The Frame - Concrete Words

The Frame.

Let me tell you about a frame, a little, blue, giraffe encrusted number sat in the deepest corner of my living room. A frame showing the first ever picture of my first ever son. A frame that reminds me of all the things I was going to be as a Mother. We were going to go to the park every day, we would eat our 5 a day, birds would flutter through the window and help me do the washing up. Sadly, sat here at 12.42pm, pyjama clad, watching that first born demolish a plate of sausage and chips, the reality of Motherhood does not, at all, meet with naive promises of late.

That innocent, womb-fresh babies face has morphed into a nearly 3 year olds sliding mask of pure expression. He's happy, he's sad, he's angry, oh so very, very angry. He wants to play, he wants to watch Cars, on repeat, all day, he wants to eat, but he does NOT want to eat vegetables, thank you Mummy. He is, for lack of a better word, challenging. But on those hard days, those days where the room is too small and his voice just too loud, on those days where I would happily trade him in for a pet camel, I glance in the corner and see that little blue frame. I remember those promises. I remember his innocence wrapped in a purple blanket, I remember all the things I was going to be, and I remember the things I am now.

Forever and on he shall be my son. I will remember his tiny fingers, counting his tiny toes, watching in awe as he opened his eyes to the world. I shall teach him how to be strong in himself, to take what the world throws and toss it right back, to be strong, to be confident, to take the bins out, unprompted, on the right day. Mostly, I will love him.

And those, my son, are my promises to you.

Linking up with sixinthesticks for #concretewords.

Bravery - Take 2

This bravery issue has been bugging me.

What, if anything, is brave?

After a few days musings these are my conclusions, prepare yourself. Lets go...

I think bravery is a far more complex thing that it first seems. A watered down word used to describe everything from necessary injections to carrying on when you have no other choice. A word chucked about here and there, the meaning, the actual root of the word, diluted and buffed away over time.

But to be brave, completely, truly and honestly means to sacrifice a part of yourself. To swallow the actual fear growing in your chest and carry on. For different people this can mean different things. To do a presentation to an audience of blank faces, to climb so high your head is spinning, to hurt yourself to save another. Every day there are brave acts but their often so minute they get forgotten.

To be brave is a big thing, a huge thing, but often shown in a tiny, tiny way.

The Road - Concrete Words

I was thinking about writing all about my life's road, the ups and downs, twists and turns, the beautiful stretches with cow-studded scenery. But no. I'm going to take the theme literally and write about a literal, actual, tarmac road.

At 17 I thought I ruled the world. Despite failing my driving test I paraded round in a little Renault 5 (GTS whatever that may mean, Goose Towing System?) with a friend 'supervising' me. It was fun. I drove too fast, panicked at busy roundabouts and thought a crash would never happen, how could it? It would never happen to me.

But, inevitably, it did. The scar on my hand is a painful reminder not to drive fast. In fact, for many years, a reason not to drive at all. I could have died. I could have killed people. I could have been the person the radio people talked about 'Avoid the A329, there's been an accident and traffic is queued right back to Bracknell'. That's hundreds of peoples minor delay. That's somebodies life.

9 years later, after my survival, I am ready to drive again. A much calmer, much more aware, much slower driver. Time is ticking down til I am insured on our great, big family car, my theory test is booked, my nerves are steely. Or aluminum-y. I am ready to go but, most importantly, ready to stop.

I'd like to see a few more cows please.



Linking up with six in the sticks and concrete words.

Five minute Friday-Brave

Today I'm linking up with Lisa-Jo Baker at Five Minute Friday. Setting my timer for 5 minutes, ignoring the kids war cries and writing all the nonsense from my head. Ready, set, go.

                  

I do not feel brave, last week I did the leap of faith, a literal leap where I flung myself off a small platform trying to catch a trapese bar. Brave? No. Foolish? No. An act to impress that I can do these stupid things when I think I can't. Well yes, maybe. I jumped and I caught and I swung in the air like Tarzan. It was fun, but not necessarily brave. 

Fighting through a pregnancy-of-pain and keeping a smile (mostly) plastered on my face. Not Brave.

Sitting being tattooed with my words to live by. Not Brave.

Coming home from hospital, heart broken and hollow. Not Brave.

The more I write about the things that aren't brave makes me question what bravery really is. What supreme act fits the bill, what, if anything, can be counted as bravery? Most things are done through pig headedness, a genuine lack of fear, or just, because, because why not. 

My time is ticking away, if someone, anyone, could please tell me what bravery really is then comment below.