Growing up, I never pictured myself as a mother - I suppose because I reckoned I wouldn’t be particularly good at it. Sure, I'd be fine with the making dinner, doing laundry part (I do that anyway), and the being able to talk about stuff (I do enjoy a good chinwag) and the snuggles (who doesn't like a snuggle?) But I've always been out of step with the finer points of it, like the stuff real mothers are supposed to do.

For example, forcing my kids to learn a musical instrument - they tried it and it wasn't their thing, so they gave up. Or informing my kids, that they can only have screen time once they'd studied some MIT coding course for tweens - by the time they were tweens, they were already much more advanced than me - or ascending to the heights of being part of the parent-teacher association.

I actually really did try the Parent Teacher Association thing, but then there was an incident involving pizza slices and an unhinged PTA president accusing me of theft. There we were in the playground in front of parents and kids and PTA members. Outraged, she had demanded I count out the money in front of everyone. Her face got redder and redder, and her figure smaller and smaller, when her desired outcome of exposing my supposed thievery had instead transpired to exposing her as being vicious and incompetent. With an embarrassed laugh, she had muttered an apology for her difficulties with math, and I had looked her in the eye and said nothing - both of us knowing she had more that just bad math to apologize for. But the damage was done. From then on, I decided I would donate to my kids’ schools rather than volunteer, in the same way that I prefer to donate to charity rather than smack myself on the hands with a hammer.

But the thing is, despite never picturing myself as a parent, and not feeling like I have the invisible qualifications for professional motherdom, I am the actual mother of two real people. So even though the role doesn’t come easily to me, sometimes I have to take it on.

Like this week for example, because this week was Lachlan’s high school graduation. And he took to it like uhm… a duck to typing.

Lachlan is not a particularly pomp and ceremony guy and came into the world about 400 years old. Since he was around 16, he has preferred to get up and cook his own breakfast, which has totally worked for me as he likes to rise early, around 5.30am, to go for a run, or walk the neighbor’s dog, then look through his work for the day, before driving himself to school.

From the moment he first opened his tiny wee eyes, he has had an attitude of ‘don’t bullshit me’. This is the kid who led a full Spartacus-type rebellion in pre-school over Miss Betsy’s apparent audacity in trying to force him to eat peaches.

He is absolutely dependable in that if he says he will do something, he will do it, but he is also pretty single-minded, so if you want him to do something he doesn’t understand the point of, you will have your work cut out to persuade him. So Lachlan has found graduation week tricky.

“These guys talk about graduation like I'm throwing myself into a giant volcano. I'm not dying. I'll just not be going to school next week.”

“Graduation can be a big thing for people,” I say.

“That's fair,” he says, “But as grown adults, can they comprehend it’s not a big deal for everyone?”

I smile and say nothing and follow him into his room to pick out a shirt and tie.

“Like I am trying to be accepting. They want me to wear a gown and a hat? Fine. They want me to turn up for their endless rehearsals and brunches and picnics and proms and senior sunsets? Fine. But when they ask me what I’m going to do with my life, that’s not fine. Not fine at all. Because I’ve been so busy turning up to classes and delivering homework and meeting their endless deadlines about stuff I don’t care about, that I haven’t had that much time to think about it. In fact, the next time someone asks me what I plan to do with my life, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to ask them what they plan to do with their lives. Because surely what a person actually does with their whole life doesn’t have to be decided when graduating high school. I mean, considering it’s your whole life you’re talking about here, shouldn’t it be a series of decisions over a period of time, based on the factors you see in front of you?”

Like I say, he is 400 years old.

“And I’ve accepted they don’t understand the college thing” …

(Lachlan has opted to go to trade school to train to be an electrician, and then to do a business degree somewhere along the way. His thinking is that he’ll always have a trade and then if he gets bored of being an electrician, he’ll still be able to set himself up in business as something else.)

…“But I am so over all of this. I just want graduation to be done.”

Now, here is where I have found it tricky, because I’ve felt somehow I’m failing as a parent, to not make a big deal about his graduation. Mark, clearly has not been reading from ‘the big imaginary book of parenting standards’ that I have, as he’s very much of the thought that Lachlan gets to choose how he wants to do things, as long as he’s respectful to the process. But I have felt my duty as a mother to make the occasion special, just like proper mothers seem to be able to do, though when I try to work out what special looks like, I really don’t seem to have an answer.

“Everything will be hidden under a gown. Why can’t I just wear shorts and a T-shirt?”

“Because you can wear shorts and a T-shirt any time. This is a bigger occasion.”

“Is it though?” he replied. “What did you do for your high school graduation?”

“That was a long time ago,” I said.

He looked at me sternly, and I knew there was no avoiding the subject until I answered. “Well, me and a couple of my pals went to the fish and chip shop in the village and got some chips.”

“Did you wear a cap and a gown?” he asked

“Uhm no.”

“So was there a ceremony?”

“Eh, not particularly.”

“So how did you know you’d graduated?” he asked.

“Because they sent me a letter in the mail saying I’d finished school,” I replied.

“That sounds brilliant,” he said.

“It was, I suppose. But that was a different time and a different country and a different world,” I said. “And even then, people would ask me what I planned to do with the rest of my life. And even then, I had no idea what to answer.”

He smiled.

“Ok, white shirt, black trousers. Black tie,” he said. “But just know, I’m doing this for you, and Dad, and Fergus, and because I know I have to accept my responsibilities. Even when those responsibilities are complete and total bullshit.’

“Brilliant,” I said, relieved. “And do you want to have a wee party here afterwards?”

He looked at me like I had just pooped in his hand, so I smiled a ‘just kidding’.

“Pizza,” he said. “Let’s the four of us go out for pizza?”

And that was that.

Now I would love to tell you that, henceforth from our agreement, the air was full of graduational excitement, but I’d be lying.

Lachlan wanted to drive himself to graduation, and was so late leaving I was worried they wouldn’t let him walk. I told him to text me when he got there to let me know everything was OK, and the text duly came, saying he was in plenty of time, because “Of course there was a whole load of bullshit waiting around.”

As Ferg, Mark, and I tumbled into our car, I was pretty sure we were not doing it exactly by ‘the big invisible book of how graduations should be done’, but we were all smart yet casual, we all had sunscreen on, and allergy tabs had been taken. Mark had taken a little longer than Ferg and I, as he had seemed to be arranging stuff in the trunk of the car, but in plenty of time we were off.

When we arrived at the graduation site, however, it turned out we were not as early as I’d thought. Some of these people must have been camping out overnight, and all the seats were claimed. I went to sit down on what seemed to be an empty chair, and a woman appeared from about half a mile away to inform me in no uncertain terms that all these seats were taken.

“All of them?” I said incredulously, “Who are you inviting here, your ancestors?”

I looked across to Mark, who shrugged and gestured for me to come and stand with him and Fergus in the shade.

“There are no seats,” I said.

“I know,” he answered, “But who wants to be sitting out there in the sun anyway?”

I was about to answer something about proper parents arriving in proper time, but he had pottered off, leaving Fergus and I by ourselves.

Fergus graduated high school during the Pandemic, so in that time everyone was trying to stay away from each other as much as possible. As I stood in the shade beside him trying to work out if I could see Lachlan or any of the kids I knew, Fergus leaned over and said, “Remember those pandemic-style graduations? Good times!” and I laughed out loud.

A few minutes later, our intrepid explorer Mark (Sven) Tweddle arrived holding our beach umbrella that doubles as wind cheater, and a cooler bag, and we literally set up camp on the grass to one side of the fancy chairs. It was certainly more Woodstock vibe than graduation, but it seemed to have a positive effect, as before long, we were part of quite a happy wee encampment, as people saw the sense of not roasting in the sunlight while they could be basking in the shade, and set up their own little areas.

As the graduation speeches began, I definitely felt that we were marking an unforgettable moment in time, although sitting on the grass alongside my two other reprobates, while sipping cold Diet Pepsi, exactly what type of moment, I couldn’t tell.

One of the many wonderful things about being married to Mr Tweddle is that he is the kind of guy who will bring a tent and a drinks cooler to a graduation. One of the negative things is that T is a lot further to the end of the alphabet than my original surname, hence why Lachlan was second to last to graduate.

By the time he finally went on stage to accept his certificate, many of those in the seated area had moved to the shade. The lady who was a proper mother and claimed all the chairs, sat with her ancestors who each had their heads under scarfs, or were wafting themselves with fans. One woman who had clearly had enough was blatantly sporting a whole cardboard box on her head.

But none of that mattered, because my opinionated boy, who is both a teenager and 400 years old, looked quite the picture as he crossed the stage, and shook hands with his teachers, and had his photograph taken with the school Principal. In spite of his resistance, and his anxiety, and his rage and discomfort, he showed up, and that more than anything made me proud.

Afterwards, having spotted our wee encampment, he came to find us. We were surrounded by a wee group of his friends, hugging and congratulating each other. And then Lachlan was keen to get home.

“You did brilliantly today,” I said, as we headed back to the cars.

“Thanks,” he said, “So did you.”

Later, we went out for pizza, and later still, Mark and I settled down for a night in front of the TV while Lachlan and a group of his friends hung out by the outdoor fireplace, making smores and talking about what they planned to do next. And though it was not at all bells and whistles, and there were no balloons or streamers or fancy cakes, it was truly very beautiful.

So, despite never really planning on being a parent, I have two sons who have made me one. Both my kids are no longer at high school because they are no longer children but men. Yet I am still their mother.

If you’d asked me if I’d known this was where I would be when I graduated high school, of course, the answer would have been no. But I am good with that. All of it: The not knowing, the getting it wrong, the finding some way to get it right. The surprises, the challenges, the right to make your own mistakes. Good choices. Bad choices. The sleepless nights of worrying, or sleepless nights of partying, or sleepless nights because everything feels frankly too exciting to even close your eyes. I want all of it for my boys, and know for sure, they won’t be afraid to find it.

This week was graduation week. For Lachlan, and for me.

Lynn

Xo

PS: if you click on this wee heart emoji to like this post, I will tell Lachlan. I can’t predict what his thoughts on that will be, but I can tell you that my algorithm will definitely be thrilled.

Now normally this would be the spot where I would tell you about my books, but not this week. This week I want to mention this movie Pilgrim, made by people who I both adore and admire. The script was written by daughter and father, the music composed by brother/son and produced and acted by mother/friend. These people are genuinely wonderful and anyone would be lucky to call them friends. If you’re feeling shit about the world, this is the sweetest wee movie to watch. If you’re in the US, it’s on Amazon, so you’ve no excuse.

Here is the AMAZON LINK for the US:

https://www.amazon.com/gp/video/detail/B0H3FVXHRL/ref=atv_dp_share_cu_r

ARTICLE about the making of PILGRIM From Movie Maker Magazine:

https://www.moviemaker.com/making-pilgrims-for-5000-was-a-family-affair/?fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAaYYfOtIdh28DnES6WtMzWe9ml5WPVZg36_UNMH-w30877wKx6i7oolTMAg_aem_15Fli-blSC78Q3YTb8NKFg

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear. For details and booking, go to Fishandbear.net

Graduation Day - Audio

Ooh, I am mad at me. Though I promised myself I’d stopped, and wouldn't get caught in it again, I dipped my toe in the water and got dragged into a rip tide. And all, spectacularly, without even being anywhere close to the ocean.

Mr Tweddle has this phrase, which is, “painting Mark Zuckerberg's fence.” It means when you’ve found yourself doing voluntary work for a billionaire - like commenting on social media. Because every time you engage on something on social media - whether it be good or bad - it helps to make money for the billionaire who is selling advertising on his site.

Unsurprisingly, that billionaire doesn’t care whether you’re commenting to wish a beloved friend a happy birthday or to tell a complete stranger they’re an asshole. They make money either way, hence painting Mark Zuckerberg’s fence.

I like the visual of that. It makes it easier for me to remember. It’s one of those weird old clever Mother Naturey things that, when something is laid out as an image, it tells your brain that the picture is not only worth remembering but it’s probably also true. I'm no anthropologist (I know, hold back your surprise), but I reckon it's likely down to some survival of the species type thing - we see the truth with our own eyes and in doing so flourish as a species. And that makes total sense, until the creation of social media.

You see, I could make some kind of graphic with a picture of me on one side, and a picture of the Pope on the other. On the side with the Pope, I could put something like, “Same old pontiff. Same old story.” Then on the picture of me, I could list reasons why I should be Pope, such as, “She has that popely vibe,” or “She looks better in pointy hats,” or I could go for the knuckle and say, “Lynn is a Protestant woman. After generations of Catholic men, isn’t it time for a popely change?”

And even though that image would be blatantly and utterly ridiculous, if that was posted on social media and pushed in front of enough sets of eyes, I can guarantee there would be people who would agree with it. Because it doesn’t matter that something is bullshit when it’s laid out in a visually pleasing way. And because it's there, right in front of our eyes, we are biologically programmed to look for the truth in it.

And before long, my wee Pope experiment would have created a full-blown argument, and Mark Zuckerberg would not only be getting his fence painted, but one of his many houses too.

So I try to stay away from social media, or at least to only use it sparingly. I feel it should come with a health warning, and that I (rightly, as it turns out) can’t be trusted - not because I'm planning on campaigning as Pope any time soon, but because I sometimes forget to shut my big gob.

I would probably get rid of it altogether, except I have friends and family back in the old country, and I love to check in with them and see what they’ve been up to. So I have Facebook on my phone, and when I’m sitting in a doctor’s office, or waiting for the kettle to boil, or trying to avoid a deadline, I can open up the app and see pictures of those I love and miss and haven’t seen in person for ages, popping up on the screen.

It's a perfect compromise, or at least it should be, as long as I keep my mouth shut.

So you may not have heard about this (I am kidding), but there’s an election about to happen here in California. And obviously, there’s nothing quite like vying political candidates to create enough engagement to paint a whole city of houses and to buy Mark Zuckerberg another new luxury yacht.

One of the Californian candidates has spent somewhere in the region of $200 million on his campaign, and it’s impossible not to notice. Every time I look at a screen or open the mailbox, there he is with his shirt sleeves rolled up (Obama style) telling us he’s ready to get to work. Or smiling with some bloke in a hard hat showing that ‘he’s just like us.’

I don’t have a great deal of faith in politicians at the moment, but I do feel it’s irresponsible to not vote, and I might have thought of voting for this guy if he wasn't so constantly in my face all the time. It’s overkill.

And then his campaign started posting out these memes about the other guy he sees as his main opponent (even though they’re both in the same political party, by the way) that are basically more sophisticated versions of ‘Don’t you think Lynn should be Pope?” and he made my decision for me.

And I pretty much got on with my life, ignoring the constant barrage of ‘what a good guy-ness’ about him through my letterbox, and texted to me on my phone, and presented on all shapes and sizes of screens, in the same way I ignore these wee annoying mosquitoes that nip at your ankles every Summer. Yes, they’re really bloody irritating, but you don’t let them ruin your whole existence.

But then the other night, I came home from work, and life is good but busy. And I sat on the sofa and took out my phone, and happened to open Facebook to see what was happening with those I love back in the old country …and you can guess the rest.

An L.A. friend of mine had posted up one of the $200 million guy’s memes. And I was tired and distracted and stupidly made a comment. And of course, I hurt her feelings. And I felt shit about it, because she has stuff going on in her life, just as I have stuff going on in mine. And to be honest, it’s none of my business who she votes for (orange blob excepted) and none of my business what she posts.

And it doesn’t matter whether I agree with her or not.

Like I’m not a great fan of the music of Chris De Burgh. But if I walk past a room and someone is playing a song by Chris De Burgh, I am capable of keeping my mouth shut. I am capable of letting others have a different opinion from me and am, pretty much, a live-and-let-live person.

Also, I just don’t like unnecessarily hurting other people’s feelings. I find it distracting. Unsettling. And I worry about living in a world where it’s so easy to upset someone with so little effort.

I’m not going to lie. I find social media more and more repugnant. Friendships get tested, relationships get broken, perspectives get twisted, and all the time the guy in the background gets richer and richer and richer. And so right now I am mad at me, for being so totally gullible.

So I apologized. And deleted Facebook from my phone. I figure that way I won’t find it so easy to dip my toe in. Because the thing about riptides is that they don’t pull swimmers under the water; they just pull them further and further away from the shore.

Anyhoos, I don’t know if you know this, but there’s an election coming up in California. And after that, there will be an election coming up in some other part of the world. And then there will be one somewhere else. And we will all be hoping that whatever person we vote for will be able to bring the solutions we believe are really important.

Now whether they do or not is never guaranteed, as politicians seem to exist within some subculture of humanity, so much so that anthropologists should give them their own category.

But what is absolutely guaranteed though, in this world of continual elections, is that there’s money to be made, and luxury yachts to be purchased, and private planes to be upgraded.

And all of this bounty is funded by the outrage of people sitting in waiting rooms or lounging on living room sofas. Or the fear of those standing at train stations, or bus stops, or waiting in line at the car dealership. There’s the hopelessness of those scrolling for job opportunities or wondering how to pay next month’s bills. And the despair of those looking for something good in the news who find that nothing else has changed. And each one of us - just to distract ourselves - takes one little click on our phones and a whole world of loveliness opens up… for some needy Billionaire.

So, as I had to remind myself this week, when it comes to painting fences, unless you know someone who genuinely needs help with theirs, just get on with the business of painting your own.

Lynn

Xo

PS: Clicking on the wee heart emoji to say you like this post makes me happy. And I’ve no idea how if affects the feelings of Billionaires.

To support the continuing publication of this work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, or buy Lynn a cup of tea.

Volume 3 of Notes From The Valley is available in hardback, paperback, audiobook, and eBook: US, UK, Can, Aus

If you do buy anything, please leave a review on the site as it helps people know that I write in proper sentences… erm sometimes xo

P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear. For details and booking, go to Fishandbear.net

Painting Mark Zuckerberg’s Fence - Audio

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