Inner conflict

When asked to write about previous conflicts, the ones that stand out for me are the ones I have with myself.  Psychological struggles resulting from two simultaneous but often incompatible ideas that regularly leave me emotionally drained.  Friends and family say I over think things.

It was only last week that my recent internal conflict began.  The kids had brought home their leaflets for this years Operation Christmas Child mission.  It is run by Samaritans Purse and has the following mission statement

‘The mission of Operation Christmas Child is to demonstrate God’s love in a tangible way to needy children around the world, and together with the local church worldwide, to share the Good News of Jesus Christ”

In all honesty the God’s love, local church worldwide and Good News of Jesus Christ bits are absolutely meaningless to me but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a bloody good cause.  The kids wrapped their empty shoeboxes in Christmas paper and made their lists of things to send; bouncy balls, pens, crayons, paper, yo-yos, sweets, toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, flannels, hairbrushes and cuddly toys. 

I decided that whilst I was out buying the things for their shoeboxes I would buy the ingredients for this years Christmas cake.  Mark suggested making some mini ones.  Not a bad idea, could be given as presents for school teachers and I’m quite good at forgetting people so could come in handy for those unexpected visitors.  I searched every shop in Abergavenny but couldn’t find a suitable tin so decided that small baked bean tins would do the job.  £2.76 later and I was the owner of twelve tins of the cheapest, crappiest beans I could find.  As I started emptying the beans into our food waste bin I was suddenly swamped with guilt.  Why should I be able to throw away twelve tins of beans when there are people starving in the world?

I tried to rationalise with myself.  I told myself that it’s fine because we are sending our shoeboxes to children in under developed countries.  However hard I tried, there were no excuses to cover my arse this time, what I was doing was entirely immoral.

I concluded that as I had already thrown the beans away, committed the crime so to speak, I may as well continue.  As I was weighing out the fruit I was still searching for excuses to justify my disgraceful behaviour.

Half an hour later I put the cakes in the oven and headed back to Abergavenny where I bought 12 tins of Heinz baked beans and took them immediately to the food bank.  They would be given to local people in crisis.  I stopped at the bank to make a donation to UNICEF’s Children’s Emergency Fund and returned to my car a little less remorseful.

Later that evening I was telling Mark of my emotional battle.  We discussed how we are fortunate to live the lives we do.  We live comfortably in a secure home, we drive new cars, we take regular holidays and have food and drink on tap.  Mark admits that we are fortunate but he says he has earned our way of life, which of course he has, he worked hard to get where he is today but I still maintain that favourable circumstances have paved our way.

As Mark opened a good bottle of red I tried hard to forget about my own unrest.  I sorted the shoeboxes out and put them ready for the kids to take in the morning. 

As I stood in the bathroom trying to decide whether to use the L’Occitane or the Molton Brown it hit me that somewhere in the world a poverty stricken child is eagerly awaiting the arrival of a shoebox that contains a bar of Imperial Leather….maybe I will always be uncomfortable with how well off we really are.

A slice of life

I haven't posted on here for ages but I have been writing, I've joined a creative writing group.  I'm enjoying it, it's good to share ideas and helpful to gain feedback.  Here is a memoir I wrote last week.

It was the 2^nd August 2005.  James Blunts ‘You’re Beautiful’ was number one.  Beautiful is exactly what you were – all 7lb 7 ozs of you.                 

Seeing you for the first time led to a roller coaster of emotions.  At first I felt great resentment.  I had been in labour for 52 hours and following every man-made attempt to encourage your natural birth you were finally delivered via emergency caesarean section.  I couldn’t help but feel resentment.  You had offended my sense of pride and dignity.

Forty five minutes after you were born I got to hold you for the first time.

2nd August 2005

 

 As soon as Daddy placed you in my arms I was struck by a sudden wave of forgiveness.  The previous 53 hours immediately became excusable.  You were here, you were perfect and you were ours.  As I counted your fingers and toes I was amazed by how big your hands were…hands like Bampis I thought.  People often say that all new borns look like Winston Churchill but you didn’t – you had qualities in abundance that delighted my eyes.

It wasn’t long before Grandma had taken you off me.  As you led there, cradled in Grandmas arms, I felt a sudden sense of love and I knew that I would love you unreservedly, without any limitations and with immeasurable devotion for the rest of my life.

It was 1am, you took a good amount of milk from a bottle and we both slept until sunrise. 

 

3rd August 2005

 

Daddy was back first thing.  He couldn’t stay away.  I was a little confused when Daddy picked you up, kissed you, looked you in the eyes and quietly whispered “Good morning Jamie”.  I don’t remember having a discussion about your name other than 6 weeks previous when I really liked the name Max and Daddy hated it.  Apparently, I had agreed to naming you Jamie only minutes after you were born.  I was exhausted, completely drained and wiped out by my long labour and huge quantities of medication.  Quite frankly, Daddy could have named you Stripe or Spot and I wouldn’t have quibbled.  By mid-morning cards congratulating us on the birth of Jamie had started to arrive.  Daddy wasn’t backing down and you had even begun to look like a Jamie.  I left you with Daddy and went for a shower.

As I made my way back to the ward I had a sudden urge to take you home.  I didn’t want to share you with doctors and midwives.  In all honesty, I didn’t want to share you with our visitors either.  I wanted to go home, lock the door and enjoy our new existence as a family.

“You can go home tomorrow as long as you are able to walk the entire length of the corridor unaided” said the consultant.

“I’ll Jog” I said.

“Completely unnecessary Mrs Williams” he said.

Twenty four hours later Daddy came to take us home.  He placed you in your car seat.  We discussed how, even though you being in a car seat was the law, you didn’t appear safe.  Your miniature body, surrounded by big bulky seat, secured with a network of straps and buckles.

You looked extremely comfortable in your moses basket, fast asleep swaddled in the blanket that your great grandmother had knitted.  Locking the door didn’t work.  We had visitors after visitors after visitors.   Most were family and close friends which were fine.  Your extended family and our close friends have become very important people in your life.

No more than a week later we had settled into a routine.  You fed well, fortunately for us you slept very well and you were an extremely content little man.

12 months later, as we discover that I am pregnant with your sister, Shakira is number one with ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ and I can assure you that mine most definitely don’t and probably never will.

Jamie and Carys - 9th June 2012