The Choice

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Recently I have thought a lot about the words ‘Childless not by choice.’ This is what I am. A woman who did not choose to be without children, but one who had that decision thrust upon her. You can read my story here. I never thought much about the word ‘choice’ until recently. I thought I had some choice. I thought I had the choice to be positive or negative about my childlessness. The choice to accept the pain or find other avenues to express it and I also believed I had been successful at that.

But I recently learnt that I do not have choice. I do not have the control I thought I had. That even twenty years or more along the line (probably more than twenty, but twenty is all I want to own up to) the pain can still hit as acutely as it did at the beginning. It still has the power to paralyse me and stop me in my tracks and force me to question all those unknowns all over again and to ask yet again those pointless questions. Why her and why not me? How can a woman who is a useless and cruel mother have been allowed to be a mother when I couldn’t? Why was I denied and others who don’t deserve the right have been given it? Stupid and pointless questions that no one can answer and questions which frustrate and only cause me more unnecessary pain.

I started a group for women like me. I started a group so that other women wouldn’t feel like me. I started the Childless Support Group on Facebook so that women could move forward. Be positive and find a way through the pain with support and understanding. I started with six members. It now has over 800. I’m terribly proud of that group. But I felt the time came for me to step down.  I was coping with my childlessness. I had accepted it. I couldn’t shake my fist at a God I didn’t believe in and I felt it was time to live my life and to enjoy children who were not mine. I may not have been given my own but I could still love and enjoy children.

I sponsored a child in Cambodia. I wrote successful novels and continue to do so. I took up lots of hobbies. I travelled. I filled my life and grew closer to my step children and as a consequence to their own children-my grandchildren.

Then the punch in the stomach came. It is bittersweet. I have an adorable grandson, who lives with us temporarily and I adore him. We makes cakes together, chat together, do painting together, read books together. He hugs me, kisses me, strokes my arm at the dinner table. Tells me we can play a less energetic game if I’m tired. We go for walks together, laugh together and love together. Of course there is more that I can’t go into which makes this so much harder. I thought how lucky I am to have this. I thought I would never have children, let alone a beautiful grandson that I have grown so close to.

Then out of the blue, when I least expect it. While driving the car to the supermarket, I have to stop as I am so overwhelmed by loss that I cannot stop my tears.

I realised he is the son I always wanted. My choice to accept the unacceptable crashed around me. I had no choice. My emotions would always choose for me. The thing I never thought I would have has been given to me. And I never realised how painful it would become for me.

For the fact is someone else’s children, no matter how close you are to them, are not your children. They are the children of someone you love dearly and that’s a double edged sword, for while you can love their children it is hard to not envy them having a family in the first place.

There have been so many years of feeling self-assured and confident; confident that the pain could not get me anymore. I have been cruelly surprised.

But I am positive this will pass. That I will continue again on my healing route. I’m very aware of how lucky I am to have such love around me. How lucky I am to not only have a beautiful grandson but one who also loves me and loves spending time with me and one I see more than most grandparents do.

So for all those childless not by choice women know that the pain does ease. That a life can be lived and that children can be a part of it but beware the pain can hit at the most unexpected time even years after you think you have conquered the loss.

A loss is a loss and the pain will always recur at unexpected moments. But there is more to life than children. I will never cease to say that. Life is a gift, with or without your own children. Enjoy it.

*We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the one that is waiting for us.*

Joseph Campbell

Fish Fingers and Poo Poo’s

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

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Having a four and half year old living with you is very sobering, very sobering indeed. The fact that he thinks I must be at least 100 years old is rather disconcerting too. Especially as I see myself more like a young Bohemian Lady Gaga. Mind you, since he arrived to live with us I have aged considerably. I’ve invested in the best face creams known to man and Timothy still claims I look 100. Mind you, I blame a lot of this on the stress of trying to cook Fish Fingers and chips. You might think it’s easy. I’ve never cooked bloody fish fingers and chips in my life. Let’s face it, why would I? But there is clearly a knack to this which I don’t have. Although in theory and as a working class kid I suppose I ought to have the knack to prepare the perfect fish finger.  The truth is while all my mates were eating them, my lovely mum bless her, hardly bought them. Not because she didn’t like them but most likely because we couldn’t afford them. Much of my life was spent scraping margarine off the wrapper and filling my sandwiches with sugar. Ah, that’s where my sugar addiction started, with sugar sandwiches. Just the thought of it now makes me want to puke. Can you imagine offering a child a sugar sandwich? Jamie Oliver would have a stroke if he even heard the words. Even worse, when we ran out of sugar we had to eat that sandwich spread stuff, which looked very much like vomit in a jar to me.

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Come to think of it, it also tasted rather like vomit too. I had a mum who could do a hundred and one things with mince. Well, that’s not strictly true. Mostly she could do one thing with it. Boil it up and then dish it up with mash and processed peas. On reflection fish fingers may have been better. In fact we consumed so much mince when I was a kid that I really don’t know how the whole Renham family escaped Mad Cow disease. Although it could be argued I didn’t escape it. My sister seems fine, in fact, she seems normal, you know, like most people. Maybe, she ate less of it than me. But the less said about that the better. Anyway, as usual, I digress.  How hard can it be to make Fish Fingers and chips? When his father cooks it everything is perfect. Fries are nice and brown and just crisp enough and the Fish Fingers, crisp and hot. Surely it’s simple. Just throw them in a dish, shove them in the oven and follow the cooking instructions. Surely if I can make Cambodian chicken and Tom Yum soup I can cook Fish Fingers and chips for goodness sake.  I thought the reason most kids lived on the stuff was because it was quick and easy to do. I’m starting to think that all mothers should be given a Damehood, never mind giving one to Joan Collins. When did she ever cook Fish Fingers?

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I was left with the four and half year old for an afternoon. I figured this would be a doddle.  I was so confident I even invited Andrew’s other son over for dinner. I decide to make fish pie. I’ll impress his kids with my culinary skills.

‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’ my stepson asks before leaving for his private nursing appointment. ‘I’ll only be a couple of hours and dad will be home soon.’

Ooh, that’s the worst thing to say isn’t it? It’s like saying dad can handle it but I can’t? It’s only babysitting and some Fish Fingers. I sit Timothy on the couch and go into the kitchen to start the dinner only to have him yell,

‘Who’s looking after me?’

‘I am,’ I yell back.

‘But you’re in the kitchen.’

Well, that’s because I’m cooking his Fish Fingers isn’t it?

‘I can see you,’ I say.

‘Someone needs to look after me,’ he says again his face creasing and tears welling up.

Oh no, this is all I need. I fleetingly wonder if Bendy would be considered human enough to sit with him but dismiss that as quickly as I think of it. It might not go down well with Daddy if Timothy tells him I abandoned him and left him in the care of a cat. No, that won’t work will it? What’s the point of a cat that eats me out of house and home but can’t babysit when needed?

‘Can you read me a story,’ he asks weepily.

Timothy that is, not the cat. I don’t spend my time reading stories to Bendy the cat. I may be mad but I’m not that mad.

Ah, now this I can do. This is what I know, right? Okay I can make up a children’s story. All I need to do is throw in some monsters, a few dinosaurs and a few starfish and he’ll be happy. In fact he can sit in the kitchen while I do it. I can multi task. I’m a woman after all. That’s what we do best isn’t it? But maybe not so well when we’re 100 or at least heading that way, but right now I feel about thirty. I can make up a story, prepare a fish pie, chuck in Fish Fingers and chips and clean up. It’s a doddle, right? except, it would have been, if Timothy hadn’t decided to act out the roles of all the characters in the story. I’m now trying to prepare fish pie, while making up a story and trying to cope with a terror bird squawking around me. Telling Timothy that terror birds don’t squawk is pointless. He’s into it now and that’s that.

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I give the oven chips instructions a quick glance and shove them in the oven while hastily mashing the potato for the fish pie.

‘Can we play Starfish now?’ he asks.

‘Not at the moment,’ I say while thinking a Starfish might be quieter than the bloody terror bird. The kitchen is beginning to resemble a scene out of Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds.’ So when the Doctor walks in a few minutes later my sense of relief is so great that I almost throw myself into his arms. The Alfred Hitchcock hero is home to board up the house and save me from terror birds and Tyrannosaurus Rex. Son number two arrives and it finally seems safe to run to the loo. Or simply run away. Yes, it feels that bad.

‘Can you watch the fish pie,’ I yell down the stairs ‘and pop some peas on.’

‘Sure,’ says my confident, very clever husband.

I saunter back down ten minutes later to find them chatting away like two women while Timothy is still squawking away. I realise the fish fingers haven’t gone in and there is still no water on for the peas.

‘Poo poo,’ says Timothy, grabbing me by the shawl.

I know exactly how he feels.

‘I need to poo poo,’ he repeats.

He’s surely joking. No one poo poo’s just before dinner. Besides I’ve never taken him for a poo poo. I’ve never taken anyone for a poo poo, come to that. Why the dickens would I? I look to Andrew who pulls a face. I grab his hand Timothy’s that is, not Andrew’s and take him upstairs shouting my orders as I go.

‘Can you keep an eye on the peas and the fish pie?’

‘Sure,’ says Andrew.

I’ve heard that before haven’t I?

Timothy crouches over the loo and begins grunting. I’m holding his hand, terrified he’ll fall off.

‘Is this right?’ I ask.

‘I always do it like this,’ he says, looking at me oddly.

You usually have a shower after too, I’m thinking and I just don’t have time for that. There is more grunting and straining and I think it will never happen when finally … Well, I won’t go into details.

‘Finished,’ I ask.

He shakes his head.

‘I think there is more.

There bloody would be wouldn’t there?

‘Will you be ok for one minute?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ll hang onto this,’ he says, grabbing the toilet roll holder.

I dubiously consider this. Okay, I’m only going to be a minute. A quick check on the pie and peas and I’ll be back. Surely a child can’t fall off a loo onto the floor and concuss themselves in one minute can they? Mind you, knowing my luck …

‘Don’t touch the loo roll,’ I instruct.

I dash downstairs, where the peas are nearly boiling over.

‘Andrew,’ I shout. ‘I’m in the middle of a poo poo.’

‘This is a mad house,’ says middle son.

‘Sorry,’ says Andrew. ‘It’s just I haven’t seen him for six weeks.’

My ears are cocked for a thud. I really don’t want to have to tell stepson number one that I managed to kill his son during my first babysitting stint. I fly up the stairs to find the bog roll all over the floor.

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               ‘Finished,’ he says. ‘Shower now.’

No way, Jose. I show him the shower substitute cleaner which is my Liz Earle polish cloth and some Johnsons baby wash and a quick scrub of his arse. We make it downstairs to see stepson number one is back.  I hand over child.

‘He never gets held on the loo,’ he says.

I give Timothy a stern stare who just grins. Bloody four year old’s, no wonder I look a 100.

I dish up dinner only to find the chips are now crisps. I toss them onto his plate and he stares at it for a few minutes and then asks his daddy,

‘Why are the Fish Fingers soft?’

Honestly there’s no gratitude for making up stories is there?

I raise my eyebrows. How can they be soft? They’ve been in the oven like forever.

He crunches on his chips and finally says.

‘These are burnt. Can you make my Fish Fingers Dada? I don’t like it when Lynda does it.’

‘No pudding for you,’ I say.

Well, I’m entitled to the last word aren’t I?

 

Kippers and Marzipan

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Holiday breaks are odd things aren’t they? Or maybe they are just odd for me.

Off we go on Thursday evening for an Easter break in Ross on Wye. I’m very excited. Of course this may have something to do with the fact that I have it in my head that we are going to Hay On Wye, where I know there are lots of book shops. This is, of course, completely wrong, as Hay on Wye is an hour away from Ross on Wye and only has two bookshops. Well, that’s all I managed to find. I’m sure it has more, if you feel inclined to look, but not as many as Hay On Wye, and seeing as I thought that’s where we were going you can understand why I felt a bit let down.  Not that it’s anyone’s fault and after all I was the one who booked the break.

The doctor arrives home from work and I’m packed and ready to go. I’ve packed enough books for two weeks in Mauritius. I’m determined to have a break. It is then little Matthew (my grandson) realises we are not joking and that we are really going away for a few days and leaving him. He’s having none of it and races to the car before we do and dives in. Now, there is nothing worse than an upset child, except an upset child who refuses to budge from the back seat of your car demanding to go on a weekend break with you. I had planned a lot of things happening on this break but babysitting a child was not one of them. I check my phone aware we had booked our table for dinner at the B&B for 8 pm. We still had the rush hour traffic to fight through. Twenty minutes later we have wrestled said child from the car, handed him back to his parents and are waving goodbye. I start to fret about Bendy (the cat) Did I leave enough cat milk for him? Will my stepson and his wife remember to pull the blinds at night so he doesn’t see the bully cat? Is this whole break thing a bit extravagant?  I tell myself I deserve it and the doctor tells me so too, so it must be true.

We arrive at Ross on Wye and the little B&B I had been expecting is nothing short of Ross On Wye’s own Shangri La. Our room looks like one out of the Shangri la that Andrew stayed in while in Hong Kong (okay slight exaggeration) but it feels as hot as bloody Hong Kong. I struggle to turn down the radiators and have already drunk my way through their two bottles of  complimentary water when I realise it is the towel rail that has turned the place into a sauna.

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After freshening up we go down to the bar for dinner where we’re invited to sit in the library and peruse the menu. I’m not sure if my eyes pop out before the doctor’s or vice versa. £36 per person for a three course meal? I check I’m wearing the right glasses.

‘Was dinner included with our booking,’ I whisper, thinking of the little pub just up the road and how pie and chips would be just as good as the Garlic and thyme rump of Herefordshire lamb, saffron potatoes chantenay carrots, peas, and broad beans offered on the menu in front of me.

‘What was that?’ asks Andrew, who never hears me at the best of times but at present has an ear infection so is basically only hearing me with one ear.

I whisper again, a little louder this time.

‘I think so,’ he whispers back.

Before we know it, drinks have been ordered and we’re being led like lambs to the slaughter into the dining room, a waitress carrying our tray of two glasses, which we could easily have carried for ourselves.

‘Would you like me to pour water into your glasses?’ asks the waitress.

I shake my head. I think I am still capable of lifting a jug.  Dinner turns out to be quite superb and we both make a mental note to check that the evening meal is included in our booking.

I can’t believe we have this luxury for three nights. The following morning we toddle down to breakfast (also included, in case you were getting anxious for us) we’re shown to our table where we consume a pot of lemon and ginger tea, cereal with yogurt, followed by kippers for Andrew, full English for me and toast to finish.  We then toddle off to Ross on Wye for me to look in the two bookshops and countless charity shops. I’m at my happiest. The doctor then encourages me to do some sightseeing away from the shops.

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The churchyard

We wander into the local church yard and I take a few photos before we walk towards the church where a vicar stands to welcome us.

‘Hello,’ he whispers ‘are you visiting?’

Oh dear. Andrew inclines his head, obviously wondering how his hearing could have deteriorated so quickly. I lean forward in an effort to hear the vicar thinking he must have a sore throat.

‘We’re having a service of silence for six hours. But if you’d like to come back.’

Andrew inclines his head.

‘Come again?’ he asks.

‘If you would,’ whispers the vicar. ‘Tomorrow would be fine.’

‘That’s good,’ says Andrew. ‘The weather is not so good today.’

Meanwhile I’m standing there wondering why the vow of silence seems to have included us on the outskirts of the church. But God moves in mysterious ways, so they say.

We leave the vicar to his silence and when he is out of earshot, Andrew says,

‘I can barely hear you at the best of times and that’s with both ears. How am I supposed to hear him?

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We make our way back to the town, discussing what great food it is at the hotel. How the breakfast is so vast that guests can’t possibly want lunch.

‘It’s nearly two and I couldn’t possibly eat lunch,’ I say.

‘People do though,’ says Andrew. ‘I’d never want to be a glutton like that though, would you?’ he asks as we both glance in the local bakery window.

Ten minutes later we exit the bakery after buying two marzipan cakes, a hot cross bun, and a large custard tart.

Well, it’s a long time before dinner.

Hope you all had a fun Easter.

Naomi: My Inspirational Stepdaugter

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My aim for this blog is to have fun. To recount the fun experiences of my own life and mostly that is humorous, delightful and fun, even in the face of adversity we try to laugh. It isn’t always easy. Life can also be difficult and challenging, as I am sure you will agree. So, today, I am sharing a posting by my inspirational step daughter, Naomi. Today, she and her daughter Hana, appeared on Sunrise channel 7 in Australia, talking about Hana’s medical condition, which many of you who read my blog or visit my Facebook page will be familiar with.

 

 

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Video link https://au.tv.yahoo.com/sunrise/video/watch/26688780/hana-cant-stop-eating/

Hana was diagnosed with a brain tumour just over a year ago. We all hoped that the removal of the tumour would be the end of the problem but sadly the problems really only then began.

In Naomi’s own words ‘

‘When damaged from a tumour, surgery or an accident, the Hypothalamus can go totally crazy and for some really, REALLY cruel reason seems to do all it can to make that person morbidly obese. 75% of children become morbidly obese within the first six months after their craniopharyngioma tumour is removed. 

Firstly, the appetite control centre messes up. People, kids, like my daughter, stop receiving messages of ‘fullness’ after eating. In addition, hormonal signals  such as ‘leptin’  from fat tissue stores also get ignored, these signals would usually inform the brain that the body doesn’t need to eat.  The result is a brain that thinks the body is physically starving. Now, we all know how hard it is to concentrate on anything when we’re really hungry. A brain that thinks the body is starving will only be able to think about things other than food for short periods of time. My daughter asks for food every few minutes of the day and, when one meal is over, will immediately start planning for and asking for the next meal.

Hana is getting bigger with each day. I saw Hana eighteen months ago four months before her tumour was removed. It breaks my heart to see what is happening to her. I’m uplifted whenever I hear her mother speak. I’m in awe of Naomi’s tenacity in the face of what must, some days, feel like such hopelessness. She never gives up.

The way I feel we can help is by sharing her blog posts and her Facebook updates. It may just reach someone who can make a difference.

I’ve posted the link to the video, please watch it if you have a spare moment. You can read more about Naomi at her blog Nurse Naomi here. I am re-blogging the most recent posting. I hope you will take the time to read it.

Meanwhile a fun posting coming very soon. xxxxxx

The Disastrous School Run as Performed by Lynda

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Only I can mess up the school run, although I do wonder why it’s called the school run. I don’t recall there being much running this morning, at least not at the start anyway. Oh no, I hear you groan, what went wrong this time? Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

My grandson and I get on really well. We make cakes together, go for walks together and do arts and crafts together. Of course, these things are quite easy to do aren’t they? We’re going to the library together later, which is fun. So, I imagine my stepson thought who better to ask to take him to school than Lynda. Of course, normally they take him in themselves but Monday morning saw an important appointment come up and you know what happens if you cancel appointments. You end up waiting until you’re eighty for the next one to come up. I readily agree. I mean, how hard can it be, right?

Monday morning arrives and I drag my hung over body from the bed. Okay, okay, so Sunday night saw me consume just a little too much wine. I am allowed you know. It’s not like I’m going to drive him to the school under the influence is it? After all the school building is right next door and before you ask, yes, I do get up early some days and some nights I work late and get up later. A writer’s life is a complicated one. I wander downstairs where grandson is sleepily eating breakfast.

‘Good moaning,’ I smile.

Nothing, absolutely nothing.

‘He’s a bit dopey in the mornings,’ says stepson.

Dopey or grumpy I want to ask. But I just swallow two pain killers instead.

‘Will you be okay?’ asks stepson.

‘Sure,’ I say, more confidently than I actually feel. ‘Just remind me what I have to do.’

Although it can’t be much can it? Seriously, I just throw him into the classroom don’t I? I hear your gasps. You don’t really think I’d do that do you?

‘Take him in at about 8.45 and he’ll show you where his bag, coat and water bottle go. You can then sit with him until the music plays. That’s the time for parents to leave.’

How sweet. They play us out to music.

At twenty to nine I do battle with the shoes. Tuck him warmly inside his coat, hand him his satchel and off we go, straight next door. He excitedly shows me where his coat goes. I follow and say hello to his teacher. This is dead easy that I could do it with my eyes closed.

‘This is where my bag goes and this is …’

He turns and looks accusingly at me.

‘Where my water goes,’ he finishes.

Oh no.

‘Where is my bottle of water?’ He asks accusingly.

Good question. Where is the water bottle when you need it? still sitting on the table in our living room if I remember correctly.  Damn it.

‘Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.’

Did he roll his eyes?

This is when I did the school run. I fly back to the house, grab the bottle and fly back to the school where he is waiting in the same place.

‘Where does it go?’ I pant.

He points to where a thousand other bottles sit. Okay, maybe not thousands but you get my drift. How can this be so difficult? I flop into the chair beside him and start helping him with his numbers. This is better. I can cope with this. In fact I get so into it that I even help the little girl who sits opposite. Then, before I know what is happening, grandson is standing up and pushing me.

‘You’ve got to go now. Go on, go.’

I hear the music playing and realise all the parents have left. Trust me to be last. They could at least play the music at decent volume. My grandson is blanking me now. I’m just one big embarrassment. I sneak out of the door and breathe a sigh of relief.

‘How did it all go,’ stepson asks me later.

‘Great. It was good fun this morning wasn’t it Matthew?’ I say to grandson.

He harrumphs and continues building his Lego. Oh, well, you can’t please all the people all of the time. However he loves me when we make cake.

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Full up with Christmas …

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With Dad many moons ago

 

So, Christmas is over. Two days and we’re done. However, it still feels like Christmas doesn’t it? We still have the tree and decorations to look at and of course our new gifts.

I was asked to write a Christmas post for another blogger who has been featuring authors over the holidays on her blog. I was flattered to be asked and wrote a posting about my Dad who always made Christmas special for us. That’s what being a parent is all about isn’t it?

Christmas for me always means memories of my lovely Dad. He’s the person who gave me my sense of humour and I am forever grateful to him for that. I wouldn’t be writing romantic comedies if it wasn’t for him I am sure.

He loved Christmas and would go overboard. There would be so much food in the house that you always left feeling sick and bloated and he wouldn’t have it any other way. There would be presents galore and he enjoyed nothing more than watching us opening them. Christmas wasn’t Christmas unless he dressed up as Santa and this caused more than its share of problems when he did this for my nephew. He would knock on the door and one of us would let him in. One particular year was a bit hairy though when my nephew James started calling ‘Granddad, come and see Santa.’ And even more hairy when James insisted Santa stay until Granddad came back from wherever he had gone.  We got ourselves out of it somehow but I’m not sure how.

So at Christmas I always remember my lovely Father and I miss him terribly. I was not able to have children so I missed out on the pleasures of seeing my own children open presents on Christmas Day. But since marrying the doctor AKA Andrew my husband (you can read more about me, the doctor and our cat Bendy on my web page www.renham.co.uk) I’ve a ready-made family and this year my stepson and his wife and four year old son spent Christmas Day with us along with Andrew’s other son. I’d bought so many presents that the bedroom was overflowing. Memories of my Dad came flooding back  when the doctor dressed as Father Christmas for his grandson. There is nothing more magical.

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Stepsons preparing Christmas Dinner

 

Christmas in the village where I live was very festive and of course merry. There is nothing nicer to waking up on a snowy Christmas morning in a quiet village and to hear the church bells ringing. There are lots of social occasions leading up to it too which I enjoy. We had lots of mulled wine, mince pies and stollen cake. Visited our neighbours for Christmas drinks and attended the village Carol service, And of course the window decoration which we have done in our little village this year and you can see for yourself how pretty they are. My grandson helped make our window look pretty too and here it is. DSCF2538 (2) DSCF2540

My stepson cooked Christmas dinner and my other stepson helped. It was a real family Christmas. Something I never imagined I would have. It’s absolutely true that saying, you know the one, about it never being too late. I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. One of my presents was a course on Mindfulness. It’s quite intense but wonderful. I’m learning a lot. One thing I have discovered is that we really can only live in the present. That life is full of surprises. That we do have the control and can make our dreams come true. Today my lovely grandson and I baked cakes for family who are visiting tomorrow. For us it is still Christmas and I’m loving it.

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I hope you all had a fab Christmas and spent some of it reading one of my books. Well I can hope can’t I?

Much love

Lynda

x

Giving is receiving

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When someone takes the time to write a piece about my books I am thrilled. When they offer to feature my lovely orphan kids in Cambodia I am even more thrilled. So I am reprinting it here. The lady who wrote the article is Kathryn Brown and she has written a very good romantic comedy herself called Bednobs and Batchelors. You can buy it on Amazon.

I am currently in Cambodia. A place so close to my heart, that even throwing up seems worth it.

The last few days here have been busy. Last night we went to a nice hotel and watched Apsara dancing, which is beautiful.

Two days ago I visited my sponsored child at The Children’s Sanctuary and you can read more about them here. I am at my happiest here. We tried on the donated clothes I brought with me and played pass the parcel, danced, and generally had fun.

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I met with my Cambodian friends for dinner and shopping and of course we went to the circus.

A Cambodian circus is like no other. I urge you to check out the You Tube video here.

Enjoy Cambodia with me.

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You can read Kathryn’s piece here. Please do.