The Early Bird

The morning light snapped on the way back from the bus stop. Totally unenhanced. The whole, enormous sky really was this colour.

With Jack starting school last September one of the biggest adjustments we have had to make has been getting up at 7.30 every morning, Monday to Friday. (And, of course, weekends too as Jack’s highly trainable body clock doesn’t switch off just because it’s a Saturday. Dammit.)

It might not sound that harsh’ I know lots of people have much earlier starts, but before this I had carefully structured my life so that I never had to be consistently up before the sun was. I have been self-employed virtually all of my working life and thus had the luxury of managing my own diary. Never taking appointments before 10am and living within walking distance of my work place made for a nicely relaxed start to the working day when I lived in the UK.

A big part of the motivation for moving to Spain for both of us was to leap even further out of the ‘rat race’ and off the hamster wheel of racing to maintain our modern life. We came here to work less, earn less and live a little more. So naturally getting up before the sun didn’t really feature heavily in our plans.

The last few years have thus seen us taking our morning tea anywhere south of 8 a.m. A perfectly civilized time, I’m sure you’ll agree. The sun is also more consistently civilized in its own waking times here in northern Spain – we have none of that summertime 4.30am sunrise nonsense. The earliest sun up, even in the height of summer, is around 7a.m.

Having a baby did of course muck about somewhat with our sleep patterns. Or completely destroy them for a while, if I’m honest. But at least having the luxury of not having to get up and out the door first thing meant that a certain amount of morning time lounging compensated a lot for the night-time tortures.

Truth be told our favourite time of the day since Jack arrived has been the first hour or two, when we would have the luxury of a family lie-in. Cuddles and stories and cups of tea. A delicious, cozy, gentle sliding start into the day.

Alas, the family lie-in is no more. With school came enslavement to the beep of the alarm. Up and at it, there is not a moment to spare in wrestling a small child into readiness for his walk to the bus stop.

There are some compensations for our newly manic mornings however. (Apart from the obvious one of having subsequent child-free hours to get on with stuff.) For example the light can often be outstandingly beautiful at this time of the morning. There’s something special about being outside in it, fully immersed in its glory. It’s definitely good for the soul.

And then last Friday morning, as we slipped out the door into almost total darkness, a very special thing happened. The barn owl that I have long suspected to be lodging in our loft chose that very moment to swoop across our patio (and heads) and demonstrate his clever trick of folding his giant wings in and squeezing through the small hole in our eaves.

After several months of trying to catch him in the act or to discover his bolthole in the attic I finally had my proof that those nightly ‘toowhit-toowoos’ weren’t just in my head, they really were coming from just above it.

The hole in question. Our pussy cat stands guard, back in the autumn.

Toddler Style

This week, Jack has been mainly channelling Olivia Newton John whilst working his ‘early 80s fitness fanatic’ look. Glasses: by Baby Banz; Hair: by Mum, Pout: Model’s own

The Things Kids Say (And Husbands Don’t)

So, it’s Sunday morning and owing to a (yet to be proved right) rubbish weather forecast we are actually heading down to town from our hill-top hovel rustic cottage rather than out to the mountains for our usual weekend climbing.

In honour of the occasion (and just in case I bump into anyone I know) I decided that a bit of spit and polish was in order. The Spanish are very big on appearance and cleanliness. You will even see young children in play parks wearing things like impossibly clean light-coloured woollen suits with smart leather boots and perfectly coiffed hair. (This is a country where the hospital midwives take your newborn infant for his first bath and return him reeking of the baby cologne that now slicks his sparse hairs into place.)

I, by contrast, spend my life in either ragged, chalk-covered climbing clothes or tatty, muddy gardening gear. My son is dressed almost exclusively in hand-me-downs from English friends – all great gear, but decidedly more casual than that which Spanish children would wear on a Sunday outing. And likely to be accesorized with dried-on food stains/mud and odd socks. I confess, I am a slack mummy. You get the picture.

That’s a combination of climbing chalk and good old-fashioned dirt he’s sporting

Back to today. I conscientiously selected a matching outfit and shoes for the little prince and combed his hair neatly. I excitedly donned my favourite jeans and black sweetheart neckline top with a smart new brown cardigan that I bought in the sales this week (my clothes shopping excursions average about once a year so don’t underestimate my excitement at this.) I even accesorized the outfit with a lovely brown craft necklace that my friend gave me for my birthday in June, that I had yet to wear. So yes, I felt pretty good walking down the stairs to head out into town.

On seeing me my 2 year old virtually did a double-take. ‘Mummy bootiful. Smart,’ he said approvingly. Which, of course, melted my heart and confirmed to me the boy’s genius (natch). Did also tell me something about my normal levels of presentation but for now we’ll gloss over that.

I was quite excited to see the effect that ‘smart’ me would have on my beloved husband but, I think you already know where I’m going with this, he didn’t notice a thing. I mean, come on, if a two year old can notice I’ve made an effort?!

Or maybe I’ve just trained him too well to rise above the superficial valuing of a woman on her appearance? Sure, it must be that…..right?

Travelling with Babies and Small Children

I’ve just been reading a great blog by some expectant parents who are clearly sick of receiving unsolicited ‘wisdom’ from jaded been-there-before parents whose primary message seems to be that their life is now over. It’s prompted me to share some of my own experiences as the mother of a two year old and the proud possessor still (by the grace of the universe and the strength of my fingernails), of a life…

Hanging on by my fingernails....Fontainebleau, France (Baby out of shot, playing with chalkbags.)

One of the primary messages of the naysayers seems to be that you’ll never travel anywhere once you have a child. Simply not true.

Of course the journey will be different….

City breaks still delight but they now stand or fall on the quality and quantity of available playparks, rather than trendy bars and restaurants. Note, if you didn’t know it already: a leisurely meal becomes an oxymoron as soon as there’s a baby in the equation.

For our regular climbing and surfing trips we’ve had to suck it up and buy a motorhome (or RV). Terribly unglamorous but definitely functional. (Think fitting in pushchair, baby backpack, surfboards, climbing gear, toys, travelcot etc etc….oh, and one ungainly greyhound.)  Luckily we were never terribly glamorous in the first place so the fall from grace was not so difficult to bear.

A home away from home at the foot of the crag. Catalunya, Christmas 2011

And who really cares about sacrificing street cred when it means we get to keep climbing in gorgeous places like this?

Me climbing, Dad entertaining baby, newly made friend belaying. Os de Balaguer, Catalunya

Yes, indeed. Travel you can, wherever your particular passions may take you.  In fact, the day comes, sooner than you might think, when the little tyrant darling will be telling you exactly suggesting destinations and directing your activities when you get there.

'I think the crux is just over the roof Dad. You'll need that crimp out right.'

Below, Jack oversees a surf lesson for my friend on our local beach.

'I said faster on the pop up. Oh, hang on, there's a photographer about.'

Ah yes, each stage of parenthood comes with its particular joys and challenges. That it is a stage is particularly important to remember at all times. Nothing stays the same. A comforting thought in times of trials and a wake-up call in times of (particularly fleeting) smug ‘We’ve got this parenting thing all sorted’ moments.

In some ways the earliest stages of babyhood lend themselves particularly well to travel. Pre-walking babies are really at their most portable. They weigh little, are pretty immobile and they sleep a lot and just about anywhere, freeing you up to do your thing.

The early days - Jack snoozes in his pushchair while Mummy and Daddy get some bouldering in. Resconorio, Cantabria

On the flip side however, while Jack was at his most portable I was at my most immobile. Flooded with happy, hazy-making breastfeeding hormones I was content to pass the ill-defined days away on the sofa with him mostly clamped to my boob, dreamily gazing at him in simple amazement. This from a woman who never wanted babies.

And then, when we’d finally get him off to bed in the evening, we’d heave a sigh of tired relief….and break out the digital camera to review footage of him from that day….

Yup, take it from me, babies can accompany you to places you never even dreamed of.