privilege to experience, which I acknowledge is only possible because of the privileged position I am in.
And while all these feelings could all be because of my age or because this house is our family home – regardless of the incoming NZ adventure – the impact of a simple garden has been far more than I ever imagined.
Which makes me think it could also have something to do with making me feel closer to Mum and Dad.
You see while our little garden at home was nothing like this, it was incredibly special to them.
Sure it was beautiful. Sure it was the fruits of their hard work and care. But it seemed to be a place that let them feel everything was going to be OK, regardless of the challenges.
And over the years, our wonderful little family faced many – but that garden always gave them comfort and joy.
A little piece of heaven.
Blossoming into radiant beauty and colour even after the harshest of winters.
Reminding them that the darkest times will always welcome a new spring.
And while as a kid I didn’t really like how that garden had robbed me of my jungle, I grew to appreciate it.
I saw what it did for my parents.
I still remember how my Dad stared in wonder at it after his stroke.
He’d been in hospital for months and was finally allowed home.
And while he needed a lot of care from Mum, that garden was like medicine for him. Helping him forget the pain he was in. Helping him forget the turmoil he was going through.
No longer able to talk.
No longer able to walk properly.
But here, facing the fruits of his love and labour, all was forgotten.
He was safe.
He felt nourished.
He was connected to something his body was not able to let him enjoy anymore.
He and Mum could transport themselves to a time and place where everything was OK.
And while I hope I never face the tragedy my Father suffered – and acknowledge this garden is from the toil of others hands – I feel I get what nature was able to do for Mum and Dad.
Because it isn’t just what grows in the garden, but what it helps blossom within yourself.