Suddenly it all went quiet

Suddenly, it all went quiet

There was no music. No talking. No singing. No laughing. No breathing.

Just terror and urgent red lights, smeared with rain.

I gripped the steering wheel and pressed the brakes as hard as I dared.

We’re not going to stop.

I braked again, this time looking in the rear view mirror at the massive four wheel drive car bearing down on us.

He’s not going to stop.

Also, behind me, my babies sleeping silently, peacefully.

At least they won’t know anything about it.

Praying. Pleading.

Stop. Please stop.

We all stop.

We stop on the wet motorway.

We breathe.

My children are okay.

We all start moving again. Wheels turning on the tarmac. Engines growling.

We unbunch. I unravel.

I cry all the way home. I wipe away my tears in time with the windscreen wipers.

This is another piece written for my creative writing group. We were trying to think of a writing prompt for homework. No one spoke for a few moments, then someone joked 'suddenly it all went quiet'. We decided this was as good a writing prompt as we were going to come up with.

The next day the Calicos had a fairly long trip on the motorway and this is what happened.

Please be careful on the roads, especially at this time of year x




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Suddenly it all went quiet

Wordless Wednesday: Beany Giant

Wordless Wednesday: Beany Giant

Clairol Nice 'n Easy Colour Blend Foam: Before and After Vlogs

This is a sponsored post


Before

Look at the grey!





After


That's better!





Thank you, Clairol.


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Clairol Nice 'n Easy Colour Blend Foam: Before and After Vlogs

The Gallery: Sorry, Tara

The Gallery is a weekly feature on Tara's blog, Sticky Fingers. Tara sets a theme and you join in by posting a photograph on that theme and writing about it.

The theme this week is body parts. Yes, body parts.

To me this conjures up all sorts of gruesome images of dismembered limbs. I clearly have an over-active imagination, but I'm afraid that Tara will find my photographs quite gruesome as they are of feet. Tara doesn't like feet. Sorry, Tara.

I've always hated my feet. I have long second toes and a gap between these and my big toes.

See.

I didn't wear sandals until I was thirty years old.

I saw an episode of 'House Party' when I was a child where a woman was talking about an operation she had on her toes. The 'before' photograph showed my toes. For years I hoped I could have this operation. Our family Doctor didn't share my hope. He said I'd make a good ballet dancer. Well, maybe if I wasn't big boned...

As I got older and more comfortable in my own skin I wasn't so worried about my feet. As you get older you realise there are more important things to worry about than what your toes look like in sandals.

Like anomoly scans.

Imagine my delight when we were told that Presley's 21 week scan showed no anomalies. Even more amusing was this close up of one of his feet.

We quipped to our NCT group that at least we knew he was mine.

More special than that is the knowledge that he inherits features from his late grandfather and late uncle. Both my Dad and my brother had these feet too.

This is my darling baby on the day he was born.

This is a close up a couple of weeks later.

I love these feet.

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The Gallery: Sorry, Tara

Worry

I've worried my whole life.

Becoming a parent took worrying to a whole, previously unimaginable, new level.

I worried whether I would ever have children. I worried about genetics. I worried about how long it would take to conceive.

I worried all the way through each pregnancy. I worried whether I was healthy enough, whether my baby was healthy enough. I worried about what I ate, drank, touched, did. I worried about labour, about how much it would hurt, whether I would have the stamina to get through it.

I worried about caring for a newborn baby - such a responsibility. Was I holding him right? Was he feeding? Was he sleeping? Was he too hot or too cold? Should he be crying more or less? Was he okay?

I worry whether my boys are developing 'normally', I also worry that I am wishing their lives away waiting to hit the next developmental milestone.

I worry about feeding them. I worry that they are eating enough fruit and vegetables. I worry that they are too fussy, that they eat too much bread. I worry that I am too strict, but I worry more that they don't listen to me.

I worry that I don't stimulate them enough and I worry that they are over-stimulated. How much baking and crafting is enough? Should I be taking them to clubs yet? I know I should take them for swimming lessons, but I worry about how I look in a swimsuit. I worry that this is selfish.

I worry that I'll be the fattest mum at the school gates. I worry that their friends will laugh at them. I worry that they won't make friends. I worry that they are too shy and lack confidence.

I know I'll worry about them for the rest of our lives.

The biggest worry of all is when they are ill. They are so small and mine don't really say what is wrong. They just get quiet, clingy and teary. My imagination runs riot and I get hypochondria-by-proxy. I worry myself sick.

Last Wednesday Cash had to go to hospital with suspected swine flu, but he was treated and bounced back remarkably quickly. Thank you all for your get well wishes, they worked - he is full of beans again. I am relieved, but still on edge.

Three year old Presley has had a temperature, cold and nasty cough since Christmas Eve, although his symptoms haven't been as dramatic or acute as his brother's, they are enough for me to worry. I listen to him coughing in his sleep and know there is little I can do to help him. Each morning he is tired. He has spent the past couple of days laying on our laps. I'm going to take him back to the GP tomorrow. Last Wednesday the GP said it was just a virus. I'm hoping this time the GP can treat him or at least tell me that there is nothing to worry about.

I will still worry.




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Worry