Wednesday is "Bedtime Story Day!"

CALLING ALL PARENTS!

I've had an idea.  Dangerous, I know... ;-)

Some regular readers to this blog will know that I'm a published children's author.  Writing - in any form - is a passion for me, but writing stories for children is a special love of mine.  Becoming a published children's author was, for a long time, my absolute dream - something I had worked on, albeit unsuccessfully, for many years.  Three of my books are now out there and that's great.  But I have a head full of stories.  So, how could I get those other stories out there into the world, quickly and easily?  The answer seemed pretty obvious...

My first ever book launch.

Starting today, every Wednesday is going to be "Bedtime Story Day."  

I'll be publishing a brand new children's story every Wednesday evening at 6pm.  All of these stories are completely original and unconnected to my previous book series.  They're aimed at children aged between 4 and 7 years old.  Now, I'm no artist, so there won't be pictures, but... I can remember my mum reading my chapters from books without pictures (or featuring very few) every night before bed, when I was maybe six years old, so I'm hoping that the lack of pictures won't be a problem.  That's what our imaginations are for, after all!  

What I'd love is for this idea to really take off and if it does, then I'll think about upping the frequency of the "Bedtime Story" feature to twice a week (and maybe more, depending on demand).  Of course, if this fails completely, then I'll have to have a bit of a rethink!  But please, if you're a parent, or you know someone who is, give this a go and let me know what your little ones think!

With all of that waffle out of the way, let's move onto the very first original story!  I hope you - and of course, your little ones - enjoy it.

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Sidney The Shell Bird

Sally Jenkins loved making things.  She loved her necklace, made from beads she’d found in the bottom of her mother’s sewing box.  She loved her set of paintings, sprinkled with glitter to make them extra special.  But most of all, she loved Sidney.

Sidney sat perched on Sally’s bookshelf, surrounded by toys and books.  His body was made from a lump of clay, painted pink.  His head was a large, pointed shell, with two black-eyed peas glued to it for eyes.  His feet were two smaller, slightly rounder shells.  Sticking out from his sides were two large, yellow feathers resembling wings, with a third yellow feather as his tail.  Sidney was a rather funny looking creature, but Sally adored him.  She took him out to play with her in the garden and she’d sit on her bed in the evenings, telling him all about the things she had done at school. 

Sidney was very happy living with Sally.  But there was one thing that made him unhappy. 

Every day, whilst Sally was at school, Sidney would sit on the shelf and stare out of the window.  Flying across the sky, he could see birds.  Real birds.  Sidney had seen his reflection in the glass and he knew he looked different.  He knew he had feathery wings, but when he flapped them, nothing happened.  He was too heavy to fly.  He was certain that he was a bird, but he had never seen another who looked the way he did.  Sidney longed to find out what kind of bird he really was, but none of the other toys in Sally’s bedroom seemed to know.

One morning, as Sally hurried off to school, Sidney made a decision.  “Barrington,” He called to Sally’s favourite bear.  “Today is the day!”

Barrington Bear yawned and rubbed one shiny glass eye with his paw.  “What day?”

Sidney puffed out his pink, clay chest.  “Today is the day I’m going to find out what sort of bird I am,” he declared.  With that, he hopped down from Sally’s shelf and landed on her soft bed, before jumping down to the floor.

“Where are you going?”  Eliza, the porcelain doll asked.

Sidney pointed to the window.  “Out there,” he replied.

Before Eliza or Barrington could say anything else, Sidney had hopped out of the bedroom, down the stairs, through the kitchen and out of the cat flap into the bright, morning sunshine.

This is it!  Sidney thought.  I’m out here, with the real birds!

For a while, Sidney simply enjoyed bouncing through the grass, gazing up at the blue skies.  Then, as he reached the end of Sally’s road, he spotted a pair of birds, shaking their black feathers as they flew down from the roof of a house.

“Hello!”  Sidney called as he hurried over to the birds.  “Excuse me, can I ask you something?”

One of the birds cocked his head to the side.  “Who are you?”  He asked.

Sidney smiled.  “I was hoping you could help me to answer that.”

“Whatever do you mean?”  The second bird replied.  She fluffed out her feathers.  “We’ve never seen you before!”

Sidney swallowed hard.  “Well...  I mean...”  He stammered.  “What kind of bird am I?”

The first bird laughed.  “You’re not a bird, are you?”  He chuckled.  “You don’t look like any bird I’ve ever seen!”

Sidney lowered his head and his yellow wings drooped.  The second bird nudged the first with her wing and looked Sidney in the eye.  “What my friend means, is you’re definitely not a blackbird, like us,” she told him.  “I’m afraid we’re not sure what kind of bird you are.”

“Oh,” Sidney replied.  “Thanks anyway.”

Determined not to be put off, Sidney left the blackbirds behind and continued hopping onwards, for what seemed like miles.  Finally, he came to a large set of gates, with a sign above them, written in large letters: “ZOO.”  On one side of the sign, was a painting of animals Sidney had seen before in storybooks – a lion, a zebra and tiger.  On the other, was a painting of two, brightly coloured birds!  Sidney beamed.  “This is more like it,” he declared and hopped through the gates with an excited bounce.

Before long, he stumbled upon a large, green bird, with an enormous, multicoloured tail.  Sidney gasped.  “You’re amazing,” he exclaimed. 

The bird nodded.  “Of course I am,” he said.  “I’m a peacock!  We’re fabulous creatures!”

Sidney grinned.  “Am I a peacock, too?”

The peacock stared down his beak in disgust.  “You?  A peacock?  Oh, absolutely not,” he sneered.  “Look at you!  You’re small and funny looking.  I’m tall and beautiful.  You’re nothing like a peacock!”

Sidney turned away.  “Sorry to have bothered you,” he mumbled.

Sidney trudged towards the exit gates, when he heard a squawking noise.  He turned around and looked up.  “Hello?  Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?”  A voice echoed.  A parrot sat perched on a branch, staring down at Sidney.

Sidney managed a smile.  “My name’s Sidney,” he called.

“My name’s Sidney!”  The parrot sang back.

Peering up at the parrot, Sidney frowned.  “You’re called Sidney too?”

The parrot began prancing up and down the branch, flapping his wings.  “You’re called Sidney too!”

Realising what was going on, Sidney shook his head.  “Never mind,” he sighed.  As he plodded towards the exit, he could hear the parrot singing to himself.

“Never mind!  Never mind!”

As Sidney passed through the exit gates, he was fed up.  Nobody knew what kind of bird he was and worst of all, they’d laughed at him.  With a heavy heart, he decided to go home. 

By the time he reached Sally’s garden, the sun was beginning to set.  The sky was darkening and Sidney was feeling glum.  As he headed towards the cat flap, he heard a voice coming from a nearby tree.

“Are you alright, little friend?”

Sidney glanced up.  Sitting in the tree was an owl.  Seeing Sidney’s sad face, the owl spread his wings and flew down to the ground beside him.  “You look ever so sad,” he said.

Sidney sighed.  “Well...”  He began, before changing his mind.  “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

The owl shook his head.  “Oh, but it does,” he replied.  “If it’s making you so unhappy...”

Sidney flopped down in the grass beside the owl.  “It’s just...  Everyone has been making fun of me,” he said.  “And all I wanted to know was what sort of bird I am.”  He sighed and turned away.  “But I guess maybe I’m not a bird at all.”  Sidney rose back to his feet and began plodding away when the owl called after him.

“Not a bird?”  He exclaimed.  “Why, you most certainly are a bird.”

Sidney span round.  “I am?!”  He cried.  “Do you know what kind?”

The owl thought for a moment, the way that truly wise creatures often do.  Then he smiled at Sidney and pointed with his wing.  “Look at your body, made from the finest clay!  Look at your feathers, so yellow and bright!  And your head is made from a perfect shell.  And that is where your name comes from.  Sidney, you are a Shell Bird.  And might I say, you’re the finest example of a Shell Bird I’ve ever seen!”

Sidney gasped.  “Oh, thank you!”  He could hardly wait to scurry back up the stairs and tell all of Sally’s other toys the news. 

From that day onwards, when Sidney watched other birds flying past Sally’s window, he didn’t feel sad, or confused.  Sidney knew just what kind of bird he was.  And even more importantly, he knew he was already exactly where he belonged.

THE END

Mother's Day And The Ache of Childlessness

My mum and me. 

Mother's Day is, to some people, a bit like Valentine's Day - slightly commercialised and not all that meaningful.  I've read several posts today, from people asking why we "celebrate" one day a year in honour of the work that mums do every day, without thanks.   But in my eyes, Mother's Day (and Father's Day) is similar to Valentine's in as much as it's a day on which we're supposed to show our love and gratitude, but that doesn't mean we don't show it for the rest of the year.  My issue with today isn't that it's over-hyped, sentimental or false, because I'm hugely fortunate in that I have a mum who is bloody awesome and she deserves a day to be treated nicely and given gifts.  If I could afford it, I'd do it every day, for her.  She loves me unconditionally, supports me in everything I do and has been not only a shoulder to cry on over the years, but a best friend to laugh with, too.  My sister and I are both incredibly lucky to have her in our lives.

Perhaps it's because of that rich, loving experience I've had that I've always wanted to be a mother, myself.  Maybe it's because I've felt such all-encompassing love from my mum, that I want so desperately to share it with another little person.

It's always been the case.  When I was very small and still at primary school, teachers would ask what I wanted to be when I was older and, more often than not, I'd say: "A mummy."

Not like that.

It wasn't that I lacked ambition - far from it.  I also wanted to be a star of musical theatre, or a TV/film actress, or a singer in a band.  In fact, I wanted to be a writer more than any other job you could name (and still do) and would sneak new exercise books home in my school bag, in which to write my latest future best-seller.

But far beyond any fame or fortune I could wish for myself, I wished for one of the simplest things in life.  I wished for a family of my own, one day.  I wished for children.

I'm only 32 and I know that I'm hopefully still of child-bearing age.  But I'm also single and in a low-paid job that doesn't earn me enough to so much as rent my own place, let alone pay for all the things a baby would require.  I know I'm not quite in the right place to have children, yet, but I hope that there's still time.

Yet, at only 32, I've already had people say things like "leaving it a bit late, aren't you?"  Or "it's not very likely you'll have kids now, is it?"

What I don't think those people realise is that I feel those words as sharply as I would a physical blow.  The love I have pent up inside me gets shared out between my parents, family, friends and the dog, but there's still such an excess that sometimes it feels so enormous, it's as though there's no room for air in my lungs.  No room for my heart to beat.  The life I live, exciting and fun as it can be, all too often feels that it's missing something vital.  There's a void - a chasm, at times - that I can't fill.

Women who've made the choice not to have children - and I respect that entirely - often talk about being made to feel as though they're selfish, or not fulfilling their purpose as a woman.  I, as a woman who would dearly love her own children, but have not found that it has happened for me, feel that I've failed, somehow.  I'm not deemed selfish, but I'm somewhat incomplete.  I work in childcare and more than once during a 14 year career, a parent has commented to other staff members that they'd rather have a fellow parent look after their child.  As though I'm somewhat untrustworthy.  As though the training I have means nothing, because I don't go home to my own baby at the end of a shift.  As though parenthood somehow gives you all the magical answers that a person like me just couldn't hope to guess at.

Conversely, you sometimes get the "I bet you love being able to give these kids back at the end of the day?" comments.  And yes, with some of them, I do.  But equally, there can be times when the classroom is empty and I miss the little smile from a child who's happy to see me.  I miss the sensation of a small hand in mine.

Me and mum - I look a bit bigger in this one...

Having kids isn't something everyone wants to do.  It's not even something everyone should do (but that's a subject for a whole other blog...).  But it's something that I always imagined would be a part of my life.  In fact, someone once told me, in my mid-twenties, that I had such strong maternal instincts that if you cut me in half, I'd have "mum" written through me like a stick of rock.

Still, I'm sitting here, writing this and there's no clutter on the floor from my kids playing.  There's no moses basket tucked in the corner, for the baby to sleep in.  I can't proudly look at the wobbly bits on my tummy and say "ah, but I grew my child in there, so my body is testimony to being a mother," like those slightly irritating posts on Facebook would suggest women do.  My wobbly belly is testimony to my love of cake.  And as much as cake satisfies me on a superficial level, it's not quite the same...

I don't believe in living my life moping over the things I don't have.  Life's too short for that.  I go away with my friends, I see my favourite bands play live and I spend time with my family.  I don't do too badly, all told.  And today, I'm thinking a lot about the incredible mum I have and how massively fortunate I am to have her.  Without her kindness, her humour and her general awesomeness, I wouldn't be the woman I am, today.

But I do beg those who tell me I've left it too late to have a family of my own, or who think they're doing the right thing by saying I'm lucky to have so much time to myself, to remember that not having children isn't my choice.  It's simply the circumstance I've found myself in.  And whilst I might enjoy my life and give all the love I can to those people in it, there is a part of me that is crying out for the one thing I currently can't have.  Maybe I will have kids one day and I'll look back on this blog and smile, thinking how bloody lucky I am.  But maybe I won't.  And that's why I needed to get these feelings off my chest.  Because as much as I will live my life and pack it with as much love and fun and laughter as I can, something will always feel like it's missing.

So, Your Child Needs A Costume For World Book Day...

Photo credit: Manchester Evening News.

I dressed as Mildred Hubble from The Worst Witch for World Book Day.  I'm 32 and yes, The Worst Witch is a children's book, but as I've recently mentioned, that book means a lot to me.  I was also aware of the fact that I work with children and therefore my costume had to be age-appropriate.

Speaking of which...

The boy in the picture above is eleven year old Liam Scholes.  He dressed up - with the full support of his primary school teacher mother - as Christian Grey.

Christian Grey.  You know, the character who is known all over the world as being into kinky sex. Indeed, little Liam's costume included a blindfold and cable ties.  

Now, I'm not about to go into a moral rant about protecting kids from sex.  Children reach the age of 11 or 12 (sometimes younger) and begin to be naturally curious about sex and I personally don't believe in shielding them to an extreme degree, as that can have the dangerous impact of making them think that sex is something dirty or wrong; something that they should feel ashamed of thinking about, or, when the time comes, doing.  I think it's vital to be open and honest with young people, ensuring that they are aware of safe sex and of the important issues regarding consent.  So just in case any "ARGH, ANTI-SEX PRUDE ALERT!" bells are going off in your heads as you read this, then just so you know: I'm not in any way anti-sex.  I am also not in any way, shape or form, anti BDSM.  Whatever people want to do in the bedroom is fine by me, as long as it's consensual and safe.

That said...  Liam Scholes is an eleven year old boy.  He's a child.  He won't be able to have sex legally for another five years.  Is it really - even for "a bit of fun" - acceptable to encourage him to dress up as a character whose main personality quirk is that he's really into sex?  I mean, did his mother tell him what the blindfold and cable ties were for?  

"Now, if you turn to pg21, you'll see where the cable ties go.  Don't worry that people from the BDSM community have said they're very dangerous.  EL James is a MILLIONAIRE, so she must right!"

Let's move away from the sex, because that's in no way the most troubling part of this. 

Liam's mother claims that neither she or her son have read Fifty Shades.  Well, that's at least good news (because the day parents start casually giving it to their tweenagers to read, I want off this planet, frankly...), but it does throw up an issue.  How much about the character did Nicola Scholes know, when she helped her eleven year old son put together this costume?  Unless they live in a cave, we can assume she knew that he was into kinky sex (and still decided "I want my child to dress up like this," but like I said, moving on...).  We can assume that she knew that Christian Grey was very wealthy, too.  But did she know that the novel's title is a play on the fact that Christian refers to himself as being "fifty shades of fucked up"?  Was she alright with that?

And given the enormous publicity surrounding the film and the spotlight that was shone on the Fifty Shades is Domestic Abuse campaign, was Nicola Scholes aware that Christian Grey is a stalker?  A man who threatens his partner with non-consensual spanking?  A man who coerces his partner with alcohol and who uses manipulation to explain away his vile behaviour as being a result of his tragic past?  Is Nicola Scholes aware that Christian Grey is a man who doesn't like taking "no" for an answer and who overrides his partner's wishes both in and out of the bedroom?

The answer - I hope - might well be "no."  But it doesn't take a great deal of research to find those things out.  Even if we live in a world where parents might be okay with dressing their pre-teen children up as characters from erotica, are we seriously living in a world in which parents are okay with dressing their children up as abusive characters from erotica?

Nicola Scholes says that other children were dressed as murderers from violent books.  That's problematic, too - of course it is.  But rather than play the "hey, don't look at my kid, look at those kids" game, maybe it would have been a better idea for her to simply shrug her shoulders and say "I got this wrong."

Because in my view, she definitely did.