Monthly Archives: August 2012

Welcome To My Council House

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Yesterday I learned a lot, which I rather apt really because I woke up with sleepy eyes and heavy limbs and that feeling of impending doom and excited butterflies that only a first day at school can bring.

At 9am I prised open a bucket of paint and painted a ceiling until my arms were numb and the room was full of paint fumes and my face, clothes and hair suitably splattered with white specks making me look like someone who has made a token effort. My eagerness was 99% due to the fact that:
a) I was super nervous about meeting all these new people
b) people are bestowing me with time and money and things and love and after such a difficult 19 months that all feels a bit woah
c) the nerves damn it, the nerves!

A few hours later and after meeting DomesticGoddesque, CoffeeCurls, Mammasaurus, TwoUnderTwoToo, MissieLizzie and SeasiderInTheCity and with goodies courtessy of MummyBarrow and CheetahsInMyShoes we had covered as much of the house as possible with over 25 litres of paint. Phew.

PND has pretty much hidden me from the world for the last 19 months, not to mention rendering me extremly self-critical, withdrawn, anxious and almost unable to do anything without the husband there for reassurance or help. But with talk of how crazy the situation is and how lovely people can be and about the importance of being open to help echoing around the house as it bounced off freshly painted walls something just as crazy happened. In a small way I remembered who I could be, who I was, and how it feels to be surrounded by friends who care.

We talked about starting school and mutual friends and learning to walk and surviving on £30 a week, about how anyone could find themselves in a situation like this and about how my kitchen resembles a vagina (Annie) and that pampas grass in the front garden means we’re swingers (who knew? MissieLizze seemed very clued up on the protocals).

The five of us, together with MissieLizzies husband (who is awesome because he brought us ice creams and we didn’t even have to ask. And because he painted a whole ceiling with a tiny paintbrush.) and her (frankly banana obsessed) daughter didn’t stop until nearly 7pm. We painted and painted and painted and with each brushstroke the rooms got a little lighter and I felt happier and more humbled and appreciative than I have in a long time.

Everyone asked me how I stay so positive. Believe me, I want to crumble. I want to cry and shout and scream and hide until it all goes away. I can see the mould and the stains and the filth. I can smell the ammonia and the damp. I can feel the absolute rage at the unfairness of everything and the helplessness of not knowing how we are going to get through this – because making the house safe is step one, living and surviving and recovering is the biggest hurdle. My positivity comes from Beans, from my desperation to protect her from thing she doesn’t need to know or see or feel. I can’t crumble because what about her? I can’t fight the good fight for everyone and complain until something is done because I need all that fight (selfishly) in my own belly to get us through this.

In a nod to remarks about ‘benefit culture’ and ‘getting something for nothing’ – there is no such thing as a free ride or something for nothing. We, like thousands of other families across the country, have found ourselves living this life through no fault of our own. This is not the life that we want or hoped for or dreamed about. No one would want to carry their baby over nettles and broken glass into a front door of a house that is in no way fit for habitation. A house that we have to pay to rent and for upkeep and bills before we have even thought about food and nappies and clothes on our extremely limited weekly budget. Yes, it’s amazing that a system exists that means a home for those in need, who can’t afford the huge deposits needed for private rental and who have nowhere else to go. But it’s not free and it’s not nice and it’s not easy by any stretch of the imagination.

When we flung brushes and rollers into a bucket of water and locked the door behind us as the sun set on the day I felt better than I have done in a long time. Because yes, life may be shit times a million but every now and again it reminds you what matters – kindness and love and support and friendship. Without that, without a community rallying around you, where would any of us be?

Home Notes #19

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A week better described as a bonkers few days where we stopped not for breath but just for cuddles.


A phone that’s never stopped buzzing with emails and messages and plans and ideas. A husband forever covered in dust and paint and bits of old wallpaper and at 6pm every evening, his daughter; laughing and smiling and shining, thrilled to see him after a long day with just her mummy. A toddler with a huge imagination that has blossomed overnight and absorbs everyone around her into her very own little happy world.


Trip after trip to DIY stores, baking cakes and drawing chalk pictures on the ground. As close to ‘normal’ as I think we’ve ever been.


And it feels OK.


An Infinitytrillion Thank Yous

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Every now and then something a little bit awesome happens. Something unexpected and beautiful and perhaps a little crazy that seems to come just a the right time, like a smile and a big hug from a toddler who has driven you to your wits end all day, it makes everything feel OK again.

I have been absolutely overwhelmed by the sheer amount of kindness and caring and love that has been poured out by the blogging community (especially) over the last few days. I am so proud to be part of it all but, and I still consider myself a relative newcomer to the scene, I have really seen what a genuine community it can be over the last few days.

One that pulls together and reaches out to help people that they have never met and only know through words and posts and tweets. And that’s just amazing.

The lovely duo that is Mammasaurus and Cambridge Mummy will (super kindly) be spending some time with me next Sunday to help with some of the work that needs doing.

I’m a little bit nervous. Liz is a proper grown up who is not scared of taking on horrible old ladies or tweeting the council for answers, Annie is, well she’s Annie (do I curtsey when I meet her?).

But mainly I am hugely grateful. And not just for their help but to all of you for supporting and encouraging me, offering things from toys to pans and paint and loveliness. You’re all beyond fantastic.

Updates will come as and when it’s possible this week, in between psychological assessments and wallpaper stripping and toddler wrangling. At least I’m keeping busy eh?

In the meantime, please check out Annie’s post about it all here and mine are here and here

Home Notes #18

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This week it feels like so much and so little has happened all at once and my head is spinning and my daughter is running circles around my legs and things threaten to spiral out of control while I stand, dizzily trying to make sense of it all.

We got the keys to our house a few days ago which turned out to be both a relief and a worry. That relief and worry has since turned into our lives as we try to get a grasp of what we need to do and sign and paint and organise.


And then there was this. A post written really as a thank you that somehow for some reason took off (and in ways is still taking off) and has left me with a bursting inbox to reply to and tears at people kindness and more tears at people’s superficial judgements.

Seven days that are impossible to capture in photographs, so I’m sharing only one because it is of all that matters, no matter what else may be happening. And a bird on a wire, just because.


BAM

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Until now I have been selective with the images that I have shown of our new home, I’m not really sure why that is. It’s not our decoration or mess or rubbish or damage so I have nothing to be embarrassed about do I? We have simply inherited what has been left by a combination of the previous owners efforts and the councils rip it all out and ignore the rest approach.

Maybe part of me has been reluctant to share because it makes it real doesn’t it? BAM! Here’s a photo of our home in all it’s glory, this is our reality. Maybe it’s because I’m worried you might all see something that I don’t and say ‘oh it’s fine! You’re worried about nothing’ or worse, that I’m ungrateful because it’s been provided by the government and it’s cheep and a damn sight better than being left homeless. I know. I can see Jeremy Kyle curling his lip as he spits ‘grow a pair, put something on the end of it and grow up because we’re paying for you and your baby’ at me. I really, really know.

Yesterday I wrote this and after a day offline I logged onto support and care and love and loveliness that made me sob a little and floored me a bit at just how amazing a community can be. Thanks in the most part to a certain flame haired goddess of blogging my post got around and people wanted to help.

Now, I’m not great with help. I’m learning and I’m trying to get better at accepting it when I need to but frankly no one wants to say that they can’t provide what their family needs do they? I certainly never expected, in a millionmillionmillion years to get the response that I did. Really, I am amazed and touched and just wow.

So because you’re all so lovely and you asked and it means so much and I really have no way to thank you I have decided that honesty is the way forward. But please know that this is not me asking for charity or begging or taking advantage. |This is not me asking for pity. Truly, having such a lovely bunch behind me gives me all that I need.

Landing

BAM! Here is our house. I don’t think the photos do it justice. Mainly because they’re dark (no electricity) and were taken covertly when we were being shown around.

Stairs. Obviously

Lounge. The perfectly good flooring was ripped up before we got the keys. Those boxes are the kitchen units

The wallpaper in the main bedroom and lounge needs to be stripped because its really beyond repair, as are the walls that they hide. There is no way that we can afford to carpet the floors so the husband is currently a blur in a mist of sawdust as he sands the floorboards as best as he can in the hope that with a bit of stain they’ll be ok.

Bathroom

Landing

The bathroom is just ick, even after I emptied a bottle of bleach down the toilet, and the thought of touching the vinyl tiles that are stuck directly to the floorboards and ripped up in places makes me come over all funny.

Beans room

Jamie and Joshs Beans room thankfully is probably going to cause us the least bother and this makes me happy because I am determined that we can make it super nice for her to soften the blow of all the unsettled-ness.

Our bedroom

If fact that is why this all hits me so hard, it’s Beans. She’s old enough to be affected but not big enough to properly understand. I want to make a home that is bright and warm and comfortable and above all, safe for her. I want her to be happy there and have toys and space and love, not the current patches of damp and crumbling walls and dangerous garden…

Garden

I have picked up a couple of bits of cheap furniture where I can which I’m actually pretty pleased about a) because it was cheap, b) because it’s retro fabulous and c) because all our money needs stretching as far as it can when we have paint and food and paint and cookers and wood and turf and sofas and paint and flooring and furniture and bleach and everything else to buy too.

So that’s it, that is our reality. If any kindly PRs need furniture reviews or appliance reviews or have spare toys to spoil Beans because I feel so guilty then you know where I am. But your support means more to me than anything.

 Edited to add:

Due to the absolute influx of totally unexpected interest and support over this post I want to add a few things:

As mentioned above, but to clarify, these photographs were taken during the viewing of the property. In the photograph of the lounge you can see boxes which, as stated in the comment below the image, shows new kitchen units which were installed prior to the keys being given to us.

The majority of rubbish has been cleared and when we pointed out the ‘health and safety’ issues that the garden posed, the uneven ground was removed and shingled over. The end of the garden (seen in the photo above) runs alongside a public alley and currently there is no fencing at all along the boundary meaning the rear of the property is totally open. Fencing will be erected there but we are waiting to hear when this work will be done, as well as a repair to the gate to the front garden (it doesn’t open) and the replacement of the broken and graffiti painted kitchen window. The damaged floorboards that you can see in the above images have been replaced and a toilet seat has been fitted.

 The rest of the house remains exactly as these photographs show. We were given a voucher to help towards the costs of ‘decoration’ and although much needed and appreciated it won’t even cover half of the costs per room and all the work will be done by ourselves. I lucked out when I married someone who has the skills needed to do all the work and obviously it is extremely normal to decorate when moving into a new home – however to say we are not shocked at the sheer amount of work needed (all the wallpaper needs removing because of the state it’s in, the floors need work etc etc etc) and the condition in which we received the property would be a lie. It will take much more than a fresh coat of paint and really is not liveable at all, especially with a young toddler. 

I am saying these things now in the hope that it answers the questions that some have asked and to make everyone aware that in no way have I exaggerated things or deliberately omitted information. This post was written merely to illustrate our reality, the life that our family is living right now. I never expected the reaction that it has caused and the support has been overwhelming. In spite of everything, I know that there are people in much worse situations and believe me, I am grateful that we have a system that provides housing to those who need it.

While I’m here I want to thank every single person that has taken time to read, email, comment, tweet and message me. I have had over 500 messages in the 48 hours since this post was published. All of your support means so much to me and I will get back to every single one of you.

Balls

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The room is small and hot and airless, taken up almost entirely by a long desk surrounded by padded chairs with worn seats and hanging threads. Beans busies herself by pacing up and down in the small space between the desk and one grey wall stopping every few lengths to pat my bag and demand a(nother) ‘dak‘ (snack). The woman with bright cherry hair sits opposite and talks about tenancy and liability and benefits and money and windows and doors and antisocial behaviour. Every other sentence trickles into my brain while the others bounce off my skull and hit the floor. My ears seem highly sensitised to pick up the bits about cost and law and ‘I know that the area has an awful reputation but…’. Of course. I nod politely.

The husband signs forms and shows identification and I slip another 5735739 forms into my back where an hour ago a full box of snacks once was, four shiny silver keys are slid across the desk, good luck is offered – ‘its the 13th but at least it’s not a Friday.’ Haha – the pram harness clicks into place and off we go. To the house. Our house.

The door to the Community Office is locked behind us as we file out – a sign? – and we make our way across the estate. People and children and pets line each side of each road, sat on top of walls and wheelie bins, every now and then a car zooms past and drowns out the music and shouting and noise.

We find our house, the one with half a new front door to replace what had been kicked in and I fish around between files of paperwork and toys and books and headphones and dummies to find the keys while I make my way up the front path stinging one side of my foot on nettles on the way. Another sign?

The lock turns and the door swings open revealing a dark, musty and echoing empty space. There is no flooring, no light bulbs, no air. The whole house feels thick with damp and nothingness and we all stop in the middle of what will be our lounge to take it all in. Beans walks over to the corner and stands there silently. I look at her silently and want to sob.

Upstairs survival instinct or something mad kicks in in my brain and I snap into assertive, always look on the bright side mama and armed with a pen and paper take measurements of the walls and note down where the plug sockets are and what will need doing/getting/repairing while making a pull back bee speed a path across the bare floors and into Beans grabbing hands.

Later, when Beans is tucked up in bed at my parents and the husband is ensconced in working out what to do and how and how badly it will all cripple our already crippled finances I agree to giving my mum a viewing. This time, alone and able to be honest rather than psycho positive and smiley, I point out the damp, demonstrate how easily the gaudily painted wood chip in the main bedroom peels from the walls where it has been left hanging shredded and torn. I point out the paint splashed across the floors in every room, the bad repairs which beat the lack of repair no matter how botched they may be. We talk about how much there is to do and how the boarded up glazing in the back door makes the entire downstairs of the house feel dark and cave like. We both wonder allowed at how we are going to be able to afford anything when we have nothing. Neither of us wants to see if the old vinyl tiles in the bathroom will peel off, neither of us wants to hang around for too long in the bathroom.

I explain that the pile of rubble in the front garden should be removed by the end of the week and how the broken widows should be replaced by then too. We wonder why anyone would paint their lounge in dark brown gloss while we aimlessly wonder back through the house until we find ourselves in the kitchen.

A dog barks angrily and I can hear it running at and then clawing the fence next door. I pace out the space for the appliances that we will some how have to buy and point out the graffiti on the window.

Mum, who has seemingly slipped into the mind frame that I had found myself in earlier, tells me how nice it could be and how we can fill it with our things and put our stamp on it and make it a home and maybe the area won’t be so bad.

Mum. I say, someone has graffitied my kitchen window. We both stand and stare at the black spray painted lines with the contemplation usually bestowed on framed canvas hung on white gallery walls.

There is a cock and balls painted on the kitchen window mum.

We lock up and we leave the chaos behind for now while I’m left wishing that I could offer my baby more than this.

Ding Ding, Round One (The Time I Became My Mother)

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A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away when I was round and swollen with child and hormones and cravings and total, absolute, blinding naivety to what being a parent would be like in real life I would tease the husband about how I would be good cop. I wanted to be the nice one that gave out the cuddles and the kisses and got a the fun, frankly, while he would forever be the threat of discipline – don’t make me call your dad, wait till your father gets home, do I need to let your dad know what you’ve been up to – and therefore be the giver of punishment.

A few weeks ago something happened. Something strange and scary and unexpected that chilled me to the bone. How it has not happened until now is a reflection in part on how far removed I have been from the whole full time parenting lark but also on the markedly different way that Beans behaves depending on who she is with. By this I mean how Beans behaves impeccably 95% of the time with me and about 0.05% of the time when she is with her daddy. This could be because I am more lenient or because I just way more super fun-er-er. The jury is still out.

Anyway…The sun was shining and me and Beans were outside in the garden being silly and chasing each other. All of a sudden she stopped in the middle of a hoppy, skippy, toddlery stride and zoned in on a particularly big particularly pink flower in the beds next to the path. I could practically hear her thoughts. They mainly consisted of ‘ooooooooooh. OOOOOOOOH!‘ and ‘mine‘ while her eyes glinted and her hand twitched before her fingers unfurled and slowly, slowly, reached out to grasp the delicate petals.

No! I say in my sternest voice, a little tip I remember from watching Supernanny years ago. I frown. We don’t pick grandads flowers. Don’t touch. Beans puts her hands behind her back and looks down at the floor, her ‘my bad, sorry’ pose makes me immensely proud. Good girl, thank you for listening to me. She looks up, she grins and then in a flash that sparkle is back and her arm darts out and her hand is around the whole flower and pull. FFS.

I kneel down and tell her to look at me while I give the you have been bad and this is why and this is why you don’t do things like that speech while in my head I’m bracing myself because I know that it’s going to be me in the shit when grandad gets back to a flowerless stem.

Beans wonders off to dig some sand in her sandpit with her spoon (the spade is too big for delicate work) and I dispose of the flowery evidence over the garden wall and hope all is forgotten.

Five minutes later that spoon comes sailing past my head, narrowly missing giving me a black eye. Another stern no and we’re back to building castles and smashing them down again.

Another five minutes pass without event until all of a sudden bad behaviour comes like rapid gunfire. I’m not used to this. It’s true and I have no idea why but I really do rarely have to tell Beans off, generally she gets one no a day from me, usually for something dangerous (no darling, jumping head first off that chair would be quite silly and will make you cry and mummy wee her pants in fear at the sight of your little legs flying up in the air) whereas the husband is fairly frequently battling with her strong will. I know, I hear the arguments and they’re pretty amusing when in one corner there is a frazzled daddy and in the other is a determined, stubborn toddler with a handful of words (none relevant), immense willpower and a big loud shout.

BANG! I’m going to throw everything in my path and I’m going to throw them at you mummy. At your head.
BANG! I’m going to run over here and throw a few handfuls of sand while you try to catch me.
BANG! I’m going to pick this flower now. And this one. And this one.

I catch up with her, little cowbag, grinning at me because she knows exactly what she’s up to and that I twisted my ankle jumping over a potted hydrangea to get to her, I open my mouth and launch into a tirade of no’s. I really was quite angry. Holding her shoulders and looking into her eyes I tell her she’s being very naughty and no and it’s not nice to do those things and no.

Only it’s like I’ve been possessed by the spirt of someone else because that angry grown up voice isn’t mine. I’m the one who giggles when someone’s doing the telling off. This role reversal is weird.

Oh my god I am my mother.

BANG! She picks another flower.

Little bugger. Right, mummy told you no. Do you want me to have to take you inside?

Fatal error *adds do not include questions in a cross rant because they backfire to my ‘how to be a mum’ notebook*. Beans drops the sad looking flower head to the ground looks up at me sweetly from under her eyelashes. ‘Yes’ she smiles and points at the back door.

She takes my hand and leads me inside, points at the TV and announces ‘BEEBIES’ (CBeebies) at me in her most authoritative tone before plonking herself down on a cushion on the floor crossing her legs at the ankle sweetly and looking at me expectantly.

Whatevs kid. You win.

 

Car Bra And Agggh

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It’s not impressive is it? I wish that I could say that this was the image of a ten year olds arm, or promise you that I’m not tensing my muscles at all because if I did then the gun show that you would see would be so awe inspiring that I really should charge admission.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is my twenty seven year old left arm. And I’m left handed so obviously it’s the most impressive of my normal quota of two arms. You don’t want to see how measly the right one is. Really.

Let’s face it, arms such as this are not going to hang either side of a ripped body are they? They are not there to distract you from my rippling abs or my tree trunk thigh muscles, as hard as concrete and a million times stronger. They are there because they are like the rest of me, small, weedy and a bit sorry for themselves.

I’m pretty sure Baby Jake could confidently take me on and win. If he caught me as I fled in fear at his absolutely terrifying and frankly evil freaky head that is.

I wish that this was a story of an epic rescue or my ability to keep calm in a crisis *snort* but, alas, with arms like mine that’s just not going to happen.

So when in the middle of a thunder storm in the middle of a car park mums clutch just went and the car just crunched and protested and stopped and she pressed the pedal to the metal several times in the way that you have to to check that it really isn’t working I did get off to a good start. I switched the hazard lights on. Then I felt a bit clever for thinking so quickly as a non driver. Then I made sure that the car was in neutral and the handbrake was off and, because it’s what you do, I said I would get out and push.

Out I hopped to save the day. I don’t give a shit that I’m only wearing a flimsy t-shirt and the rain is making it do that thing where it goes see through over the chest only and there’s an attractive dry patch where your boobs shelter your belly. As I shut the passenger door and calmly walked around the car I was amazed that for a crazy person who can and does get desperately anxious over nothing at all I was cool and collected and we hadn’t crashed and I was saving the day.

I put both hands on the cold, wet car and I pushed.

Oh. Nothing happened. Why isn’t the car moving? Maybe I need to push for longer, with a bigger stride. No. Nothing. Shit, I can’t move the car.

I can’t move the car and I’m really trying and my bra is now clearly visible through my top and no ones coming to help andandand…

Finally, on my third enormous push – I gave birth to a whole human in four pushes for gods sake, how is my vagina stronger than the whole of me?! Can you push a car with your vagina? Stop it! This isn’t the time for stupidity. – the car moved about a millimetre forward. I keep going, willing all of my eight and a half stone mass to shift a five door beast to the nearest safe place.

I manage about a metre before, and in slow motion of course because it was all rather dramatic and rain was dripping from my nose and I was practically and inch off the ground because I had to put so much effort into getting the car to roll even slightly, a sporty little number swung behind me and out jumped a gentleman – you know the kind. Don’t deny it, you do. He was wearing mirrored sunglasses. Did I mention it was raining? – and all of a sudden he was by my side asking what happened while he started to help me push. I mumbled something about the clutch between panting and heaving and thanked him for helping.

And then I felt someone to the other side of me. I turned to thank who ever it was, because crisis or not it’s always nice to be polite to strangers in a car park when your bras on display, and that’s when I noticed that I’d struck lucky and oh hai there nice eyes and cheeky crooked smile. I smile back and we all push together. The car surges about twenty feet forward because two fully grown men are obviously more cut out for the job than me alone. I got the momentum going though, without my groundwork it wouldn’t have been so easy.

Unfortunately, as a result of said groundwork and said big strong men my legs sort of gave way in a dramatic fashion as the car sailed forward and I stumbled and then tripped and then pealed my face off the Tarmac just in time to see mum swinging into a clearing, Mr Sportscar brushing off his hands and swaggering off (probably to buy some Old Spice and some new sunglasses) and Mr QuiteAttractive laughing as I rubbed my knees and hobbled over to the car.

Two hours we had to sit and wait for the RAC. Two hours in the car in the rain while I blushed and rubbed my bruised knee and scuffed jeans and wished I’d had a bit of a panic attack instead to save a bit of face.

Home Notes #17

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It turns out that ignoring feeling a little bit ill and deciding to carry on and burn out and not find the time to indulge even a little for a week leads to feeling more than a little bit ill.


The last week saw me crawl back to bed one afternoon and not surface until the week was almost out. What started as ‘no, I just feel a bit flu-y. It’s ok, I’ll be fine…Oh, alright then I’ll go and rest, but just for a little while’ mutated into super bad chest pains and a bit of gasping for breath thrown in for good measure.


It’s amazing just how much being AWOL for as little as a day and a half can be felt. It’s amazing that when you stagger downstairs, bleary eyed and sore and tired and hot and cold and achy all at the same time to be greeted by a beaming toddler who proudly announces ‘mummy!’ *points to sock* ‘yelelow!’.


And not just that, inches have been grown and hair is blonder and speech clearer and oh my goodness I have to go back to bed again because the world is spinning and you’re growing up far too quickly.


What’s most amazing of all though is how, for the first time ever, being upstairs and alone wasn’t (isn’t) a sanctuary and is instead lonely and boring and when the giggles and yelps float up through the floor my heart pangs for all I’m missing. Because for the first time it’s obvious and sad and painful to miss.


It’s Mega-Blok fortresses and thrones and carrying ‘baybee’ around while tenderly patting her back. It’s learning new words at a mile a minute and it’s getting spoon to mouth before any food has the chance to fall off. It’s yelelow.

It’s being a mummy. It’s her.


Home Notes #16

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Another week of more thunder and lightening only this time it seemed to clear the air and leave goodness in its wake and puddles like giant pools that soaked us to our knees as we splashed.


This was the week that saw the eighteen month milestone, which – naturally – was celebrated by dressing up A LOT, dressing up some more and flicking through a novel with one wellingtoned foot and curly bunches.


Out of nowhere sprung this real little girl, full of more personality and wit and genius than ever before. After months of trying and failing to encourage words they started to flow with no prompts or bribes, the more random the better – Stop! Look! Yellow!


With the clearer air came clearer minds, finding at last positivity and excitement and clarity in where we are and where we were and where we are going to be because we are determined now. It will happen, the sun always comes out in the end.


More excitement came in the red and shiny form of new shoes and a batch of baking for the first time in ever at the discovery of the best new icing ever invented.


And then we dressed up some more, embracing our new found ability to say “off!” and forcing grow ups out of their layers and their layers to drape over a smaller form, while we looked more and more grown up ourself by the second and the rain fell and the sun shone and first shoes were packed away with bittersweet emotions and cakes were eaten with happy smiles.