to do a blog on 'family', which was brilliant because I had an idea right away and wasn't worried about it at all. I had a great big ramble in my head that just needed to be typed up today.
Unfortunately, it is now past 1pm, and if I want to write for my NaNo today (while the house is quiet, that is), I need to crack on. So instead of the ramble about alternative families that I had planned, I'm posting something that I wrote before. More than three years ago, to be exact, so the ages in this little piece are a little bit off. The other details are still relevant however, so I figure I can still use it...*is double shifty*
The following is something that I wrote to introduce myself to an online writing group. It was an informal group that resided in the adult forum of HPANA. I'd been lurking in there for months before I plucked up the courage to actually post something, and I've never looked back since I did. I've made some of the best friends in the world with members from this group, and to this day we continue to support each other in matters not only concerning our writing, but in our everyday life too. Sadly, the cafe closed a little while ago, but all of the best people from there are now members of my writing group, The Burrow. I love you guys!
How do I begin? I guess the first thing I should do is introduce myself; hello, my name is Tara. I'm a 29 year old mother from Wales. I should really say that I am 30, seeing as my birthday is not so far away, but I like being 29 and the idea of being 30 scares me. But I wont go into that. Now, where was I? Ah yes, introductions. Well, as I say, my name is Tara. I guess you would call me the average woman. I have average brown hair which is of average length, average brown eyes which look out of an average-looking face. I am of average height for a female (or so they say. I dont feel average when I see six foot Amazonian goddesses passing me by on the street). The only part of me that isnt average is sadly my weight, which I fear will never be average again after the birth of my children. But I won't go into that.
Ah, children. That leads me nicely to my son and daughter. Since we got together so many years ago, my husband and I have managed to accrue one son- slightly mad - and one daughter, who I'm sure was put on this Earth to test me. Frequently. More detail? Okay then. Said son, one Master Dale Reuben, is 44 inches, light and made of sterner-stuff-than-he-looks. He celebrates his tenth birthday in a few short weeks, but I suspect he is tricking me and may have switched places with a wizened old man. How else does one equate a nine year old questioning me about the complexities of life and death? Then again, he may just be a normal nine year old, who knows?
Then there is my daughter. Miss Ellie Marie. Now there's a girl who needs no added zest. Four years old and already 42 inches high, I swear someone added a growth gene to her when I wasn't looking. Miss Ellie brings new meaning to the word 'petulant'. I am convinced that she has muddled up the meanings of 'smile' and 'pout'. Indeed, pouting is what she does best. Most children go through what I like to call 'The Why? Phase'. Miss Ellie has her own spin on that. She started the 'Why Should I? Phase' when she was two, and is still showing no signs of abandoning it, sweet child that she is.
Hmmm, I believe I have yet to mention The Husband.
When I was young and naive, I had visions of being swept off my feet by a brave Knight charging on a white steed. I would, of course, be a beautiful debutante, and he would be a member of the landed Gentry. Don't laugh now, I'm sure I wasn't the only girl who had dreams like this. Well my Knight, Sir Darren, is not really a horsy kind of person; the last time he charged something was on the credit card. But we won't go there. Darren Reuben will be 38 in just a few short days. I'm sure he conspired to have his son born in the same month as him. He sure did something; Master Dale is the carbon copy of his father, both in looks and character. I'm just hoping he doesn't inherit the women-should-be-chained-to-the-cooker-whilst-being-barefoot-and-pregnant trait. I kid you not.
Hmmm, it may appear that I am not happy with my lot. Au contraire. The mind and heart are curious things. The stocker that contains my emotions is rather full. While there is plenty of sarcasm, wryness and perhaps even bitchiness taking up a lot of shelf-space, there is ample enough room for love, passion and contentment. I even have a spare shelf left, just in case I have need for it.
I like to think we are a well-made steak and onion pie. Why? Well, I could try to sound impressively philosophical and say that Sir Darren is the meat of the family (he would just love that analogy); Master Dale is the gravy, swirling around quite happily; Miss Ellie is obviously the onion, she adds a certain bite to the mix. And I am the pastry, holding everything together. Heck, I would even chuck a bay leaf on top of us to complete the picture of perfection. Actually, scrap that. I never did see the point of bay leaves, I much prefer parsley and thyme. But I won't go into that.
Where was I? Oh yes, I was explaining that I would say that if I were being philosophical. But I'm not philosophical, I just love steak and onion pies. Oh, and my family too, of course.