Riding the waves

On living, loving and taking flight.

A highlight of my childhood summers was when, as a family, we’d head to the New Forest on the south coast of England. The car journey was looong, extremely non-airconditioned and involved me singing the entire score of The Sound Of Music. My brother mostly got lost in a paperback.

Every time, we’d go to an amusement park where we’d would hurl ourselves down one of those giant, wavy slides on, essentially, doormats.

They resembled the sort of thing you’d climb into for the “sack race” of sweltering Seventies school sports days — only to fall over a few feet from the finish line, miss out on first place and get a blackcurrant Chupa Chups lolly as a consolation prize. (Not that you’d bear the scars for decades. Or that call-ups for the Mother’s Race at your own children’s sports days would trigger all the excuses: bit hot/not wearing the right shoes/anything).

As my brother and I rode the crest of each blue plastic wave, stomaches lurching, often we’d take flight (by a few centimetres, anyway), especially if we’d had the perfect launch. Then our mats would collide at the bottom and, exhilirated, we’d be ready to go again.

Scaling the steep metal steps to the top of the slide was almost as scary-exciting as the ride itself. Look down, and you’d see the ground below through the gaps. (I’m still not great with “see-through steps”. When we first took the children to Paris, I only managed to get to the first floor of the Eiffel Tower. When it was time to go down, vertigo set in and I had to sit down ON THE STEPS. I’ve have never been more relieved to see a lift in my life.

Not exactly the Audrey-Hepburn-in-Funny-Face-esque moment I’d envisaged.

Last Thursday, we moved my mum and dad into a new residential care home only metres away from the site of that old amusement park (now a smart housing development).

It’s a total coincidence, and one that occurred to me only as we we drove there to look around.

We simply knew we needed to be closer. This has been a tough ride, and one I know many of you relate to. And, as I’ve said here so many times, anything we can do to make things even a little bit easier by sharing our stories has to be a very, very good thing.

I can’t tell you how many times it’s felt like we’ve hurled ourselves down a wavy slide, hitting bumps we didn’t see coming. Wished maybe we hadn’t gone down in the first place. Kicked ourselves for maybe being too impulsive.

But, on rides like this, it’s impossible to know what’s ahead.

I’ve never been more grateful for the love and support of my husband (he spent three hours on Friday night clearing out my parents’ rooms at their old home. Who knew how many magnifying glasses a 90-something could stash away?). And, too, all those who’ve been supporting, encouraging and cheering us on.

Some, perhaps, unseen.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us

—Hebrews 12:1

Speaking of slides

For my birthday last week, Will gave me a pair of white plastic Birkenstocks. They were absolutely on my wish list, and while I was only just writing about red shoes — and I’ve LOVED reading all your stories! — I fell for their pristine crispness (not so much already).

Over drinks in a friend’s garden, I glanced down and had a revelation: I’m turning into my nonna.

I’ve got the shoes.

My grandmother always wore slides with her floral house dresses, whether she was making the first espresso of the day, speed-chopping basil with her mezzaluna to make fresh pesto for lunch, or hosting family for dinner.

Slides are regulation Italian grandmother footwear indoors and outdoors, too, where they’ll cycle to the piazza in them on their shopper bikes.

And, honestly, if I’m turning into my strong, faithful, amazing nonna — who lived and loved through so much — even just a tiny bit, I’d be honoured.

I like to imagine her cheering us on, too.

Reading and listening to …

My summer love affair with Audible is still going strong — what have you been reading or listening to?

I just finished

Shannan Martin

’s Start With Hello (And Other Simple Ways to Live as Neighbours). As is my habit, I had to keep stopping to whip off my Marigolds to scribble something down (anyone else have soggy scraps of inspiration next to the kitchen sink?).

For example, Shannan’s description of the “surrogate crisis mom” who came to her son’s aid when he was injured by a truck, and stayed with him, floored me (her name is Leah, and they’re still in touch).

After Shannan’s, I listened to

Becky Gonzalez

’s Glimpses of Love:The Most Excellent Way of Imperfection, her moving memoir of loss, grief, overcoming and how she started seeing heart-shaped leaves everywhere (something she has documented on her encouraging, faith-filled Instagram posts).

Becky kept me company in my earbuds for a few days as I pottered around the house and ran errands, exploring, through her story, themes that so many of us will resonate with — from the “poison of perfectionism” (her struggle started in childhood) to ambiguous loss and how fitness and reading the psalms helped to save her life. (Congrats, Becky, on your first book!).

Finally, I’ve just started

Ashlee Gadd

’s Create Anyway: The Joy of Pursuing Creativity in the Margins of Motherhood, in which the writer and founder of

Coffee + Crumbs

makes a passionate case for the heart and soul benefits of finding creative expression in the midst of mothering.

Catching Ashlee discuss the book on a few podcasts and listening to her read her words, whilst the focus is primarily on mothering littles, I’m resonating with it having a teen and our eldest going to and fro uni. I definitely feel it’s one, too, for mamas with older children who are still at home, going back and forth or who have flown the nest but will never leave the nests in our hearts.

Create Anyway also has applications for anyone seeking to create in the margins of daughterhood, too, as our own parents become increasingly frail (the fact that I’m actually getting this out to you today is 100% evidence of this).

Until very soon, Grabbing my mat with you, and ready to take flight.