Old age (part 2)

'The antidote to complaining is thanksgiving' (Pam Hinkelman)

Getting old happens so gradually that most of the time you're completely unaware of it until you try something physical that used to be easy and realise you can't. Or don't even attempt it in the first place in case you break something. The realisation usually arrives slowly - with a vague but growing awareness that things used to be different, but you can't remember EXACTLY what or how they changed. My most recent example of this involves sitting on the floor.

The bit in between is a doddle. I get down there and up again with minimal effort. I can even do those pilates exercises where you stand up from a cross-legged position without using your hands and when you lunge suddenly into a squatting position from a kneeling one by flipping your ankles against the ground. I am a good sitter down and stander upper.

I also really like sitting on the floor, but this is no longer comfortable for long periods of time.

When did this happen? Somewhere in between teaching babies to crawl & sweeping under the table after EVERY meal (circa 2001) and Soul Survivor 2017 - a 4 day youth festival with NO seating in the main arena. The lack of seating arrangements might have been OK if leg room allowed you to wiggle around a bit, but we were crammed in pretty tight. Some people in the crowd had these old people back rest things:



I internally mocked these on day 1. But by the start of day 4, I was wishing I owned one.

But day 4 is the last day! And then I get to sit in a car for 3 and a half hours and drive home. Which will be a welcome relief - even though the whole car smells like something died in there. (I don't know the cause yet, but semi skimmed milk got spilt in the boot during a tip run last week and the car's been parked in direct sunlight with the windows up for most of the time since then).

Between the mysteriously stinking car and the packing and sitting on the floor, I'm not in a place to focus on the worship that's about to happen. I'm feeling empathy for farm animals that spend their whole lives in similar conditions and briefly consider vegetarianism.

Then the guy in front of me shuffles forward slightly giving me more leg room - Hurray!

THEN he immediately lowers his whole upper body back to the floor so I have even less room than I started with. His head brushes against my calf and he doesn't notice or apologise when I move out the way. Annoying.

He's not a small bloke either. I calculate maybe 2 and a half people could sit in the space he's now occupying. Grrrrr.

I watch him lie at my feet. Eyes closed. Completely still. His complexion is quite ruddy, now that I'm studying his face. He looks worn out. His eyes are still closed and he frowns slightly, his lips parting as he breathes in and out. He's maybe 20 years older than me.

I'm suddenly more concerned than annoyed. He's probably fed up with all the floor sitting too.

I nudge his shoulder and ask 'Are you OK?' He opens his eyes and smiles, 'I'm fine thanks. Just praying - I've got such a heart for these young people' (he gestures towards his group).

'Oh - as you were then - and Amen to whatever you're praying!' I say.

Oh. Dear. God. I am an awful person.

The band starts right after this and we're all on our feet. This bloke gets up with a bounce. He is also a good stander upper.

The music is loud and the bass pounds in our chests. The bloke in front of me worships in sign language. I've seen others do this, but have never found it so beautiful. A mix of 8000 teenagers and youth leaders worship together with no distinction.

Thank God for Soul Survivor and the lives that have been affected and changed by it over the years.
Thank God for Mike Pilovachi.
For his humour and sacrifice and willingness to plough into the lives of other people.
Thank God for this bloke in front of me, who loves his youth group.
Thank you that he's given his time to even be here.
Thank you for every sacrifice he's ever made - especially the hidden stuff like sitting on the floor way longer than is comfortable.
Thank God for my own church family.
For all the people we do life with on a regular basis.
For those who love my kids and talk to them when they can't or don't want to talk to me or K.
Thank you that we get to sing and feel alive because we are alive.
Thank you x

Growing up

Turning 16 is a reasonably big deal in the UK. It brings about a few rights and responsibilities that were previously denied - like driving a moped, changing your name by deed poll, consenting to sexual activity and getting a national insurance number. Whoo hoooo!

This is truly exciting. But the human brain soon adjusts to the new normal and by the time you balk at the idea of going anywhere on a moped, have paid HMRC a proportion of your wage for the best part of the last 30 years and are midway through a lifetime promise to have sex with the same person from this day forward, for better or for worse until one of you dies, you may have decided to purchase a wheeled shopping trolley. Like this one.

This is my Granny Trolley. I absolutely love it. No one else in the family will use it. They think it makes me look like this.

KEEP CALM AND SHOP ON is clearly not the healthiest life philosophy, but it helps reduce our carbon footprint a little and it's not tartan. It's also strangely satisfying the way the kids are uncomfortable to be seen with or near it. Especially after days like yesterday.

Keith was away with work and me and the kids were doing a food top-up shop. Plus ManChild turned 16 last week and we needed pizza and treats for him and his friends who were coming round to celebrate that he can now join a trade union or die for his country.

We walked into town with Granny Trolley because it was sunny. This was uneventful. The shopping itself was equally ordinary, but this was later contested. Here is my version of events:

It was Saturday and therefore busy. We did not have a definitive shopping list and were winging it. This was my modus operandi until 3 years ago when something flipped over in my brain and now I really need a list.

We got a Big Trolley to transport Granny Trolley + shopping. We weren't getting a Big Shop and the kids are really good at not asking for stuff. But they had birthday treat permission-to-ask and made some really good suggestions.

About half way round there was an announcement that today's shoppers can get a free stainless steel peeler. Just go to the top of aisle 2 to claim this. We were genuinely peeler-less until yesterday. The original peeler we got as a wedding gift fell apart about a year ago and the plastic handled thing we bought to replace it lasted only a few months before the blade started twirling round halfway through the first carrot so we chucked it out and kept forgetting to buy another. Now Tesco are offering me a FREE peeler. It's a no brainer. ManChild encourages me to go claim it for our household while he trolley-sits in the Toy and Book aisle.

In aisle 2 there's a very jolly girl in an apron standing by a wooden counter. There's clearly some demonstration about to happen and she beckons us closer to see. The demonstration is NOT for my free stainless steel peeler, but for a Mr Whipstir that froths milk, scrambles eggs and mushes potatoes. I am tempted to walk away but I want my free peeler.

I watch the demonstration. The jolly girl is very thorough. You can whizz skimmed milk with this thing and make it so thick that you can turn the container upsidedown and the froth does not fall out. I start to think about the lattes we could have at home for 17p rather than the ones in town for £2.85.

Watching jolly girl in the crowd is a woman with gorgeous red and orange hair - like flames tumbling down her back. The ends are almost luminous. I am shaving my head in about 3 weeks time to raise money for a local cancer charity. My friend, Lis, who is shaving it off for me is looking for a mad colour to dye her hair as shaving her's off completely would be awkward for her job. Maybe I've found the colour for her?

The demonstration continues with the miniature version of the Whipstir. Like its parent, Whipstir Jr also creates maximum froth with minimum effort. Madi appears at my side wondering why I've taken so long. We watch the rest of the demo together.

Jolly girl finishes up and starts handing out free stainless steel peelers to her audience. I get my free peeler. I also take a Mr & Jr Whipstir pack as I spontaneously decide to start Christmas shopping and did not bring a LIST today to prevent such impulse purchases. I realise I can no longer see Flame Haired Woman who must have taken off as soon as she got her free peeler.

Madi and me make our way back to Big Trolley, me glancing up each aisle for Flame Haired Woman. We don't see her. The boys are still by Big Trolley in Toy and Book aisle playing on their phones and  looking fed up. I present our free peeler. They are impressed. We like free things.

It's now even busier than it was when we got here. Which was a while ago. We make our way to the check outs. I'm heading for self service because in my head, this is still just a top up shop in a Big Trolley.

I suddenly locate Flame Haired Woman and dart off to speak to her without informing ManChild where I'm going or which direction he should continue walking in. I say 'Excuse me...' to her then launch into a full explanation of why I'm drawn to her and ask for details of the colour she uses and Please may I have a photo of your hair because it didn't feel right to sneak up behind you and photograph your head without consent. She initially appears a bit taken aback then realises I'm not a crazy stalker and agrees to the picture. Her hair looks like this.

ManChild is now more irritated as I bogged off to talk to a randomer and left him blocking the aisle with all the shopping and lots of people tutted at him. I sense that if these items were not for his birthday he would have already abandoned us. I also sense we should conclude the shopping experience swiftly.

We reach the self scanner. I place Granny Trolley on the scales and tap 'I brought my own bag'. The self service till does not believe us and a light flashes until Tom appears and overrides it and we begin scanning. Hmmm. There's a lot of stuff in Big Trolley. We scan the first few things before the scanner errors again. Tom comes over and overrides the system again and comments on the volume of things. Would we like to go to a till he asks. No, it's fine, I reply. We like scanning things. Although by this time Madi is playing on the railings by the checkout and J's on his phone catching Pokemon and pretending he is not here. Only ManChild is scanning things and muttering under his breath. Including the Whipstirs, we scan through almost £80 worth of items. The scales flash another 3 times. During this time another shopper tries to squeeze past Big Trolley and the railings. Madi tries to disentangle herself from them in a hurry to let her past, but forgets which way her legs bend and the shopper almost trips over her feet instead.

When we finish scanning there's too much stuff to fit into Granny Trolley, so we buy 4 carrier bags and load them up to bursting point. M and J isolate some items to consume now - like Frijj and cookies and tiger bread - so there will be less to carry home.

We get outside. It is raining. I stand in the drizzle and divvy up the tiger bread. ManChild refuses the bread and says he'll walk ahead. He grumpily takes the heaviest bags and strides off without saying goodbye. J empathises with his brother's discomfort but is not quite far enough into adolescence to be mad at me yet. Madi is 10 and can't understand why there's a problem.

I realise in that moment that as fun as it was to be 10 and as exciting as it was to have new freedoms at 16 and then 18, it's far more liberating to be 44 and not actually care if Tom or a Flame Haired Stranger thinks you're mental. Granny Trolley is heavy and it's raining and the journey home is almost all uphill, but I pretty much giggle to myself all the way there. M and J don't understand why, which only makes it funnier.

(Disclaimer: E has just viewed this account and claims he did not 'mutter under his breath,' but stated clearly and audibly 'This is stupid- we should go to a proper till' without muttering).

Fake teeth and farming before the internal combustion engine

My mouth is ageing faster than the rest of me. For the past few years I've worn a partial denture to compensate for 2 missing lower teeth. The first of these could have been saved by a root canal filling, but given the time involved for this vs a simple 20 minute appointment and 40 quid for an extraction I went for that instead. Against my dentist's advice. Then about 2 years later I found out why when the tooth next to the space became infected due to being ever so slightly wobbly.

A wobbly tooth is an exciting thing when you are 5 years old. It's a rite of passage ushering in the era of the toothless smile, comments from older relatives about kissing boys and finding £1 under your pillow for every one of them you can wobble out. But by the time the Tesco people are happy to sell you kitchen knives or Jack Daniels without an ID, a wobbly tooth is no longer a good thing.

When you can be bleeped through as a Customer clearly over the age of 25 without anyone ever properly looking at your face, then any space in your mouth where a tooth used to be is already putting pressure on remaining teeth making you more likely to loose another tooth in the future. Who knew? So my wobbly tooth was removed and I got a partial denture instead of a pound coin. Welcome to middle age.

For 4 years after that I didn't think much about my old lady mouth at all. Brushing took longer as the fake teeth need cleaned separately then you need to clean the sides of the real teeth next to the gap, but it's no big deal. Then one day I was cleaning the denture when it broke clean in half.

Annoying. It's amazing how hard the opposite jaw has to work to crunch up cornflakes when the fake teeth aren't there to help. But my ever so lovely dentist quickly arranged a repair (I love the NHS) and a week later the denture was returned as good looking as new. Honestly- you couldn't even see the fault line where it had snapped. I clicked the fake teeth back into place and ... Owwwwwcchh!

This wasn't good. But I figured they just needed wearing in like a new pair of Doc Martins. Forgetting of course that a) this most certainly did not happen when the denture was originally fitted and b) every pair of Doc Martins I have ever owned have seriously shredded the skin on both heels for at least a month.

But I am forgetful and stubborn that way and wore the fake teeth for 4 long days. Sleeping was OK. Not eating hurt a little bit. Eating anything hurt more than new Doc Martins. But the more it hurt the more determined I was that it would be fine. Most of the time it felt as though I had a localised throbbing headache in my jaw. A wad of swollen tissue developed under one side of my tongue causing a slight lisp. I eventually gave up after realising how stupidly asymmetrical my mouth was and made another appointment.

My lovely dentist sorted me out in under 5 minutes after buffing the fake teeth with a metal whizzy thing that removed the extra bit of resin that must have been jutting out. I clicked the teeth into place and... Yay- A perfect fit! Like the teeth were made for my mouth. The tiny bit of material she filed away was almost insignificant, but it meant the difference between functioning normally and being constantly distracted by pain and having an unhealthy interest in soup, milkshake and anything else that didn't need to be chewed.

Then Jesus said, 'Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light.' (Mat 11: 29-30)

Before the industrial revolution, bulls or oxen were used to pull farming machinery so Jesus' audience would have been familiar with this image. Apparently the animals would work either alone or be paired up and fitted for their yoke which would be individually contoured to the unique curve of their muscular backs and shoulders. The harness was never off the peg, but made to measure. The farmer would try it out, then return with his animals to get their yoke adjusted, perhaps several times, until it fitted perfectly. The animals' strength was vital to their task, but so too was their comfort and health.

Pulling a plough.
Munching up cornflakes.
Walking around in shoes that fit you.
Doing most things in life involves surfaces making contact with each other.
Movement proves we are alive.
And things have got to fit well together or they become worn and damaged.

Especially if you're talking about solid wood vs an ox's shoulder blades.

Or new Doc Martins or rigid plastic vs human skin.

My yoke is easy to bear and my load is light. What does that mean then?

The religious system back then was complicated, entwined within the overarching control of the Roman empire. There were laws and some more laws and then even more laws to regulate the original laws. It was unnecessarily complicated and underpinned by a corrupt multi-layered power structure that was designed to keep people subdued. To keep them on the fringes. To oppress.

Religion was hard.

Jesus' method was groundbreaking in its simplicity: Love God and love people. That sums up everything you need to know. It's not easy, but neither is it difficult to understand.

Because it's life.
And growth.
And movement.
And work.
The seasons don't stop and there's farming to be done.

The work required might be demanding, but it's designed for you and I'll kit you out with what you need. It's tiring and exhausting sometimes, but following me is not damaging. The yoke was crafted for you and look! I fit at the other side.

There has always been inequality and power struggles. In every society that ever existed and is yet to emerge there are corridors of power and those who fight to maintain them. But when God says We're in this together, he means it.

Weather

Trees have rings, rocks have carbon dating and lobsters have growth bands in their gastric mills. People can also be grouped according to age by this very simple test. 

What is your immediate reaction to this?

a) Hurray! School will be shut- get the sledge!
b) Arghh! I've got to drive in that later. I hope the main roads are clear...
c) Oh no! Will I break a hip if I attempt to go to the Spar?

Granted it's not as accurate as the tree method and my theory would need adjusting for the residents of Canada where they have real snow, (see below) but I think you know what I mean.

I love wakening up to a blanket of whiteness, especially if it's on Christmas morning- which in my living memory has happened only twice ever. 

I love making crunchy footprints on a big swathe of nothingness, being the FIRST one to leave evidence of my being there. It's like being the first knife in a new butter.

My backside is still small enough to fit on the kids' sledge so that's fun for an hour or so. But then I get cold and start to mentally calculate how much radiator space we'll need for all our hats, scarves, gloves, coats and other assorted outdoor wear which has become sopping wet, so just want to go home for hot chocolate and embark on the drying out process (whether the children are ready to or not).

By day 2 of snow I have defaulted overnight to category b). I have a tick list of things in my head but am wetting myself at the prospect of driving anywhere and I just want to get the grit out.

How did this happen? I used to HATE grit. The snow killer. 

At this rate I have approximately 30 years before progressing to category c). 

Will it be a slow steady decline or an Aaaaaarrrghhhhhhh-thump-crack into decrepitude?

Middle Age

I am slowly coming to the conclusion that I am old. I have lots of grey hair. I make an involuntary 'Uhh' noise when rising from a comfy chair if I’ve been there a while, and in the last 18 months I have acquired a part denture and the inability to focus on close up stuff when I’m tired. (For these last 2 I blame Wales) None of these things make me feel old though.

I feel old because of things like this: 
A conversation on way to school other day, scene involves me, 3 kids, assorted baggage and 1x bike which they share on way to school. (Long story, involving class sizes, moving house mid-school year and an overall sovereign plan which I know exists but don’t understand yet).

J: Mum, can you slow down, I can’t carry all my stuff (1x book bag + 1x lunch box) and hold up these at the same time.

Me: What’s ‘these?’

J (incredulously): My trousers!
 
Demonstrates his need to hold ‘these’ up, and they promptly drop to his knees in the street, attracting stares from passing motorists.

Me: Where’s your belt?

J: I don’t have one.

Me: Why not?

J: I dunno. I forgot.

Me: But when you put those trousers on this morning, didn’t you realise they were falling down?

J: Well, yeah… But I was busy.

Me: Doing WHAT?

J: Y’know. Getting breakfast. And playing lego….

Me: Oh I see

And in that moment I DID see. He’s 7 years old. Life’s complicated enough remembering to feed oneself and get in some construction time before the school run (or run/cycle/run) without the added pressure of dressing securely.

I can no longer remember a time in my life when my main source of concern was eating as fast as I could so I could get in more play time.

Last week I actually forfeited a whole night of sleep amending a 280 page book in order to meet a print deadline. At 4am I decided NOT to go to bed before the school run, or I’d never get up for it. So I constructed an interplanetary lego docking station for the many MANY lego spaceships which are in various stages of completion by one of the kids. Or I would have done if I were not old.

Instead I tumble dried a load of washing and folded and ironed the backlog of dry stuff from the weekend. Then I put it all away (quietly). Then I made a massive pot of custard for breakfast. A little unorthodox I know, but we love it and we had loads of milk that morning.

And this is why I am getting old.