Towards the end of July it became apparent that the best that Puddle* could offer in the way of Summer was in fact … Autumn. Peering out of the landing window both Baby and I would struggle to see the shimmer of grey that was the sea, somewhere down below the rolling crop fields. The sheep stomping past our back garden with an obvious annoyance at having their winter coats shorn off, the lambs cowering beneath their mothers swollen, warm bellies.
Our daily walks through the bustling farm yard and down to the damp, cold sands were often accompanied by fleeces and wellies. Not that Dog minded, it was all the same to him, bounding fearlessly through the hedgerows and somersaulting into the frothing black waves.
On the few occasions that the sun mooched smugly out from behind the tumbling clouds, the whole of Puddle would seemly melt into a typical English village**
The wheat fields, with their chessboard of bales, would glisten against the sky, the calmer waters in the bay would shimmer and gently lap at the shell strewn sands. The breeze would carry the scent of warm hay and dried seaweed, barbecues and soft pink roses as it wandered lazily up through the woods to our kitchen window. The woods, where the trees and the hollyhocks meet in the middle, soaking everything beneath it in a magical soft, green light. The narrow foot path hidden by bracken and nettles. The larks and the bullfinches darting from branch to stream, whilst the dormice scramble back through their tiny front doors as soon as Dog crashes through fallen tree branches and last years forgotten leaves.
When He strides out of the front door, uniform clad with kitbags and briefcases hanging off his towering frame, it’s a little bit sad and a little bit scary.
Sad, because when he is away I miss him. I miss the adult, the humour, the second pair of hands and his ability to pop to the only shop in Puddle to procure wine whilst I am up to my elbows in bath time bubbles.
It’s scary, because the most obvious unanswered question is, will he actually be striding back through that door again, alive? The less unanswered question is, what will I do at 5pm every evening when he normally brings relief from the routine?
And above all of this, you’re about to spend time alone with yourself. A lot of time.
For the first half of our marriage I was a martyr. I doted obsessively on our newborn, ensured the house reeked of magnolia Shake ‘n Vac, hosted glamorous lunches and marched the dog along the river twice a day. I owned not one, but two, under eye concealers and kept madly muttering to myself about self pity. I would tut!
He would pop in occasionally with mountains of laundry, crumpled boarding passes and photographs of hot countries and cold beers. Bursting with pride and excitement.
I got cross. And then more cross and then a lot cross. Cross that I had given up a career, a lifestyle, friends and family to effectively be someones housekeeper in strange, far-flung towns that I knew nothing about. Cross that He wasn’t around to appreciate my new role (and the smell of magnolia) and just cross, because I didn’t know what else to be at that point.
And then I burst. It was just as dramatic as I had fantasised in my dark, angry mutters. It was fabulously cathartic.
We went to see a marriage counsellor. And left six sessions later wondering why we hadn’t seen one sooner.
In the days, weeks and months that followed I let the anger and the resentment go. My fears and anxiety melted away revealing a young woman with so much to be grateful for and excited about. Look at what I have when he is away!! I have time! Time to explore my ambitions, my mind, my beliefs. Time to create, to ponder, to read. Time to cook delicious hearty meals, to walk through forests of bluebells and beaches full of rock pools. I have time to be silly. I have time to do nothing, to just be. Had I not met and married this man I would be stuck in a suffocating city, in a job that would never be my own, clock watching and constantly trying to keep up with the Joneses. Always finding an excuse as to why finding my version of bliss would have to wait. Procrastination would have been my ever present hashtag.
Having all of this time alone has allowed my imagination to wildly bound over societies expectation of how a woman, not least a human, should exist. I have no excuses now. I have to fill my time with something and why not by reinventing myself as many times as I please? By conquering fears and irrational thoughts? By embracing all of the change, the opportunities for not only myself, but Baby, to immerse ourselves in different cultures constantly? I can pick and choose the hobbies I attempt, the books that I want to read, the paths that I want to follow.
Granted, when He is away it is also a fabulous excuse to get the Prosecco on ice, invite a few of the fellow wives round, indulge in carbohydrates and in the ever present moan about husbands never being present, washing machines going bust, being the default parent and shaking our heads at the lack of new scents being launched by Shake’n Vac, but a girls gotta do …
So, as much as I could wallow quite comfortably in the sympathy and awe of others who marvel at the way we military housewives cope with the isolation, the fear, the never ending list of responsibilities and the constant upheaval, I also want to make it quite clear that I have grabbed this lifestyle with both hands and am going to use this twisted journey to my advantage over and over again until I have found what I’ve been searching for. And do you know what? The realisation and acceptance of that on it’s own has made me a happier, lighter, more fun person to be around so that when He does walk back through that front door he feels nothing but love, appreciation and contentment. What more could any man want from his family and what better way to serve the man who serves his country?
*Puddle, not it’s real name.
**Side note; Puddle cannot be classed as an actual English village due to it’s distinct lack of pub. DISTINCT LACK OF PUB. You read correctly. And I live here.
Top Tip:
A quote again,
Oscar Wilde once said, ” I think it’s very healthy to spend some time alone. You need to know who you are when you are alone and not be defined by another person.”
This rings true in my lifestyle, because I’ve learnt a lot about myself by not being surrounded by the influence of my husband, my parents, my siblings, my friends and former colleagues. It’s been just me … looking at me. And it’s not as scary as you think it might be. Be brave and embrace the solidarity that we have been gifted.
Until next time xoxo
From Civilian Life to Military Wife – A List.
The 10 Signs That You Are A Military Housewife
- You panic when you receive paper work that requires you to fill in your address history from the past five years.
- You don’t know any of your husbands friends and colleagues by their first names. They are all a last name with the optional “-y” or “-ie” at the end of it. Smithy, Jonesy,
Awkward when their wives engage in leisurely chat with you referring to their other halves by their first name. Who now?! - Everything gets written on the calendar in pencil. Because it is going to change.
- You’ve known your best friend for three weeks. She’d help you with a bikini wax if she was asked.
- Another spouse goes ‘Cray Cray Loco,’ and forgets her husbands rank is actually on his chest, not hers.
- When He gets on your nerves and you say, “Surely it’s about time you were due a trip somewhere.”
- He makes a good bed. When he’s around.
- For some reason, you know the phonetic alphabet. Will come in handy. Said no one ever. But it sort of does.
- He has more clothes, shoes and bags than you ever will.
- You and He genuinely have the self sacrificing, ‘we can over come anything,’ kinda love that only happens in films made in the 90’s.
A cheeky 11. You pack like a boss.
Until Next Time
xoxo
It’s a TwinklyTuesday kinda day;
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Lets get Random;
From Location to Location … To Location.
What Happens on the Patch, Stays on the Patch.
This is only because we’re generally living in the middle of nowhere and we can’t get off the blinking patch!
The few times that I do leave, it’s on a hired bus on my way into the nearest town with fellow wives for a well deserved ladies night out, and even then there is always someone with their desperate face squashed up against the rear window frantically performing SOS signals at the sheep in passing fields.
A House is a Home
Being married to Him means that whenever and wherever he is posted we are allocated quarters on what is called the Married Patch. A little village of identical houses based around or near the station, their only difference being their size according to rank. Everything else is Exactly. The. Same. Our interior walls are always magnolia and the carpets in every house range from Bread Crust Beige (if you are this lucky, buy a lottery ticket) to Doctors Waiting Room Cobalt or Winter Nipple Blush.
Our windows are all adorned with either a taupe/ olive/ burgundy stripe, a golden peach velour or an autumnal floral scene. In 1963 there was a sale on at Fabrics for India. The MOD received a loyalty card.
Most postings are between two to three years, more than enough time to paint walls, hang your own curtains and let your dog moult.
Ours have never been longer than eight months. We don’t paint walls anymore. We buy decals. They peel off after two weeks. It works out for everyone involved.
Where There is a Patch, There is a Catch.
Moving on to a new patch is like browsing Trip Advisor. Within hours of waving off the removal men, you’ll get the low down on the weather patterns, wine prices, petrol stations, leisure centres, great family restaurants, the best dentist, the closest bus stops, the most grown up bars for date nights (eh?!) who lives where, who has kids of a similar age to yours. The best dog walking paths, which locals like us, which don’t, who offers military discount, the closest garden centres, who’s been deployed, where the football ground is, when the next families happy hour is, the list is endless.
It’s alright for Him. We move somewhere new, He’ll generally already know a few people in the office.
A slap on the back, a pint of beer and a, “See you Monday, mate.” and they’re in the circle.
You know he must know someone before he goes in for his first day, when his golf clubs, squash racquet and soccer boots all magically appear in the front hall the night before. The most awkward his day is going to get is using the wrong coffee mug.
We, as ‘The Partner’, on the other hand, have typically been moved yet another 100 miles further away from family, friends, routine, familiarity and comfort. We need to start at the very beginning. Every time. The most awkward my first day is going to get is watching Dog do a poo on the CO’s front lawn, as Baby makes a head on run for oncoming traffic.
You’ll be politely welcomed and circled warily a few times, but once you fail at making muffins and excel in bringing wine, you are ‘in’. Within days you’ll be discussing birth stories and bikini waxes.
The wonderful thing about living on ‘The Patch’ is that there is always someone that is free for a natter or to have glass of wine. There is always someone who feels like going for a walk or whose kids want to tire out your kids. Someone has always just baked a banana loaf. There is some one that will babysit when there is an emergency or a date night (which in most cases is classed as an emergency) There will always be someone that will happily pet sit for you or give you a lift into town. There is always someone who will listen to you rant, whine and complain or lend you their hoover. Some one has coped with deployment before you to guide you though the ups and downs – the ups being single person/ king size bed, the downs being, “who the flip knows whats for dinner tonight, I am sick of being the only adult here!” There will always be someone to encourage, advise, soothe or placate you.
Most military wives will have had a profession or continue to have a profession, so on your street you’ll always have a midwife, a marketing guru and an accountant. Or an artist, a chef and teacher. And me. I bring wine.
Some one will always have self raising flour. Me, again. It’s unopened, don’t worry about bringing it back. I don’t even know why I bought it.
There will always be someone who knows you well enough to walk over and give you a very necessary hug and tell you you are doing a great job.
It is intense though. As much as these women are your partners, your mothers, your confidantes, your sisters, your best friends and they know more about your sex life than He does! Sometimes I just don’t feel like babysitting the children over the road, or listening to next door moan about her husbands deployment. Again. For the eighth time that week. It’s Tuesday. Sometimes there’s no one that will understand why I am like I am. “Quirky.” Apparently. Better than, “Tipsy.” I suppose.
Sometimes I don’t want to have a cup of tea with ‘her from the next street along’ not only because I don’t drink tea, but she only eats Quinoa and does sit-ups whilst learning the Karma Sutra. Sometimes I’ll catch myself saying something and cringe in case I have offended someone. A given.
On any patch, on any street there will be a menagerie of ages, cultures, religions and ranks. There are some eggshells that you can’t even tiptoe over. We all live, work and play together 24/7, unlike in civilian life where you can leave your colleagues in one part of the city, mooch home to your family just outside of the city and then head out with your mates to socialise in another town. It takes a special breed of person to be laid back enough to go with the flow, but strong enough to know when to step back and politely, but firmly close the front door, pour a glass of wine and watch The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills for a bit until He gets home. Unless it’s a repeat at 11am, not even I can condone wine before lunch. A Bellini perhaps, but not wine!
When postings are up, you all hug each other, thank everyone for making yet another part of your adventure as magical as ever, reminisce over the time you all had too much to drink that Saturday night and all began miaowing at your taxi driver, adamant that none of you spoke any actual English. Brave squeezes and promises of reunions, BBQ’s and email addresses.
And within twenty four hours you are on a new patch watching the removal men drive off as eight women begin charging up your garden path with thrush ointment and burnt tray bake.
Until next time
xoxo
Top Tip:
When living on a patch (military or civilian) remember the following, always:
“ There is a story behind every person, there is a reason why they are the way they are. Think about that before you judge someone.”
From Prayers to Prosecco
Cherry blossoms floated down around the village of Puddle*, a warm breeze nudging them into piles in doorways and along paths, blowing along the lanes like wedding confetti. The days were long and still. The air was filled with the chattering of birds in the newly fleshed out tree branches, the seagulls drifting high over head on salty currents, occasionally sweeping down to the freshly sown fields. The hum of a tractor was the back drop for our morning marches down to the sea, which was almost always still, lazily lapping at the shell strewn sand, pooling amongst the jet black rocks. Afternoons drifted quietly through. Every couple of weeks, on a Friday, the whole patch would trundle up to the station mess for families happy hour. A few glorious hours supping on gin and tonics, enjoying the company of fellow husbands and wives in the pleasant setting of the bar which opened on to sprawling lawns scattered with our children bounding about in the fading light. Dinner would be served buffet style, hearty mounds of delicious curry and rice or gooey and rich lasagne and chips, easy grazing. The waiting staff slipping quietly through the maze of tables discovering dropped forks, acknowledging officers with a tilt of the head, offering up pudding and generally pouring forth warmth and delightful hospitality on all of us.
Back at home Baby had discovered a path through the mounds of dandelions and daisies to the bottom of the garden where it was quite possible to spend hours crouched, chatting to the lambs who poked their dainty wiry heads through the fence. Dog would often get jealous and saunter over offering up a play with his ball or nuzzling his way into Baby’s armpit causing fits of giggles and a momentary distraction from sheep whispering.
One Sunday afternoon we were all in the garden, Baby and I on our tummies, our faces close to the ground watching an ant colony go about its business of harvesting leaves and blades of grass. Dog was having a snooze on the patio and He was dragging the lawn mower back and forth, the sun was beating down on all of our backs, a breeze whispering through the grass softly playing with Baby’s hair.
And then it began to snow.
What now?!
It was the end of Spring and Puddle had frozen.
This past week the majority of the husbands on our married patch had disappeared to either instruct courses, attend team building camps or, in some circumstances, some had been deployed long term. This only means one thing, Momma is boss. Head honcho. Hefe. Queen B.
It means we now assume 100% responsibility … for everything.
From childcare to mealtimes, groceries to doctors appointments, dog walking to lawn mowing, house work to parent/ teacher meetings, play dates to paracetamol, football practice to tea parties, hosting to bin collection, tantrums to teenagers, homework to period cramps, nursing to nightmares.
All on us. No respite. More often than not alone with no family within helpful reach.This can be for a week to months at a time.
We got this! With a smile, a bit of grace and a lot of patience. Often with the knowledge that there is a bottle of wine somewhere.
Until He sent me a picture of the sunset in some far flung eastern country where he was enjoying a cold beer with colleagues at the end of a long day.
Cue a self pitying melt down.
Frustration at how insensitive He can sometimes be when He knows he can walk out of the door and rightly assume that I have everything covered, that He doesn’t need to give His departure a second thought. Exhaustion, with the physicality of daily life and the monotony of it.
Resentment over the fact I also want a sunset and a child free cold beer in a different country whilst contributing something important to the world. *stamps foot and pouts
And breathe.Having seethed for the good part of thirty minutes at the complete injustice of the world I took a mental step back. How was this energy sapping little hissy fit making me happy, independent and content? It wasn’t. It was silly and … errr… marginally disproportionate.
Rise above the exhaustion, the resentment, the bitterness, the jealousy and take a peek down at your life. How ridiculously, wonderfully lucky are you? I poured a glass of wine. Cold. White. Inexpensive. And wrote myself a list, the things that make me so joyfully happy and grateful that they physically bring a smile to my face.Him:
People ask how we met. It’s a short story that no one believes so we tell them we met in a bar. Everyone believes that.
Online. We met online, on a dating website called Uniformdating.com. I had just moved back to England after many years of working abroad, and having secured a fast paced job and a delightful circle of friends in The Big City, I felt content. I’m not gonna lie, I felt like Bridget Jones. Ah man. I was Bridget Jones. Big knickers, disastrous dates and bountiful ambition drowned in shots of vodka and snorting laughter.
After one particularly frivolous evening in a wine bar I watched a midnight episode of Cops whilst eating my ramen noodles sitting cross legged on the sofa (the epitome of class) Men in uniform. Now that’s hot. And safe. Very responsible choice. The next advert break flashed up a limited offer to join uniformdating.com. My logic being slightly skewed by the post work bottle/s of Pinot Grigio I reckoned that online dating couldn’t be any safer than online dating someone in uniform, someone who served the Queen! Once registered I spent the rest of my night amusing myself with the menu of uniformed men presented to me. And then I saw Him. Some how I just knew. Can that even classed as love at first sight?
Our first meeting was perfect. We met in a buzzing little bar in the centre of London packed to the rafters with jostling city suits and skirts, the electricity was immediate, the attraction was mutual. Our evening was saturated with laughter and flirting, exquisite food and appreciation. We held hands, we drank cocktails. He says I proposed. I’m not even going to try and deny it. Give me a Mojito and a view over London from the 29th floor of a five star hotel at midnight and I probably did. He was the gentleman every woman dreams of meeting.
And I met him! Then I married him.
He gave me the security I craved. He made me laugh, not only when I wanted to, but when I needed to. We were passionate. We were stubborn. We fought. We made up. We shared dreams and desserts. He stood by me, I stood by him. It was the greatest of starts.
Fast forward a couple of years and we still fight, we are still stubborn, we are still opinionated, wine sipping extroverts, but its calming down. The dust is settling on this new life fraught with constant upheaval and craziness that is military life and through it all, we are still best friends, I can count on him to be there for me no matter what. I know he is proud of me, of our little family, of what we have achieved so far and my goodness we have so much more to conquer! We are evolving. Together and as individuals. Our dreams are getting bigger, our expectations are dissipating. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have our precious Baby, our adventures or my sanity that is this blog.
So after I have spent the day dragging rubbish bins around, picking up dog poo, marching the length of the coast line with a push chair, crawling after a toddler, elbow deep in washing up water, chatting to lambs, cooking dinner, navigating bath time, hoovering up the remnants of a tantrum and finding peanut butter sandwiches crammed down the sides of sofas and He decides the best course of action is to send me a picture of the sunset in some far flung eastern country, whilst enjoying an ice cold beer with his colleagues after a busy day saving the world. I breathe and remember that at least he is alive and healthy. At least he is mine. That he is a great dad, a wonderful husband. He is my best friend and there is no one else that I trust more to make a killer mug of hot chocolate. He also looks damn fine in his uniform.
And then I get into bed and lie in the middle. Because I can. I’m grateful for that.
Baby
Pregnancy. Nope. No thank you. Nuh uh. Non.
Baby. Yes. Yup. The best. Life changing. Worth the broken vagina.
How do you describe how happy your child makes you to someone else?
You can’t.
But you know when it feels like your chest is going to explode with love, pride and appreciation? Just looking at the perfect features, the quirky characteristics. Listening to the conversations, the sleepy snuffling. Feeling the arms around your neck, the head resting on your shoulder. Tasting the chocolate on the fingers and the sea salt in their hair.
Being the one half that created the miracle whose hand seeks yours.
That smile? My heart beats a little faster every time.
Tell them you love them every chance you get.
I. Am. So. Grateful.
Dog
Deciding to acquire a dog when you are in the military is rather admirable. With the amount of moving, deployment and time spent in a car up and down the country it is hardly recommended. We got Dog on a wing and a prayer when Baby was a few weeks old. One of the main reasons was that with Him spending so much time away from his young family I needed to feel safe in our home alone. However, as we soon discovered, Dog would welcome anyone through our front door, back door, bathroom window. With a wagging tail he would help someone carry the television down the garden path and would probably show them where the chocolate biscuits were hidden so in the end Dog has become our housemate. Our dapper, wet nosed, pure bred housemate. Having experienced life in the military with a growing family I can see how a dog should appeal to everyone. Every time we have moved the one thing that has forced me out of the house initially is Dog, who needs walking, getting me out into the fresh air means I breathe, I meet people, I smile, I get wet, I get hot, I get to have a good old nose at peoples houses and front gardens. I laugh at Dog bounding up and down the lanes, his pink tongue lolloping along side. I am burning calories, I am allowed to day dream, to take photographs of my surroundings, to watch the sky change. The hour long walks get my heart beating, it releases endorphins which in itself reduces stress and anxiety. When I get home, I feel good on every level, and all I did was take the dog for a walk.
Dog and Baby have known each other from their day one. They play, they roll, they lick, they nibble, they chase. They love each other. What a wonderful bond for a human to learn at such a young age. Every morning as Baby and I plod down the stairs the excitement and joy on both of their faces is palpable, it’s like they’re shouting, “Its a new day! It’s a new day!” When Baby first learnt how to kiss, who was the first to be ordained into the special Baby kisses club? Dog. As they grow together their bond will become tighter, they will have never known a world without each other and with that I know they will never let each other down.
Similarly, a family dog is a constant. When your military life is constantly changing, different houses, different neighbours, different friends, different schools … who remains quietly at a families side, never changing, never saying goodbye? Its your trusting, reliable canine housemate, Dog.
Get a dog. Cheaper than another sibling and a gym membership.
*side note: Picking up poop does not make me smile. There is a lot of poop.
Prosecco
The nectar of the gods. Having discovered and studied (yes, seriously) it over the past two years let me be the one to tell you of its beauty. Unlike champagne with its stuck up reputation, it is lively, it is the people’s party. It sparkles and bounces. Sweet and crisp, it doesn’t require an occasion. It is the tipple of spontaneity, it is to be had with a group of friends in the late afternoon sun, garnished with raspberries, while watching the kids on the trampoline.
It is to be shared with your husband on a Tuesday evening with a dash of elderflower cordial whilst watching ten year old Friends re-runs on the sofa together as dinner cooks in the oven.
It is to be topped over crushed ice, apple juice and fresh mint leaves at the Married Patch weekend barbecue, a sure way to make even the most burnt burgers seem gourmet.
It is to be had in a chilled flute on its own, by you, whilst lying in a deep bubble bath late at night (because you remembered to pop the hot water on). Eyes closed, dreams, aspirations and hopes flitting across your mind as you listen to Pacheibel’s Canon in D (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVn2YGvIv0w) and allow it to ignite something inside you.
Best part about it? You can pick up a decent bottle for under a tenner. If that doesn’t bring a smile to your face … then I don’t think we can be friends.
Mine and His Top Three Bottles:
1. The Co-Operative Prosecco – A prosecco with a light and delicate palate of pear, white apple with subtle floral hints and fine bubbles which makes it the ideal aperitif. This one is our favourite. Normally retails at £9.99, currently on offer for £6.66
2. Sainsbury’s Own – Sainsbury’s Conegliano Prosecco, Taste the Difference. Dry and fruity, it’s a beauty! Normally retails for £10.00, but look out for regular offers, the other day we found it for £7.50.
3. Perlezza Rose Spumante Brut -Unusually dry and not aromatic, it is elegant, refreshing and crisp with wisps of apple. This is the one that I would pop the raspberries into. Normally retails for around £9.00, but recently found it at The One Shop in Puddle for £6.00!
Candles
Regardless of where you are, who you are or who you are with, a candle can create something magical. A candle can calm, it can mourn, it can settle, it can soothe, it can bring piece and serenity. I have candles for bed time, for bubble baths, for colds. I light them to meditate. I burn them to smell the luxurious scents that wonder through our home on any particular occasion. At Christmas the winterberries and cinnamon sticks twirl round our living room like sugar plum fairies. My bedside candle is infused with smells of island life and surround me when I’m deep in thought, far, far away. A blocked nose? A eucalyptus and lime scented wax can ease your snuffles and swamp your mind with refreshing clarity. The gentle flickering, the crackle, the simplicity.
The beauty of it is that they are so easy to make and that at the same time you are indulging in the creation of something that can bring joy to you or someone else … it can only enlighten your soul and makes you a better person. It is so simple. But then … so is everything.
When I first started making them I referred to reallyprettyuseful.co.uk, the author is so sweet and funny in her tutoring that you want to make one immediately. After I initially read it I lost the name of her website and it took me ages to find it again, trawling through pages of google. Nope, didn’t realise I could of just looked at my internet history. How I manage to publish a blog is beyond me.
Right so. Shopping list for candles:
Bag of wax beads – I recommend Soy wax, it burns nicely and isn’t full of artificial rubbish. Alternatively just collect up all of the old candles you have lying around the house.
What do you want your candle to sit in? A shot glass, a jam jar, a teacup …. its yours, pop it in whatever you want.
Essential oils – to add a scent to your candles. Coconut, ylang ylang, bergamot, rose, vanilla … all settle beautifully in the wax, but the choice is yours, go crazy!
Wicks – Don’t just buy the string of wick … it is a nightmare to keep it still and straight while pouring and setting the wax. pre-waxed wicks are a miracle in their own right!
Once you have bought everything, pop onto reallyprettyuseful.co.uk and there really is nothing stopping you.
All of the above can be purchased very easily on Amazon and once you have had a few practice runs there is no stopping you! What could start out as something you do in the evening for yourself could become presents for friends, family and neighbours, could become a small business, could become an empire! Make them from the goodness of your heart, with the intended purpose of joy and the result will be perfect.
*If you aren’t in the position to buy any of these things or time is not of the essence or you need a bit of a pick me up, the first ten people to subscribe to my blog and e-mail their postal address, I’ll send you one of the BedSide Candles that I have made.
Praying
I am not religious so I won’t pretend to speak as if I am. I don’t know what I am. I think I would be classed as spiritual if I had to tick a box on a form.
I believe I am a soul on a journey that I have chosen. I am responsible for the way I think, the way I feel and the way my life path unfolds. I believe in asking for what I want, both emotionally and physically, I believe in asking to be protected. To be guided. I believe in banishing negativity with the belief that what you emit from your being is mirrored back to you and it isn’t worth the set back. It’s a lot easier to want the best for yourself, to love yourself, the people around you and to embrace the life you are navigating, than it is to resist and fight it. Who do I pray to? Hmmmm. The sky. Arch Angels, my guardian angel. There are no bended knees, no clasped hands, I just let my mind wonder, out loud, as I go about my day or whilst I’m lying quietly in bed, or when I’m walking Dog. I test the universe daily and every time I am rewarded with the answers and with proof that my energies are aligned exactly as they should be.
I can’t push my beliefs onto anyone… it is such a beautiful experience when you discover it on your own. You world bursts open into another realm of colour, of endless possibilities, of stillness.
It is the universal law of attraction – what you put out, you get back. You can have whatever you want. Just ask. And believe. Same as any religion really, huh?
There is an incredible woman, Esther who transcribes the readings of Abraham Hicks and if you have a ten minute period in your day listen to her piece on testing the universe. Do it. Nothing to lose. Listen to it while you wash up, whilst you’re driving, while you are in the shower. If anything, she has a lovely voice!
Testing the Universe – Esther Hicks
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=um5WvBOrjDM
Be grateful for the freedom of thought and allow your mind to wonder and discover. If neither religion or spirituality appeal you give thanks anyway, you must have come from somewhere, and thats pretty awesome in itself.
Oh, and that thing that you want to do? Go do that.
Before marriage and children chocolate wasn’t on my radar. Neither were period cramps actually. Funny how life works.
Chocolate is now very much on my radar and in my cupboards and hidden behind the sofa and in my bedside drawer.
It is the indulgence that I slip towards most evenings that doesn’t need justification. I caress it with my mind as much as with my tongue. It is a love affair. You don’t need telling about my kinky acts with the cacau bean. You conduct your own, I’m sure.
I indulge in greater quantities when He is away, not only because I miss him and there is a gaping space on the sofa, but generally because he is not present to witness the vast amounts I can errrr…. indulge in.
This is my go to recipe when I am feeling deserved of comfort and pleasure. It is for one individual serving. Yours.
http://pinterest.com/pin/A5gJeAAQgBcHTsfRxWsAAAA/
Puddle began to thaw over a couple of days, shaken from the shock of the sudden dusting of snow and frost, completely being dismissed of the explosion of summer it had been about to pour down on us. The sun poked its head out from behind the clouds every once in a while, but was almost always whisked away by blasts of wind. Our morning walks became layered and waterproofed, the cherry blossoms plastered to the tarred roads and mown grass shivering in clumps. It was a delightful change to the stuffiness that was home. The gusts would push us along as Baby and I would sing nursery rhymes at the tops of our voices, only stopping to greet the cows and sheep, sometimes the farmers wife and very occasionally a brave hiker that had stumbled into our two man 1 dog band. Summer would come, we were sure of it, Puddle hadn’t let us down yet.
Until next time xoxo
*Puddle, not its real name.
From Beer Garden to Back Garden – A Lesson in Spontaneity
A few days after my positively dramatic amble along the wild unadulterated coast line I will admit that it did hit me that we were not here for a bank holiday weekend (we’re the type to actually bring the kitchen sink) but we were to live here. I mean really. There is one shop. Even now when I say that in my head, “There is one shop,” my voice sounds high pitched and screechy. It sells bread, milk, pot noodles and wine which granted are all fairly relevant to my life, but still … ONE shop. There isn’t even a village pub, because Puddle* isn’t really a village, it is a long road of quaint stone built fishermen’s cottages with a field at the end of it. We live in the field. Why did I agree to this?! I’ll tell you why. It made my husband happy. That is what I do now. And after my last post, I will make me happy too. I will reinvent, I will seek and I will explore.
After I have ordered my nail polish online.
A month or two after the move Spring finally sprung. It felt like the lid had been lifted from the gloomy Tupperware box we had all been living in. I awoke one morning to see the sun (yes, the actual flipping sun!) large and round and orange rising majestically over the rippling bay and casting our crescent in a scarlet hue. As He dressed for work, ate his porridge and watched the news I slipped Baby into the pushchair as Dog skipped excitedly around my ankles singing my praises. The One Shop didn’t sell it so gosh darn we were popping out to bathe our faces in some vitamin D.
As the three of us toddled along the pavement, sticks in mouths – me not included, it was very apparent that winter had retreated. Overnight daffodil shoots had appeared along every kerb, every stone wall of every front garden, every bus stop (the only one) … short green stems with vague yellow tips. Everyone I met that morning smiled a little brighter, as if we all knew a secret but couldn’t say what it was unless we were to jinx it. A knowing glint in the eye, a tip of a hat. I was tempted to start a handshake. Too much?
The one person who did comment on how utterly glorious the mornings were becoming was Farmer Forsythe, however I hardly ever understood what he said just as I knew he couldn’t understand me. For me it was his thick, Northern accent, for him … I think he thought I was the village idiot – who may I add, wears very fashionable wellies and very pink lip stick. The winds up here are notoriously strong and had been incredibly so in our first few weeks, so strong that it would numb my entire face including my lips and gums making conversing rather difficult due to not actually being able to form words and not knowing that I was probably, definitely drooling (every time!). Still, as I passed through his farm yard every day we both would continue attempted courteous chat, mostly pointing at the sky, nodding and smiling inanely.
Within weeks the blue bells were emerging from the golden piles of stranded winter on the woodland floor. The daffodils, literally thousands of them, piled along the streams, the lawns, the roads, the hidden paths, the entire village wallowed in glorious golden yellows and plump oranges. The pungent smell of freshly cut grass wafted in on the sea breeze every evening, the tractors silhouetted against the plum coloured skies.
The hedgerows, once like thorny bird cages were now flush with shades of green and excited chirrups. Puddle was fizzing with life. Even The One Shop had managed a display of buckets and spades! Our morning treks along the farms and coast became lazy strolls along the beach, plopping onto the sand half way along so that Baby could splodge about and so that Dog could explore the rock pools at a leisurely pace. The tide was often out exposing mile upon mile of glistening rock until at some distant point the blues of the skies met the blues of the ocean again. Many times the only prints in the sand would be mine and Dogs and those of the sheep and the cows who lived for most of the year in the grassy dunes. Occasionally on the horizon you could spot someone on their horse galloping far out into the surf and back up again into the rolling meadows.
Baby, Dog and I were lolloping back up through the farm one late, breathless morning, all of us covered in sand, smiles and sandwich filling, when the farmer waved us over to a lopsided old shed, not daring to speak in case I even pretended to dribble in response, we went over and after putting a finger to his lips (he did that, I did not put my finger to his lips!) we peered around the shed door and as our eyes adjusted to the dim light Baby, Dog and I watched in hushed awe at the simple, magnificent birth of the first lamb of the season. We named him George.
That morning will stay with me forever. How your definition of perfection can change.
With the warmer months comes a heightened sense of spontaneity and it is the main ingredient for the creation of a fabulous life within the boundaries of the military. This week I am going to share with you some of my fondest memories of cementing friendships, courtships and relationships with the hope they will inspire you to throw your hands up and allow the river of life to bob you along in the right direction.
The Annual Summer Ball. Not spontaneous in the least. Happens every year. In the summer.
It is the day after the summer ball which matters and which can render that weekend successful or not. The day post ball you can either, and this is completely normal and an unwritten rule, cower in the silent darkness of your bedroom with the almightiest of hangovers, surfacing every few hours to imbibe water, medication and grease. Occasionally wondering if you have children and if you do assuming they are still alive. Unfurling from your self pitying foetal position from time to time to seek cooler climbs amongst your duvets and pillows. Finally reappearing around dusk to construct a make shift fort of comfort on the sofa to then gaze forlornly at the flickering television screen for a few hours before surrendering. Or!
Or you could wake up as I did a few years ago post ball and pre Baby and Dog, with a pounding head of back combed hair full of hairspray and glitter. There will always be glitter, even if you have never owned glitter. My mascara had sealed my eyes lashes together and my mouth tasted like a cow shed. Upon steadying myself enough to find a glass and water and some paracetamol I also happened to notice that it was an absolute blinder of a day. The sky was a deep corn flower blue and you could just tell that if I opened a window (which was a definite priority in the state we were in) it would smell like summer. You know, that warm smell pumping with excitement and possibilities?
Retreating back to bed, having paused in the bathroom to peel apart my eyes and scour my mouth with a chisel and copious amount of toothpaste, I managed to awaken Him enough to survey the possibilities. He had a pulse. Good enough.We sent a message out to all of our friends who had attended the previous nights respectful debauchery completely expecting replies of horror and threats of harm, but amazingly their universes aligned themselves with ours. Within hours we all found ourselves in a parade of cars, windows wound down, pale faces tumbling forth, winding our way down sunny tree lined back roads, the crickets bantering from the hedges, waves of corn rippling in the late morning breeze, larks soaring high in the sky.
Shakily piling out of our wagons, sunglasses glued to many a forlorn face there seemed to be about twelve of us. Twelve of us standing outside of a village pub. We had come to a beer festival.Within the hour bacon baps were devoured, pints of orange and lemonade were slurped and as we all lay there dozing in the midday sun life began to seep back into these weary vessels.
Us ladies arranged ourselves in a circle, hand bags in the middle of course, comparing states of undress and head aches, attempting to compile a menagerie of memories from the ball that didn’t make us blush with embarrassment. No memories then!
The men folk went off in search of supplies, returning beaming with pride at having found a local farmer selling his own sparkling wine. A cork popped, cascading bubbles, a few stomaches turned at the sight of the foamy spray, but once the crisp rosy gold liquid passed your lips, combined with the warmth of the sunshine and the sounds of the folk band starting up, a heady glow descended upon a circle of friends who had not a care in the world. That afternoon hangovers were forgotten as were the formalities of the military social occasion and were replaced with heads on laps, burgers in brioche, sticky meat juices running down chins. Guitars strumming out soft, sweet country melodies. Lying in the long, yellow grasses of the pub acreage, a balmy breeze cooling the condensation on the small heap of sparkling wine bottles that had gathered as the hours meandered on by. Laughter and stories. Ice lollies and snoozes. Picnic tables crammed with families young and old, children and dogs scampering and shrieking with delight, the smell of barbecues drifting under our noses. The hot sun crawling lazily towards the horizon.
As the skies dimmed to slate and the band turned it up a notch, our bare feet with a hundred others began tapping in time with the beat. We were all crazy happy in the middle of the countryside, in the middle of an English summer and as we all looked at each other we silently agreed this was perfection. Spontaneous perfection.
My second memory of significant spontaneity was once again whilst child and pet free, what a coincidence! However with the right amount of support it is definitely still possible.
It was a chilly, damp Wednesday morning and He and I were squashed into the corner of a dinky patisserie in St Pancras’s bustling train station. Him sipping a latte, me a hot chocolate … with cream and standard marshmallow. I had come to wish Him bon voyage as he was off to Paris on the Eurostar and then flying forth on to a secret mission in the darkest depths of west Africa. Draining the last from our soup bowl style mugs, we hugged for a long time, swapped “I love you.”s and then he was gone. For how long, I wasn’t sure, but it would be long enough to justify watching Bridget Jones many, many times. As I mooched through the murky streets of London that morning on my way to the office I kind of wished it was me heading out to delve into a dangerous mission, flying across oceans to shores dotted with pirates and corruption. Catching my reflection in a shop window I remembered that I didn’t actually own a shoe without a towering heel attached. It would be highly impractical.
The following day He rang to tell me he was being delayed by a few days and had to remain in Paris while the necessary visas were compiled. Pause. Crackling phone line. Did I want to come to Paris for the weekend? Errr. Yes. I mean… oui!
After a quick phone call to the boss, and by that I mean a brief chat about how short life is with a smidgen of pity and a dabble of empty promises, I was off out of that office quicker than you can say omelette du frommage. Which, if you know how to say it, is pretty quick.By the next morning I was tottering through the Eurostar check – in having batted my lashes into an upgrade to first class and three hours later I was arriving into Paris’ Garde du Nord Station. Albeit a little worse for wear due to the unlimited goes the crew had let me have on the complimentary wine and cheese trolley. Falling romantically into His arms he whisked me off in the back of a taxi, the Eiffel Tower, twinkling delicately, whilst looming out of an orange haze as the sun set over the city of infatuated lust. A quick shower and change of clothes and we bounced out of our hotel as quickly as we could, ready for our first Parisian adventure together, we bundled into the first french bistro we found. A Spanish tapas bar. So giddy with excitement and frivolity were we that it didn’t matter. An hour, and many small dishes of food, later we rounded a corner and found ourselves amongst a deluge of Parisian bars and restaurants. A chill had risen from the Seine but every where had plenty of gas heaters dotted about so we sat at a wonky little table on the pavement, sipping wine, smoking long, elegant French cigarettes and chatting animatedly, to each other, to the waiters and to anyone who dared to mutter a greeting to us. It was a long night filled with an excessive amount of glorious food, drink and tres bon conversation. It ended in the early hours of the morning at a smoky little bar within walking distance of the hotel where we gave something back to French culture. We taught them how to make a Jaegerbomb. Because people, that is how we roll.
It was late Saturday morning by the time He went out to collect our breakfast crepes and coffee. That day we walked aimlessly around Paris, arm in arm, taking in all of the sights and scenes whilst the sky drenched us with unseasonable sleet and snow. Actually we spent a lot of time taking in all the sights and scenes whilst sheltering in various cafes and bistros. We drank a record number of hot chocolates that day. All with cream and standard marshmallow… But it was So. Much. Fun. There are no rules when it comes to spontaneity, we didn’t have to do anything. We mulled and meandered across parks, down cobbled avenues, through galleries and boutiques, huddled into each other, our own little world of discovery. Once we had had our fill we hopped on to the subway back to our hotel stopping at a bustling street market to dash through the pouring rain to pick up a rotisserie chicken, a bucket of creamy dauphinois potatoes, steaming hot french baguettes and a stinking pile of cheese. Arriving back at our hotel we stripped from our sodden clothes, blasted the heating and crawled into our bed for an evening of pure decadence. We feasted upon our market finds with wine in tea cups while a french radio station soaked us in classic French ambiance, eventually lulled to sleep by the sound of the rain on the windows.
It was spontaneous perfection.
Soon people were making their way back to our communal patch of grass dragging lamps and coffee tables, candles and canapés, house plants and bar fridges. Extension cables were found and hooked up and all of a sudden a quick drink with our grown up, respectable neighbours in the afternoon sun had become our first full blown house party that was not in a house.
As a chilly wind was swept in from the sea sleeping bags were commandeered as were blankets and slippers. If you had been a person who was lost and you had stumbled upon this scene you would have turned around and marched straight back in the opposite direction. Smart move. Although if we had seen you we would have invited you over.
The moon soon rose from the inky waters edge, blood red and shimmering giving our outside living an eery glow. An incredibly smart person, probably me, put in a call for pizza delivery and as the young, spotty teenager pulled up with our order we shouted to him to pop on a little music … which he gallantly did, turning up his car radio and flicking his hazards on we all had a little boogey before dinner. Some one produced some glow sticks. We are parents for goodness sake!
Lying in bed a few hours later, our sleeping bag dumped at the front door soaked with dew, a lamp on the draining board and pizza in the fridge for breakfast I smiled sleepily to myself. Puddle was quite perfect.
Spontaneously perfect.
If being spontaneous is a scary word to you for whatever reason; kids, work, knackered, need to hoover, start small.
For example, how about…
A virtual holiday, either with your husband or some fellow wives, spin the globe and wherever your finger lands Google Earth it and plan your ‘Virtual Vacation’ for the following night or the next week. Did you land on Italy? Make some Bellini’s (peach juice and Prosecco – YUM!), create your own pizza’s –https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCAPjIVOdJw, eat lots of cheese and don’t forget to say, “ciao!” and, “bellissima” a lot!
Get physical, Grab the dog, get out into the fresh air and get your heart beating. No dog? Some earphones with some great music or a captivating audio book (I find listening to Abraham Hicks inspiring and exciting –http://www.abraham-hicks.com/lawofattractionsource/mp3downloads.php) Feel happy. Speak to the sky about your hopes, your dreams, your fears, just chat, let it all go. Breathe. No, breathe properly … as you inhale let your stomach expand and your lungs fill. How lucky are you to be able to do that?!
Breathe out obviously.
Smile. At a stranger
https://blog.bufferapp.com/the-science-of-smiling-a-guide-to-humans-most-powerful-gesture
Until next time,
xoxo
*Puddle – not it’s real name.
The Real Military Housewife 