The eighth birthday party has come and gone. Eight girls and two little brothers sitting round a table stringing beads onto bracelets, sandwiching their pictures between glass cabochons & pendant backings, gluing pink plastic roses to hair clips. Eating pizza, followed by scoops of vanilla ice cream swimming in chocolate sauce and hundreds & thousands. Running in the garden. Playing pass the parcel (commonly known in our house by the Moose’s name for it: parcel parcel). Chatting about their dreams (this particuluarly funny to listen to); discussing their creations. It seemed to be a good one. We remembered her at two — how excited she was when her first guest arrived & she thundered along the landing to peer down the stairs & see who it was.
And now Monday lunchtime (or at least it was when I first wrote this). The older children are at school. The Pip-Pop, who at almost two and a half is resisting napping more and more, is sleeping after a morning swim with his best friend. I’m looking over my plans for the week. Trying to see where I can slot in some writing, where I can make more time for reading. Next week they will only have four days at school & then another ten days off. After that a run of eight weeks through to the summer holidays. The garden is full of blue: wisteria next door, alkanet everywhere, forget-me-nots & the last of the bluebells. Perfect for the post-elections blues.