Life

Spring has sprung, which of course means everyone here is now unwell with whatever spring cold is going around. Everyone except Evelyn, who is disgustingly well – which I’m incredibly grateful for, because frankly, if I never see the inside of another hospital ward, it will be too soon.

ANYWAY. I digress.

I thought it was going to pass me by – the two older children are off school today with sore throats and ears, but by lunchtime the sinus headache had shown up and there wasn’t enough honey and lemon tea in the house to sooth my poor achey face.

I’m almost grateful that it’s today I’m sick – it will give me a chance to recover before Lazy May Market (13th Sep), which I’m quite looking forward to.

In any case, it was a busy weekend. Amy turned nine, and had a sleepover for her birthday. I love children – mine particularly, but I find I am not a calm person once the clock hits 10pm and everyone is still awake. Luckily I have this amazing husband who took over the night shift, and eventually the girls fell asleep for a little while at least.

Heidi the puppy is 10 months old now, and spent the entire party poking people with her poky poky nose and being Incredibly Excited about the idea of CHILDREN ALL THROUGH HER HOUSE OMG and it was all I could do to not sit on her, in an effort to make her Just Stay Still FORTHELOVEOFGODDOG.

By the time everyone had been collected by their parents the next morning, I had spent a good hour throwing the ball in an attempt to wear off some of her OMG CHILDREN CHILDREN energy, and she had finally calmed down. Just in time for there to be no children to lick, poke, trip, or annoy.

Puppies always seem like a great idea, but goodness, I can see how so many 8-10 month old dogs end up at the dog’s home. Luckily for us, Heidi’s basic training and manners are great, we put in the time and effort when she was tiny, and while she is 30kg of EXCITEMENT and LOVE and HAPPINESS who frequently wags drinks off the coffee table with her exuberant tail, she is basically, at her core, a good dog.

This time last year, I was starting to worry a little bit because my fruit trees were blossoming nicely, but there wasn’t a bee in sight. Nor did we manage any fruit from the trees which needed pollinating, such was the bee lack. I still got pumpkins and zucchinis, but only because I pollinated them myself.

You can imagine how incredibly relieved I was to see my fruit trees dripping in bees this season.

So many bees that a few have mistaken me for flowers and tried to land on my face. Not sure why – maybe it’s all the soap I smell like.

Speaking of soap! God. BUSY. It’s so nice. I really can’t complain about being busy, even if I do have a sore throat, and still work to do.

I’ve just made and poured 6kg of dog shampoo bars, which will be ready by the middle of October, and I’m packing soap today (probably) – Green Apple and Shea Butter is ready to come off the curing shelves, as is our Honey Ginger soap.

But then there was this:

Which I am rather delighted with. The bulk of this batch is for a wholesale order, but oh, it’s pretty and I am pleased with it.

Anyway Internet. How are you?

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It’s 9.21pm and everyone in my house is asleep, except for me. This is unusual enough that here I am, remarking upon it to you. It’s almost a decent hour and I have some alone time to write.

Of course, the kitchen needs cleaning before I sleep, and there’s another load of laundry which needs doing. The wood needs fire, and I need to tweak a lotion recipe. Not to mention the 500 odd soaps I need to make to even have a chance of keeping up with the Christmas rush.

That said, life is good. Well, good-ish. The lead in to Spring always messes with my mental health as I desperately wait for the trees to wake up and the sunshine to hold more than a little warmth. It’s this time of year I start craving long hot days and coconut oil I don’t have to hack out of the bucket with a chisel and brute strength.

Evelyn is growing up, which is both a huge relief and bittersweet. I have enjoyed her babyhood, but I’m ready to be done with little kids (barring of course, my nephew, who is sweet, adorable, and not keeping me awake all night). Eve turned three, we threw out all the bottles in the house, bought her a packet of knickers, and off she’s gone, jumping from toddler to little girl in a matter of days.

Business is good. I’m busy, sometimes crazily so, other times, just enough to make me wonder what I used to do with all my spare time. I’m careful with my health, napping when I can and handing most of the housework over to Nathan, who continues to manage the household beautifully.

It’s nearly Veronica Foale Essentials first birthday, and if you’re in the market for soap, use coupon code HAPPYBIRTHDAY2015 at checkout to get 15% off.

I always feel a little odd sliding in those little nuggets of marketing, but it is what it is, and I really do want you to buy my soap, because it’s lovely and everyone should indulge in good quality skincare.

I almost cannot believe that it’s been a whole year already, but there you go. Time flies when you’re having fun. I spent the day yesterday packaging 200 soaps ready for September markets, and there’s now room on my curing shelves to frantically make more soap. Christmas is coming and we’re almost ready for it all.

But in the middle of all this – and don’t get my wrong, I am happy, incredibly so – I miss writing. I miss fiction. I miss rolling the words through my fingers, spinning a story. I miss the instant gratification of a good piece of writing. I miss the quiet adoration of blog fans. It seems a little strange, but writing feeds my desire to perform in the public eye in a way that soap making doesn’t.

Of course, I expect everything to find a balance in the next two years, as Eve gets older and stops clinging to my legs quite so much.

Finally, take a moment to look at how big these children of mine have gotten. LOOK AT THEM.

Amy turns 9 in another 12 days. Can you even believe that, Internet?

I’m going to try and write more often, but we’ll see how that goes as the market schedule increases and the Christmas crazy begins.

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Sometimes, it’s the simple things which make the largest impact on me. I was cold this morning. A long market yesterday and a weakened immune system conspired to see me catch the virus which has been winging its way through the school community. I crashed hard yesterday after I arrived home, my temperature spiking and my shoulders aching under the weight of their viral load.

I was cold this morning, and so I walked to the bathroom and filled up a hot water bottle directly from the tap. Simple movements. Remove the lid. Tip the cold water out. Run the tap. Curl up, warm now.

We didn’t have running water when I was a child. When I wanted a hot water bottle in the evening, you had to fill the kettle – fire heated when the fire was going, electric when it wasn’t – then fill the water bottle with boiling water, taking care not to scald your fingers. Wrap the bottle in a pillowcase to avoid burned toes.

Sometimes I don’t appreciate the privilege I have here, the power points, and the hot water which runs when I turn the tap on. Pipes which no longer freeze, and a fire which warms the entire house easily.

I know my children don’t appreciate it, but that’s okay too. Sometimes not knowing what you have to be grateful for is the biggest privilege out there.

It’s been cold here. The kind of cold which worms its way into your bones and takes up residence near your spine, sending shivers downwards periodically. The cold which settles, waiting for you to forget about the warmed water bottles and the fireplace, waiting to grow into an aching gnawing pain in your joints until you just want to move someplace it’s sunny year round, eating tropical fruits from the tanned stomach of your lover while the sand shifts under you both.

It’s been cold here, and I don’t deal with the cold very well. I huddle in the warm places, curled in on myself, waiting for my brain and hands to catch up with the ambient temperature of the house as it rises.

Our wood has been wet and lighting a fire is like coaxing orgasms out of a dead marriage. There’s so much work and then suddenly, flames! only then they’re dead again and you’re left cold and railing at the universe, contemplating throwing oil on the fire and waiting for everything to explode in your face.

I read an article earlier, about some insignificant fact. It was poorly written, and then the byline: This author has over 650 essays published in magazines. I really should start writing again. The cold kills my creativity. Any sparks I have are directed towards the fireplace in the hope that something small grows into something which can warm us all.

It’s almost June, which means winter is nearly here. I keep poking at my winter wounds to see how far they’ve healed. Does June hurt as much this year? How is your missing, Veronica? Does the wind still whistle cold and icy through the centremost point of your grief? Poke. Poke. Poke. How does it feel?

I’m too busy to wallow, too busy to indulge my missing, which sits like a tiny icicle in my heart. I watch my children and see my grandmother in their faces and know how much she would have enjoyed their tempers, their wrath, the tiny burning embers inside them which keeps them fighting and shouting long after anyone else would have burned out. Oh, how I admire their spirit in the face of chores and rules, even as I struggle to press them into some sort of respectable human shape.

It’s been cold here, and so I am curled up with my hot water bottle full of warm water, and hot tea, and warm snuggly children. We will count the days ahead as Winter rolls over us, leaving ice and fire in its wake. We will huddle while our breath hangs in the cold air, waiting for the warmth to return, because it always does.

Eventually, it will be Spring again and I will celebrate with tiny leaves and plants, and dreams of the things to come.

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