Honesty

 - By Emi

We had a sad thing happen recently.

One of our cats, Tasha, a beautiful black witch's cat with green eyes, was run over and killed outside our house.

As awful as it sounds, these things happen. It's one of the hazards of owning a pet. Especially when you live next to a road and own cats that go outdoors. It doesn't make it any *easier* knowing this when you're burying the first pet you and your husband ever got together.

Sat on the grass outside my house, stroking Tasha, I was thinking several things, namely wondering why the person who hit her drove off, combined with relief that her death was obviously instantaneous and with minimal suffering, gratitude for the two women who saw it happen, moved my cat off the road and knocked on doors to find the owner, and worry.

Worrying how I would explain this to Ru.

Don't get me wrong, I think my child is smart as hell. But in the end, he's only three.

*sigh*

How do I explain death to a three year old, in terms he can understand, in the midst of my own sadness, giving enough detail so he understands the situation but not enough that it overwhelms him?


***

I am reminded of a situation when I was a nanny. One of the little girls I nannied and I were walking to the park when she asked me "On the weekends when you go home and see your Mummy, does Stephen go and see his Mummy too?". I stopped, knelt down next to her and explained that Stephen's Mama died when he was very little, so he couldn't see her anymore.

She then asked me if Stephen was still very sad about it, to which I replied that he was at the time, but only a little bit now because it was a long time ago.

We carried on towards the park when suddenly she stopped, gave me a thoughtful look and asked "When someone dies, we can't see them any more, can we?". I confirmed this. She seemed accepting of this, and went off to play on the swings.

Our day proceeded to carry on as normal, and the little girl didn't mention the subject again...

Until about 2 hours later when she suddenly announced in front of her mother and grandmother, in the loudest *possible*, matter of fact, in a strong Bradford accent...

"Stephen's mum's *DEAD*."

Both hilarious and awful at the same time.

Cue a conversation with her mother, that resulted in me resolving that when I had my own children, I would always be honest with them, especially about things as serious as death.

***


Which brings us back to the present day.

Luckily, Tasha looked perfect still, apart from an exploded eyeball. I profusely thanked the women for coming to find me, and took Tasha inside. Irrationally, I was thinking that I couldn't leave her outside in the garden, so I put her in the spare bedroom on a blanket, arranging her so her damaged eye was hidden.

I then went downstairs, informed Stephen who was at work at the time, and text Kendal who duly came round.

Whilst waiting for Kendal to arrive, I took a deep breath and in the absence of Stephen to discuss it with, but knowing he values honesty as I do, I decided to be gently honest with Ru.

I sat him down, and asked if he knew why we had to be careful when we crossed the road. He answered that we had to be careful because a car could hit us and hurt us and that wouldn't be good.

I swallowed, and began to explain in the best way I could given the situation, that Tasha had been crossing the road and a car had hit her. Giving him a few moments to process this information, he asked where she was. I told him that she was upstairs and he asked if he could see her.

I said yes.

Now, I know that some people will think I am stark raving ballybonkers for letting him, but that resolution made years before to be honest with my children had come back to the forefront of my mind.

I took him upstairs, and we sat next to her. I cried a little. He rested his hand on my knee, more empathy in that one little gesture than his three-year old vocabulary could express.

"She's poorly, Mama."

"No, baby... she's dead. It's like... she's gone to sleep, and she won't wake up."

"Why are you crying, Mama?"

"Because I feel sad about what has happened to Tasha. She is very special to me."

He stroked her a little, kissed her fur, and told me very seriously "Millie will be very cross at that car for hitting Tasha. She will EAT that car up." (Millie is another of our cats). We went downstairs and he didn't mention it again.

Two of the other cats, Millie and Harrogate, weren't bothered about Tasha. The littlest, Yuli, was desperate to get in the room that Tasha's body was in, and when I finally let her in, she groomed her friend, making sad little mewling noises.

Seems that I wasn't the only one who understands loss.





When Stephen returned home from work, both kids asleep, we both cried, me more than him. We buried Tasha at the bottom of the garden the next day.

Ru said goodbye to her, stroking her silky fur as I explained that we were going to bury her in the garden, that her body would break down and become the earth that would help our flowers and vegetables grow.

It comforts me to know that she is in the garden, that she is at home.

We have three other cats, and won't be getting another one right now.

In the end, honesty governed my choices. Death is a natural part of life. Stephen and I have always aimed to be honest with our children, including death. Some people may be aghast that Ru was allowed to see Tasha after the accident, but I felt like he needed to understand that she was dead, and that that was final, and not just some abstract concept.

I did not write this to defend my actions.

I wrote this to explain why I feel that honesty is so important when it comes to children, in every aspect of our lives together. I had someone tell me that I should have hidden how I was feeling from Ru, not cried in front of him. I disagree. I think it is important for Ru to see both his Mama and Daddy being open about their emotions.

Life is a beautiful, amazing, wondrous thing, but as the seasons pass, the tides go in and out, the weather changes, so do our lives. Death is a part of that. We follow the natural cycle of the seasons in our home, the gentle changes... Life, growth, death, rebirth.



So many positive things have been garnered from her death.

A new found appreciation for those carrying life...

Remaining kitties who have been fussed, petted, loved, cuddled, stroked, cherished...

A friendship begun with one of the women who saw Tasha get hit, who has a son in the same nursery class as Ru...

An opportunity for Ru to learn and experience...

A wonderful reminder that there are good people in the world,who comfort strangers in their sadness, who care enough to go knocking on doors to find a hurt cat's owner...

And an affirmation that pets are such an important part of childhood.

They teach children about the joy of caring for others, responsibility, love, respect, as well as how far you can go pulling a cat's tail before it scratches you... I could go into details about how pets can help calm the stresses of autistic children, how people with pets live longer, have lower blood pressure, the benefits of pet ownership for children, but that doesn't seem right here. For another post, I think.



So, I share with you my fond, happy memories of Tasha. A black witch's cat with green eyes, who came to us as a scared, skinny, underfed, cowering, wee thing. A cat who used to overgroom to the point of baldness when she was left alone. A cat who snored. A cat who gently headbutted those she loved. A cat who when Ru cried as a newborn, used to come from wherever she was in the house to sit next to him. A cat who hated tomatoes but ate onion. A cat who used to throw up A LOT, usually on the only bit of carpet we have in the house, usually discovered by me standing in it. A cat who taught my son so many valuable lessons.


A house is not a home without a cat. And love. And honesty.

Always honesty.

"When you notice a cat in profound meditation

the reason, I tell you, is always the same.
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
of the thought

of the thought

of the thought if his name.

His ineffable

effable

effanineffable

deep and inscrutable

singular name."T. S. Elliot

Review - Kadria Baby Balm

 - By Emi

Well, I am a very lucky girl indeed!

Earlier this year, I was chosen to review some products for The Green Parent magazine. Soon, a box full of lovely goodies arrived, and I went in to raptures over the sheer amount of products in there!

However, there was one that really stood out. A product that I Could Not Fault.

Enter stage left: Kadria Baby Balm.

I mean, come on! Look at that packaging!

I'll be honest, I'm not a fan of cutesy-packaged baby products, so this really appealed to me. It looks grown up and elegant. The simple black and white colour scheme is carried through the entire range, and makes me feel like an adult woman for a moment, briefly forgetting the smushed banana in my hair, the damp patch on my top where the toddler spilled juice on me, the paint on my jeans... Heaven. (And we haven't even opened the bottle yet!)

Once you get inside (packaging is remarkably toddler-proof! Yay!), a big sniff of the contents transports you to another world. Deep frankincense notes mix with an underlying layer of lavender.

The yellow balm is super rich and effortlessly creamy. Add in to the mix the fact that this balm doesn't stain our cloth nappies... well... it just gets better and better.



What's that?

You want more from a baby balm than just a good smell and pretty labels?

You need it to be fairtrade? And made from organic and wild-harvested plants? No alcohol? Vegan friendly? Suitable for sensitive baba skin? Suitable for use on with eczema and psoriasis?

BAM.

*points at the Kadria*

It's also not tested on animals, the packaging is biodegradable, and the shea butter comes from a cooperative in Ghana, so you're supporting them too!


I rave about this stuff to ALL mothers.

Now, admittedly, you may shy away at the idea of £14 for a baby balm, but trust me, this is so worth it! The tiniest bit goes a long, long way, so it lasts a really long time. Not only that, knowing that it really is a high-quality product, so you truly get what you pay for.

And you know what else? All Kadria products are made in small batches by a wonderful, British, WAHM named Rebecca, who has two children of her own so she *knows* first-hand what a balm needs to be.

If you want to treat yourself and your baby to some of this crazily-gorgeous balm or anything else from this equally sweet range, head on over to the Kadria Etsy store or the Kadria website.



And you know what?

I think I know a very special, newly preggy Crafty by Nurture Mama who might be getting some Kadria Baby Balm in her Yule stocking if she's a very, very good girl...




Even better, we'll be bringing you an interview with Rebecca, the founder of Kadria, very soon!

Guest Post - The Scar

Today, October 15th, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. At 7pm, a wave of light from simple candles will travel across the world, in memory of those small, fragile lives that left before their time.

To mark this, and to honour the tears of Mamas just like you and I, Crafty by Nurture is bringing you a very unique guest post.

This post is not to frighten or upset, merely share another facet of parenthood, and hopefully bring the thought 'I am not alone' to women who are remembering today, and every day.

This is a heart-wrenching story, but one that shows so much strength and light in this woman.

Thank you, Sarah, for opening your heart to us.

Emi, x

EDIT: If you need someone to talk to, I have had Sands, the Stillbirth and Neonatal Death charity recommended. Thanks to Lara M-B for this.


The Scar

 - by Sarah C.

I am one of the multitudes of women who carry a scar around with them.  It isn’t one that you will see.  It is so very common, and yet it is very nearly a secret in our culture.  Sometimes it is a heavy leaden burden in the pit of my stomach.  Sometimes it is the lightest butterfly kiss reminding me of all of the many blessings that have touched my life.  Sometimes it is a raw gaping wound that leaves me gasping and crying, as if it were yesterday.

A kindly stranger sees my armful of coats and bags, the empty sling over my shoulder, the trike I am dragging through the park.  They smile knowingly, look about, intuitively connecting me with the scattered happy play of small daughters; trying to match me to the children I belong with.  “How many do you have?” they say, nodding to the sheer number of items I am juggling, or perhaps to the older child taking the baby down the slide, or the child-painted name-labelled bags of library books.

“Four!”  I say.

My heart says, “Seven.”

This conversation happens a hundred ways, different folks, different days.  Time doesn't remove that first soul-response.  I am a mother seven times over.  Sometimes I even feel guilty, irrationally stung to be leaving out the dear loves of my heart.  I wonder if I’m being rude, whether perhaps I frown or look preoccupied, or if the sensation of the truth being brushed away reveals itself to these friendly passing people.  Yet there is one sense in which I treasure the secret – don’t wish to name the scar or share it with anyone who might not understand.

Three of my babies died.

The first, I barely knew I was carrying before I knew I was losing.  The loss was shocking, nothing I had ever imagined could happen to me.  I was sad.  Angry.  Confused.  When I immediately became pregnant again, I celebrated and grieved all at the same time.  I started to feel safe, believe that I was actually pregnant again, when a day of heavy bleeding and a twelve week scan (on my twenty-first birthday) showed that we had lost another child without even seeing their heart beating or knowing a thing about them.  These were my hardest griefs, the most unbearable to me, that I should be cheated out of every tiny celebration, out of every experience that could have been consoling (or torturous) to remember.  I no longer believe in a hierarchy of loss, in which some losses are automatically easier or harder, real or not real.

Years later, two healthy children, and I felt some measure of trust for the process of pregnancy again.  I passed twelve weeks, I saw the midwife, began to show, caress my sweet little bump and take pregnancy pictures.  My darling baby swam within me safe and comfortable. 

Then one morning I woke in the early hours and my first thought was, “I am in labour.”  I was still a good way shy of twenty weeks pregnant, and I knew only two things.  That this could stop, and we would be fine.  Or that I would birth a baby who would never take a breath.

It didn’t occur to me to look for help, it didn’t even occur to me to wake my husband; I ran myself a bath and sat in a dream-like state feeling waves of contractions and not even being able to weep.  It was the most intense hour of my life.  And when I felt my waters break, and lifted my tiny finger-length baby from the bath tub, all I could feel was astonishment.

Lael was so beautiful.  My tiny pink jellyfish baby, trailing his cord on my palm.

That was the end.  It was a beginning, too.  After losing the earlier two pregnancies I had discovered many many other women with stories of their own, and I had learned the awful ways in which such losses can be dismissed as not real or not important.  I had become a sort of expert in the things to say and the things to not say.  And here I was, at a complete loss, learning how to grieve all over again, how to respect and live with my own pain.

I don’t think I will ever be an expert again, even in my own story.  I have hesitated to write like this, to repeat the tales of my own babies, not because there is nothing to say but because it is so complex and personal.  Yet we need these stories, we need to hear these real pourings-out of women just like you and I, who have lost, who know loss, who stand up and say “Me too”.

The fifteenth of October is the day Lael might have been born to us.  It is also the day of the International Wave of Light, world-wide candle lighting for pregnancy and infant loss awareness at 7pm.  As I light my candles I am holding in my heart a long list of names, the grieving families that I know – and those that I don’t.

To all of you, my sisters with the secret scars, your pain is different to mine – and so are your joys.  Your scars are different and affect you in different ways.  Let yourself be just how you are, in your truth, with the words that are comfortable to you.  Grieve in your own way, however that is.  It’s OK to feel whatever you feel.

If you know one of these families, this is the best resource that I know of for learning how to be there and offer comfort to a friend grieving the loss of a child.

May we all find healing over the years, and learn gentleness and grace to ourselves and our sister-mothers.






Here is the full story of Lael’s loss as I wrote it at the time, unedited and unrefined by the gentle haze of passing time.  Please feel free to leave this link unopened if you feel the burden of taking another’s rawest grief away with you would be too much to bear.  It is graphic and sensitive.

Lael's Story

On being pregnant, again.

~ by Kendal

Everyone remembers the moment they first find out they’re pregnant. With Ava, I managed to covertly pee on a pregnancy test whilst Howard was in the shower, running back through minutes later, half-dressed, with a positive test waving about in my hand whilst shouting, ‘I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant!’ I remember Howard’s shocked face peering out the glass door of the shower, completely unaware of what was going on.

Not exactly smooth. So it’s not a surprise that when I found out I was pregnant again, for the second time, it took me four tests and three days to really feel certain that I was, indeed, with child. Again. After a year of breastfeeding on demand my period returned almost exactly on Ava’s 1^st birthday. As good a time as any, I thought, to kind of start trying for baby number two. Five children take time, after all, and my only-child longing for many children wasn’t getting any quieter.

I knew that it might take some time since I was and still am breastfeeding Ava on demand. I read that, period or not, it can take some women two or three years to conceive again, but I was determined that nothing was going to stop me nursing Ava and somewhat naively assumed that since it took us a couple of months the first time round, it would probably follow suit again.

But then six months followed that were probably the most stressful of my whole life. We moved house three times. Howard was searching for the right job, and we were amidst near constant family drama that made it seem like it might, in fact, be the very worst time to get pregnant again. And unsurprisingly, it just didn’t happen.

During this time I was recommended a book called Taking Charge of Your Fertility which brought out a raging feminist from within that I frankly didn’t know existed. Not just about how to understand your own fertility, this book educated me in the ways of my own body to such an extent that I wondered why it wasn’t handed out to every 14 year old girl in need of answers. I started to take notice of my monthly cycle – every stage of it – and it became easy to interpret various signs and see that in fact my fertility was clearly not back to where it should be. Whether this was due to the breastfeeding or the stress, I don’t know.

But then we moved into this house and everything settled. Howard found a good job, and I felt everything in me just relax and let go. And two months later, hey-ho, I was pregnant. And really bloody happy that it hadn’t happened in amidst turbulent times, when I would surely have been constantly worried that such stress was having a negative effect on a baby.

Still, nothing quite prepares you for the feeling of seeing that line on a test. Even if at first that line is very faint, just the suggestion that somehow, without you knowing, this incredible, life-changing thing has happened, is not the easiest thing to process. In fact, it doesn’t quite seem real until my body starts to react to the surge of pregnancy hormones and sickness and exhaustion take over.

The past nine weeks have been challenging in a number of different ways than it was with Ava. Unexpectedly, I’ve been more sick this time around, but I’ve been able to nap with Ava for a couple of hours most days which means I’ve not been quite as bone-tired exhausted as I was when I was working. We’ve watched a lot more films during the day than I ever thought we would, but sometimes it felt like lying on the couch with Ava and watching Mary Poppins for the twentieth time that week was all I could muster. You begin to understand that it’s okay to let go of some things, to compromise.

Most days I waited for Howard to get home so I could run upstairs and fall fast asleep in bed. My ‘morning sickness’ was worst between 5 and 7pm at night, which meant eating dinner was impossible.  However this time round, instead of going off meat/protein, I actively craved it. I discovered almonds not only stopped the first trimester heartburn that seems to occur, but it also helps with nausea.

As for breastfeeding, my feelings have changed a little. I still nurse Ava and it’s my hope that I continue to do so until she wants to stop, but I find myself discouraging it more and more, since it has added an extra feeling of being drained that I didn’t expect. I have never been worried about nursing whilst pregnant – I’ve read enough to know how natural and possible it is but I’m sure my milk supply has gone right down already, and I can tell by the way Ava responds that she has noticed. I suspect that she is one of those children who will happily nurse through the next six months, milk or not, rather than wean, but we’ll see, I suppose. The logistics of sleep nursing with a huge tummy seems a conundrum.

And now here I am, about to enter my second trimester tomorrow, having mostly passed that really challenging stage, and wondering how it is that I could possibly have two children. Two human beings that depend on me. Two children I love as much as I have one. It is a concept very hard to understand. Perhaps more so because this time around, with a rambunctious toddler running around, I have had so little time to focus on being pregnant, to fantasise and ruminate on who this little person is.

Again, so different than the first time round, when all my thoughts were focused on one thing and one thing alone. The advantage to this, I think, is that your body just gets on with doing what it has to do, and you don’t have the time to worry and panic over every little thing. I’ve managed to write a few lists which mostly consist of slings, reusable nappies, a sheepskin and little things I want to make, but so much less to buy than last time. Unless of course I get carried away with the beautiful range of slings I covet almost daily. No pushchairs, no Moses basket, and certainly no Pampers.

When we were notified our first scan would fall on Ava’s birthday, I thought it a particularly lovely stroke of luck. I didn’t feel too nervous this time, in part because my body is so unbelievably sensitive to hormonal changes that it’s somewhat of a comfort to feel so sick, as if you can really believe that something big must be going on.

But at the same time, lying on the hospital bed with Ava and Howard next to me whilst a huge picture of a little baby flickered on screen – I also felt incredibly relieved. There it was – there he or she was. Proof that there’s a human being growing at a phenomenal rate inside me. Proof that I haven’t just been imagining the past three months, complete with fabricated pregnancy symptoms and a swollen tummy.

A little fluttering heartbeat, and hands that flicked around everytime my tummy was prodded.  A near identical profile to Ava’s scan. And for the first time since finding out I was pregnant, I really did feel a rush of love, of protectiveness, or warmth towards this little person. I understood for the first time how easy it would be to love another person as much, as unconditionally, as I do Ava. Love is not a pie after all. And as I lay there with this baby bobbing around on screen and inside me, whilst Ava clambered to get up beside me and Howard earnestly tried to divert her attention towards the picture of her new baby brother or sister, it seemed like the most easy thing in the world to just welcome another person into our family.

Ava tells me the baby is a boy. I’m inclined to agree. She likes to pretend-feed my tummy blueberries and sometimes, if she’s feeling particularly generous, yoghurt covered raIsons. She is the first to remind me at dinner to take my ‘preggy pill’, which has become her job. I have a feeling she is going to be the most amazing big sister, and everytime I imagine it I am flooded with gratitude for our growing family. These are good days.

  Ava and I snuggled up on the couch watching Mary Poppins during one of my 'sick' days

Two

~ by Kendal

Today has been a day of twos. Ava turns two at exactly 7.40pm this evening. Two whole years, so full with living, that the number itself seems less than the person.

My Ava, so full of life.

And as it happened, today was also the day we saw baby number two, for the first time. This little Pillywiggin is due in Spring. A full, good, happy day indeed.

DaddyBlog - The Magic of The Written Word

~by Steve

(AKA. "You want to read that book AGAIN?!"

Well...

I've learnt something about myself recently. I can apparently write, creatively, but I need inspiration! That little spark to prompt me, to set the creative juices flowing... It just so happens that my muse is also my wife.

Sat thinking about topics for this month's Daddyblog, she makes me aware that it is National Children's Book Week. That little board meeting of tiny Stephens that I imagine are in my head every time I'm trying to think of something, suddenly start brainstorming. They fire up an interactive whiteboard covered with a spider diagram with "kids books" at the very centre in bold. Ideas are fired back and forth between the suited individuals, each one shot down in a chorus of "Nay!"

Suddenly, the hands of the anthropomorphically named Ikea clock start spinning faster and settle at 3am. Everyone is tired, the coffee pot is dry, the idea pot is even drier when a tiny, sore throated voice pipes up "Can't we just review a book?". Everybody cheers and they fill in the necessary paperwork required to make my mouth work...

"I'll review a book" I say...

"Nope" says my wife "I'm doing that... Why don't you talk about how hard you initially found it to read to Ru?"

There it was, the spark she always gives me.

I believe I mentioned in my very first post back in August that I'm not a big reader. I can read (at the age of 8, I had the reading age of a 15 year old) but I don't particularly find enjoyment in it. When I think about it, most, if not all, of the books I have really enjoyed reading in recent years have been film based - Jurassic Park, Close Encounters Of The Third Kind, Harry Potter - but I can't seem to pick something up if I have to create the character images myself. This particular feeling of ambivalence towards the written word caused a small issue for me when faced with a certain life changing event and I was suddenly presented with a Son who loves books and loved having Mama and Daddy read them to him.

At only mere moments old he would sit, mesmerised, as my wife regaled him with the suspense filled thriller 'That's Not My Monkey!'. It had everything - mystery and heartache at the loss of a beloved primate, the feelings of disappointment that no other simian could live up to the fluffy-tummied wonder that once filled the life of the main protagonist, and the eventual elation and happiness at the discovery of the missing orang-utan. I'll admit, I was looking forward to having him look at me in the same way as I read to him, so I gave it a go....

"He's only a week old, Steve! Slow down!"

I suddenly became very aware that, yes, I was indeed rushing to reach the end of the book. There was no logical reason for it, I just wanted to finish it as quickly as possible. Then it hit me; for no discernible reason, I was embarrassed to be reading out loud. I'd always been an introverted reader, at book time when I was 6, the other kids would tell the teacher I wasn't reading because I wasn't joining in with the deafening din that was 20 or so fledgling Yorkshire accents spouting verses from Ladybird books as my classmates read aloud to themselves. I didn't need to, I could hear the words in my head. All of a sudden, 20 years has passed and I'm reading these words out loud...

and...

I'm uncomfortable with it. To make matters worse, I was reading him my favourite childhood book - 'The Magic Faraway Tree' by Enid Blyton. This is a book that I have fond memories of my Dad reading every night as I fell asleep, and I longed for the same to happen in my relationship with my son. He clearly has no concept of what I'm saying nor any concept whatsoever of the cringeworthy position I feel I am in and he actually seems to enjoy me reading to him. As he gets older, his interest in books only increases, as does our parental feelings that we should encourage this as a healthy habit. Unfortunately, although I have put my initial feelings behind me for his sake, my enthusiasm for reading has nowhere near grown as much as his.

I'll be honest with you, I genuinely felt guilty for this. He would come up to me, book in hand, the look of adoration in his eyes that only a Son can have for his Daddy. And there I would be, knowing deep down that I was not enjoying it as much as I should...

Then one day it happened; my spark, my muse, my wife.

I'm not sure why, but I was slowly beginning to enjoy our reading sessions more and more... And I thought to myself, I'll put a bit of effort into this new one. It just so happened that Ru had brought me 'A Squash and A Squeeze' by Julia Donaldson. It was written with a comfortable rhythm for me, I particularly loved the rhyming couplets used.

In my head I suddenly became Jay-Z, spitting rhymes on the mic of steel over a reworked Motown classic, anticipating the responses that Kanye West would provide me and preparing to, essentially, read the shit out of that book! I reach the final sentence with the suspense filled staccato of a William Shatner monologue and I feel a hand on my shoulder....

"That is the best I have ever heard you read to him."

The spark alights a pile of discarded newspapers in the deep recesses of the basement of my mind, and I notice the long forgotten headlines. I remember things from my childhood, actually I remember *a* thing from my childhood; my love of The Magic Faraway Tree and a particular incident when out for a walk in Dalby Forest. I can remember it now as vividly as it happened... There was an old, rotten tree with a hole right through the trunk, it was just me and my dad, I can't have been much older than 3 or 4, my imagination kicked in with the fine prowess that only a toddler has...

"Daddy! It's the Faraway Tree!"

Without a moments hesitation, he positively affirms my suspicions, hushes me to silence and, urging me to watch carefully, he creeps behind the tree in search of the inhabitants. A small face made using the fingers of the right hand of a fully grown man appears at the hole in the tree, (this mattered not to me as I was in imagination mode), and then a familiar voice rings out...

"What are you doing looking in my window?!!"

It wasn't my dad's voice, it was the voice of the angry pixie from the book!

The spark had now become a roaring house fire! I remembered that story time was a Milligan-esque cavalcade of characterisation and enthusiasm. This was why I loved having *my* dad read to me...

And so it began, I became a method actor of Kirk Lazarus proportions (infinite respect to anyone that gets that reference...) and I decided to give my voice box a workout. All of a sudden the Wise Old Man in 'A Squash and A Squeeze' had the voice of Bane from Dark Knight Rises, whose voice is based on a bare-knuckle boxing champion. It amuses me to picture the bearded, long-coated purveyor of living-quarter space-based knowledge from the book dipping his hands into glue and broken glass like a scene from Rambo 3 (or Hot Shots Part Deux).

I followed in the footsteps of a good friend of ours and turned the mouse from The Gruffalo into an overly confident rodent, hailing from somewhere just outside of Solihull.

I've also adopted my wife's version of Marjorie the Cow in 'The Cow That Laid An Egg'. Let me illustrate why:

"I've laid an egg!"

Read that out loud in your own voice... Go on, trust me - this is going somewhere.

Now...

Read it aloud again, except this time, with the Lancastrian twinge of a surprised Jane Horrocks (a-la 'Chicken Run').

Suddenly more interesting isn't it?

That feeling you have now... that sudden realisation that words are more than just a collection of letters scrawled upon a page, that they are a gateway to a theatrical and comedic event - that's how I feel when I get the chance to crack out my very best (albeit west country) pirate voice.

"But Steve...." I hear you cry, "do you have any tips/handy hints if I'm facing the same situation?"

Well yes, as I appear to like ending my posts with lists, here you go:

1. Youtube. 

Absolute minefield of inspiration. Whether it be watching 'Jackanory' to remind yourself how the professionals do it or (my personal favourite) watching an old cartoon to try and emulate the voices... I do a mean 'Fat Controller' even if I say so myself.

2. Practice Makes Perfect.

Genuinely, I find myself reading Ru's books without him just to see what characters there are and to decide what regional accent they need. My default is Geordie!

3. Repetition, Repetition, Repetition!

The worst bit about reading to your kids? When they ask you to read them the same book for the third time... and the sixth... and the ninth... over and over until you want to poke pins in your eyes till they bleed. This is a good sign. (The repetition, not the pins-in-eyes bit). Repetition of stories cements the ideas and memories in their heads. Much loved books can then be 'read' back to you, just from memory alone (and we all know that a good memory is something many of us lack!).

And, to be honest, the only tip you need,

4. No-one's Judging You.

Whether it's theatrical re-enactment on a Royal Shakespeare Company scale, or impression skills to rival Jon Culshaw, your effort makes it something special. Your child is not judging your terrible 'pirate' or 'troll' voice, all they see is a beloved parent, who cares enough to share the magic of literature with them.

Reading time is important bonding time - don't miss out on it like I nearly did.

Love of the written word is the best gift I can give my children. And one of the best ones they have given me.

"I surrendered to a world of my imagination,
re-enacting all those wonderful tales my father would read aloud to me."
Andrew Wyeth

Recipe - Leek, Potato and Bacon Soup

~by Emi

With all the rain that seems to be dampening everyone's spirits, it seems like the perfect time to share a really uber yummy soup recipe!

Not only is it really filling, it's bloody delicious and uses up the seasonal vegetables that we get in our weekly veg box (courtesy of a local grocers).

To make this soup for yourself, you will need the following...

*a pack of bacon (I use smoked because I'm wild like that.)
*1 onion
*2 leeks
*3 or 4 big potatoes
*1.5l vegetable stock
*140mls double cream

First of all, chop up your bacon and onion and fry it up with a knob of butter till the bacon is starting to brown... It will smell divine, and you will probably find yourself picking bits out and eating them.

Next, chop up your potatoes and leeks, throwing them in the pan with the bacon once the bacon is cooked. I was convinced that I didn't like leeks (much to Kendal's dismay when she wanted to make me chicken and leek pie), but it turns out after using them in this recipe, I *DO* like them! Who'da thunk?

At this point, if you have cats, they may well be harassing you for the fat you cut off the bacon. Also at this point, if you're a soft touch like myself, you will give in to the afore-mentioned harassment.

You, Faithful Reader, will notice I have mentioned a cat in every single recipe I've done so far. This may seem pretty odd to you, but I literally CANNOT cook without at least one of our four felines joining me in the kitchen to tell me that they've never been fed *ever*, that they're starving to death and demanding I share with them.

Our resident OAP lady, Harry, especially enjoyed her treat...

After five or so minutes frying everything together, throw in your hot stock and simmer for 20 minutes.

It's worth transferring everything to a BIG pot now, behold my enormous stock pot!

After simmering, use a blender to whizz it up. We have a stick blender and just do it in the pan. Once it's smooth, add the cream, stir it all in and serve with crusty bread and garlic butter.

Your soup won't look as pale as mine, because I put in double the amount of cream by accident. It still tasted immensely wonderful though.

This is only the second time I've ever made this, but it is so easy, so filling and comes recommended by my lovely friend Emma, who ate TWO bowlfuls the first time I made it (compliment indeed!).

You could also add a tin of chickpeas or other pulses to bulk it out, add extra cream or stock, and I have plans to make a variation of this with gammon or maybe left-over roast chicken. I think the basic soup would make a great creamy chicken soup, swapping out the bacon for chicken and adding in mushrooms.

So, get cooking and many warm, toasty wishes to you on this grey day.

Emi, x