Saturday 19th June.
Mooring: Angel, Islington
Wake up tired, so tired, feeling heavy, groggy, sluggish. My sleep was interrupted by the baby squealing, babbling, making happy noises. I feed her, I try to doze, she goes on and on. I love her but it’s never ending. I shout at her to shut up, I say,
“I just want a day off, it’s relentless, seven days a week, day and night, I don’t want children EVERY DAY!” I am clearly having a tantrum. The Doctor makes no comment. I feel stupid and selfish for saying it all out loud. It’s not the baby’s fault.
My inner monologue is off again: Look at the floor, it needs sweeping. The Mum should sweep it. The dishes need doing. Children to wash and dress and feed. What is depressing is that I know once I get out of bed I’ll begin work, (before I am even dressed my job begins,) and goes on and on all day and doesn’t stop for more than a minute or two (not even long enough to drink a cup of coffee uninterrupted) and very often I am attempting this stupid thing we’ve dubbed ‘multi-tasking’. Which, in actual fact means simultaneously starting perhaps three jobs and then getting interrupted by two tiny people who have five more urgent jobs that need doing. And my miserable monologue moans that I am not doing enough because every job is incomplete. I cannot finish the (insert housework task here) because I am playing (insert toddler activity here) and cannot finish that because I am interrupted by the baby, who requires (cuddle/ nappy change/ teething gel) *delete as appropriate.
Don’t think that The Doctor doesn’t help. He is always the first out of bed. He gets Big Sister up and makes her breakfast. He makes me a coffee, while I am still in bed with my miserable inner monologue. I take my first sip of warm caffeine and I am comforted. I relax.
“Thank you Doctor,” I say gratefully. “This is my favourite part of the day. The bit when you make me a coffee.” I breathe a sigh of relief.
Big Sister’s doing star jumps, but she calls them Pop Star jumps. The baby is chubby and perfect, soft and smiley and dressed in a pale pink bodysuit. I love my two little girls. All is right with the world.
Later that day two boats went by “buttied-up” – tied side by side, being propelled by only one motor. I recognise the boat name of the legendary single mum; she’s heard of me too, on the towpath telegraph.
“Is that you?” she shouts my name across the cut, holding babe in arm. The Doctor and Baby Sister are looking out the window.
“Yes, we are gonna meet up soon!”
“We’re mooring up!” she gestures,” here”.
“See you soon then!”
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Goodbye Little Venice
Friday 18th June
We went for a goodbye coffee at the Dutch barge, before leaving Little Venice. Big sister says she will really miss Barge Mum. Barge Mum and I decide to plan a meet-up of all the boat families we know. We untied our ropes and cruised past the Dutch barge to turn our boat in the direction of Camden. This is called ‘winding’ the boat. As we turned we could see the coot’s nest in the tyre fender of the Dutch barge. This is why Barge Mum and Dad don’t have to move on. They are outlaws – outside of the British Waterways law of continuous cruisers, which states that you must move at least every fourteen days.
Big sister helps me with the rubbish and recycling when we stop for water and pump-out at Little Venice. I climb out the window to rig up a torch on the roof of our boat, as The Doctor says the tunnel light isn’t working. We make do with stuff that is broken because a) we’re skint and b) we’re not very practical DIY people.
Big sister doesn’t like travelling on the boat because Daddy is steering, and cannot play with her. She’s watching the Jungle Book DVD indoors. Baby sister is on the back deck in her ‘Bumbo’ baby seat squealing and happy, chewing her teething ring.
In Camden we tied up next to the boat that we previously moored beside in Paddington. I called out to Mrs Jones, perhaps she has the missing part to the washing machine that she was going to find? A tattooed boater bloke comes out on to the towpath and explains,
“That couple were on the run!” They didn’t pay their rent. The boat owner (who is a nightclub owner) paid some heavies to get them off the boat.
“Threw all the plants off of the roof and into the cut. They were selling things that didn’t even belong to them!”
We’ve not moored in Camden for over three years, it’s so difficult to get a space as it’s popular, and double mooring is no longer allowed (because of those pesky trip boats). So we’re pretty happy to find a mooring space, until Tattooed Boater says that there was trouble on the mooring last night – some boats got smashed up. Bless those Camden teenagers. So we untie the ropes and keep on cruising.
I begin multi-tasking again: Baby crying, get her up from nap, kettle on, do dishes, help Doctor with lock, Big Sister asleep on sofa as the Jungle Book credits roll. Baby is on the roof in the ‘Bumbo’. Tourist takes photo of her. I’m pushing the balance beam of the lock gate, red sandals slipping on stone paving slabs. Doctor steers the boat into the lock. Camden teenagers smoking a bong by the lock gate offer to help wind the paddles up. But doing locks is the only exercise I can get. Locks are exciting to me, I muse as I push, but not to the boat wife of yesteryear, who may do seventy in a day!
We went for a goodbye coffee at the Dutch barge, before leaving Little Venice. Big sister says she will really miss Barge Mum. Barge Mum and I decide to plan a meet-up of all the boat families we know. We untied our ropes and cruised past the Dutch barge to turn our boat in the direction of Camden. This is called ‘winding’ the boat. As we turned we could see the coot’s nest in the tyre fender of the Dutch barge. This is why Barge Mum and Dad don’t have to move on. They are outlaws – outside of the British Waterways law of continuous cruisers, which states that you must move at least every fourteen days.
Big sister helps me with the rubbish and recycling when we stop for water and pump-out at Little Venice. I climb out the window to rig up a torch on the roof of our boat, as The Doctor says the tunnel light isn’t working. We make do with stuff that is broken because a) we’re skint and b) we’re not very practical DIY people.
Big sister doesn’t like travelling on the boat because Daddy is steering, and cannot play with her. She’s watching the Jungle Book DVD indoors. Baby sister is on the back deck in her ‘Bumbo’ baby seat squealing and happy, chewing her teething ring.
In Camden we tied up next to the boat that we previously moored beside in Paddington. I called out to Mrs Jones, perhaps she has the missing part to the washing machine that she was going to find? A tattooed boater bloke comes out on to the towpath and explains,
“That couple were on the run!” They didn’t pay their rent. The boat owner (who is a nightclub owner) paid some heavies to get them off the boat.
“Threw all the plants off of the roof and into the cut. They were selling things that didn’t even belong to them!”
We’ve not moored in Camden for over three years, it’s so difficult to get a space as it’s popular, and double mooring is no longer allowed (because of those pesky trip boats). So we’re pretty happy to find a mooring space, until Tattooed Boater says that there was trouble on the mooring last night – some boats got smashed up. Bless those Camden teenagers. So we untie the ropes and keep on cruising.
I begin multi-tasking again: Baby crying, get her up from nap, kettle on, do dishes, help Doctor with lock, Big Sister asleep on sofa as the Jungle Book credits roll. Baby is on the roof in the ‘Bumbo’. Tourist takes photo of her. I’m pushing the balance beam of the lock gate, red sandals slipping on stone paving slabs. Doctor steers the boat into the lock. Camden teenagers smoking a bong by the lock gate offer to help wind the paddles up. But doing locks is the only exercise I can get. Locks are exciting to me, I muse as I push, but not to the boat wife of yesteryear, who may do seventy in a day!
Thursday, 12 August 2010
The Legend of The Hardcore Boat Mum
Wednesday 16th June
The Doctor came home early so that we could go for a drink with our boaty neighbours on their Dutch Barge. They’ve just purchased a baby swing and suspended it from the roof of their living room. Big Sister was really enjoying pushing her baby sister in the swing while we talked about other boat mums we know. We’ve heard a rumour that there is a single mum on a boat in London. We all agree that she must be the hardcore of all boat mums.
The Doctor came home early so that we could go for a drink with our boaty neighbours on their Dutch Barge. They’ve just purchased a baby swing and suspended it from the roof of their living room. Big Sister was really enjoying pushing her baby sister in the swing while we talked about other boat mums we know. We’ve heard a rumour that there is a single mum on a boat in London. We all agree that she must be the hardcore of all boat mums.
‘Controlled Crying’ on board.
Tuesday 15th June
People say with the second one you let them cry more, and this is true; during the day time. But in the evenings on our boat we rock and soothe our youngest to sleep, with patience and lullabies, trying to curb the crying so that she doesn’t keep our eldest awake. Big sister is only a few feet away in her bedroom at the front of the boat. The baby hammock is suspended above the sofa while I read bedtime stories to Big sister and The Doctor cooks dinner in the kitchen. When dinner is ready we lift the hammock, baby and all into the kitchen and hang her in there for the evening. Kitchen light off, we then move dinner into the living room and eat on our laps on the sofa. Sometimes she is asleep by this point, and sometimes not.
I feel calmer, happier now that I’m seeing brand new friend Barge Mum nearly every day. So maybe my problem was loneliness?
People say with the second one you let them cry more, and this is true; during the day time. But in the evenings on our boat we rock and soothe our youngest to sleep, with patience and lullabies, trying to curb the crying so that she doesn’t keep our eldest awake. Big sister is only a few feet away in her bedroom at the front of the boat. The baby hammock is suspended above the sofa while I read bedtime stories to Big sister and The Doctor cooks dinner in the kitchen. When dinner is ready we lift the hammock, baby and all into the kitchen and hang her in there for the evening. Kitchen light off, we then move dinner into the living room and eat on our laps on the sofa. Sometimes she is asleep by this point, and sometimes not.
I feel calmer, happier now that I’m seeing brand new friend Barge Mum nearly every day. So maybe my problem was loneliness?
St. Albans
Sunday 13th June.
7.00am. Woken up by a sharp tug to my hair. Baby Sister is in the bed. Co-sleeping is not the beautiful intimate experience I’d remembered or imagined. She woke me three times in the night. I turn over, she smiles excitedly and drags sharp fingernails down my nose and cheeks.
Ow! I say. She swings a baby left hook and punches me in the eye. Dear of her, (As we say in Devon) she’s just excited to see me, she squeals happily and wiggles her legs. I swear grumpily. She’s just being affectionate. I dreamed that The Doctor and I lived on separate boats, next door to each other; together but separate. I also dreamed that my double pushchair was empty but out of control racing down a hill. I rushed after it and just in time saved it from being hit by a car.
I had a lovely time at Chloe’s; lunch at The Breakfast Club, the baby is happy in her highchair, giggling at other children across the cafe. We walked through charming English market shopping streets, olde worlde pubs and cobbles and alleyways. Baby sister was asleep when we visited the cathedral. We stood quietly at the back and watched choir practice, a whole choir on stage chorusing up to a crescendo and cymbals! Crash! Baby awakes! What a way to be woken up, poor thing. (Perhaps the early morning violence was her revenge?)
Then, a sunny walk in the park breastfeeding on a park bench discussing Chloe’s wedding, old friends, future plans and ideas of names for Chloe’s (soon to conceived!) children. My youngest child lies on a blanket on the grass, kicking, smiling, shaking her rattle. An elderly couple stop to smile and stare and talk about her babyish loveliness; what a happy baby.
I feel relaxed, it’s so good to get away and break the monotony. I conclude we should probably all go away more often – all four of us. I need to have fun with my family, so that they’re not always my ‘job’! The Doctor and I need to enjoy each other too.
7.00am. Woken up by a sharp tug to my hair. Baby Sister is in the bed. Co-sleeping is not the beautiful intimate experience I’d remembered or imagined. She woke me three times in the night. I turn over, she smiles excitedly and drags sharp fingernails down my nose and cheeks.
Ow! I say. She swings a baby left hook and punches me in the eye. Dear of her, (As we say in Devon) she’s just excited to see me, she squeals happily and wiggles her legs. I swear grumpily. She’s just being affectionate. I dreamed that The Doctor and I lived on separate boats, next door to each other; together but separate. I also dreamed that my double pushchair was empty but out of control racing down a hill. I rushed after it and just in time saved it from being hit by a car.
I had a lovely time at Chloe’s; lunch at The Breakfast Club, the baby is happy in her highchair, giggling at other children across the cafe. We walked through charming English market shopping streets, olde worlde pubs and cobbles and alleyways. Baby sister was asleep when we visited the cathedral. We stood quietly at the back and watched choir practice, a whole choir on stage chorusing up to a crescendo and cymbals! Crash! Baby awakes! What a way to be woken up, poor thing. (Perhaps the early morning violence was her revenge?)
Then, a sunny walk in the park breastfeeding on a park bench discussing Chloe’s wedding, old friends, future plans and ideas of names for Chloe’s (soon to conceived!) children. My youngest child lies on a blanket on the grass, kicking, smiling, shaking her rattle. An elderly couple stop to smile and stare and talk about her babyish loveliness; what a happy baby.
I feel relaxed, it’s so good to get away and break the monotony. I conclude we should probably all go away more often – all four of us. I need to have fun with my family, so that they’re not always my ‘job’! The Doctor and I need to enjoy each other too.
Introducing The Miserable Monologue
Saturday 12th June
Baby sister woke us at 5.45am. I considered this unreasonable and was furious with her. She doesn’t cry, but growls and gurgles and babbles cheerfully. I feed her, both breasts; still not drowsy at all, she wants to chat and play. And shriek. Shut UP! I say. I don’t want her to wake Big Sister, I don’t want to look after two children when I’m this tired and this grumpy. I don’t want Big Sister to wake too early and become tired and grumpy by lunch time. The Doctor wakes without complaining and begins to play with Baby Sister. She is happy with this but still, will not play quietly. I grumble at Baby Sister and open the bathroom door and wardrobe door across the corridor to try to muffle the sound, so that Big Sister doesn’t get woken.
Today, Baby Sister and I are going to visit Chloe in St Albans. It’s going to be a little break away; nice girly chats, eat chocolate, drink wine, and discuss Chloe’s wedding plans.
But I feel so irritable, tired and close to tears. Is it hormones? I explained it to The Doctor in terms I thought that he might understand:
“ I feel like I’m going to get my period maybe.”
He smiles sympathetically. He knows that in a man’s world this means I will be unpredictably over emotional. He helps a lot with the dishes and kids. I do breakfast and wash and dress ‘em. Despite being woken early I leave half an hour later than planned after packing a million essential things needed to take Baby Sister away for twenty-four hours. Plus clean pants and a toothbrush for me.
I struggle to Kings Cross and people on the tube smile at my incredibly cute baby (probably the best baby in the world.)
At Kings Cross ticket counter I see a sign that indicates I may need to take an alternative route to St Albans. One that involves more tubes and escalators with a pushchair.
“The engineering works...?” I nervously ask the woman at the desk.
“Can I get to St. Albans from here today?” I try to stop my lip trembling. If she says no, I might burst into tears. She says yes!
“But the trains are leaving from upstairs today.”
Upstairs? What does that mean? I’ve never been upstairs in the new station. I begin to feel panicky.
What platform is that?
It’s just, I’ve got the pushchair, I explain, pleadingly. I don’t want to go the wrong way.
“There is a lift,” she assures me kindly.
I feel a nervous wreck with a continual self critical paranoid monologue going on.
“You’re the only one who feels like this,” says the monologue.
“Everybody else is coping. You are making the simple molehill of mothering into a mountain. Enjoy your children for goodness sake, they’re not young for very long.”
My monologue throws clichés at me.
“They grow up so quickly these days.” My monologue reprimands me. My monologue is very busy and very paranoid. She says,
“Do you think Chloe wants to hear this? Chloe just thinks you moan too much.”
Baby sister woke us at 5.45am. I considered this unreasonable and was furious with her. She doesn’t cry, but growls and gurgles and babbles cheerfully. I feed her, both breasts; still not drowsy at all, she wants to chat and play. And shriek. Shut UP! I say. I don’t want her to wake Big Sister, I don’t want to look after two children when I’m this tired and this grumpy. I don’t want Big Sister to wake too early and become tired and grumpy by lunch time. The Doctor wakes without complaining and begins to play with Baby Sister. She is happy with this but still, will not play quietly. I grumble at Baby Sister and open the bathroom door and wardrobe door across the corridor to try to muffle the sound, so that Big Sister doesn’t get woken.
Today, Baby Sister and I are going to visit Chloe in St Albans. It’s going to be a little break away; nice girly chats, eat chocolate, drink wine, and discuss Chloe’s wedding plans.
But I feel so irritable, tired and close to tears. Is it hormones? I explained it to The Doctor in terms I thought that he might understand:
“ I feel like I’m going to get my period maybe.”
He smiles sympathetically. He knows that in a man’s world this means I will be unpredictably over emotional. He helps a lot with the dishes and kids. I do breakfast and wash and dress ‘em. Despite being woken early I leave half an hour later than planned after packing a million essential things needed to take Baby Sister away for twenty-four hours. Plus clean pants and a toothbrush for me.
I struggle to Kings Cross and people on the tube smile at my incredibly cute baby (probably the best baby in the world.)
At Kings Cross ticket counter I see a sign that indicates I may need to take an alternative route to St Albans. One that involves more tubes and escalators with a pushchair.
“The engineering works...?” I nervously ask the woman at the desk.
“Can I get to St. Albans from here today?” I try to stop my lip trembling. If she says no, I might burst into tears. She says yes!
“But the trains are leaving from upstairs today.”
Upstairs? What does that mean? I’ve never been upstairs in the new station. I begin to feel panicky.
What platform is that?
It’s just, I’ve got the pushchair, I explain, pleadingly. I don’t want to go the wrong way.
“There is a lift,” she assures me kindly.
I feel a nervous wreck with a continual self critical paranoid monologue going on.
“You’re the only one who feels like this,” says the monologue.
“Everybody else is coping. You are making the simple molehill of mothering into a mountain. Enjoy your children for goodness sake, they’re not young for very long.”
My monologue throws clichés at me.
“They grow up so quickly these days.” My monologue reprimands me. My monologue is very busy and very paranoid. She says,
“Do you think Chloe wants to hear this? Chloe just thinks you moan too much.”
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Is it cold in winter?
Friday June 11th
Both girls were asleep and we were sat eating dinner when we felt the boat rock. Not the kind of gentle listing that it does as another boat goes past, but a steep lean to the towpath side, like someone getting on board. The Doctor leapt up and headed for the back door while I stuck my head out the window. We saw a bloke with a camera stepping off the gunwale and back onto the towpath.
“What are you doing?” I asked, angrily. He gave an embarrassed smile and half gestured towards his camera.
“Sorry”, he said, with a foreign accent.
“This is our home, we have children asleep on board here!” I called after him, as he walked away.
Sometimes teenagers untie us and we awake drifting across the canal. Once in Camden I came home to find French teenage tourists with rucksacks just sitting about on the back deck.
“Get off!” I yelled at them – they looked so surprised, as if they had assumed the boats were all part of the tourist attraction for anyone to sit on and enjoy. Once, in Angel, I felt that familiar lean of someone stepping onto the back deck and looked out the back door to find a woman posing for a photograph. When they were discovered her partner explained,
“We thought there was nobody home”.
“Does that make it ok then?” They made as if to carry on and take the photo.
“No, get off!” I shouted.
Today I bumped into another boat mum and she invited me round for coffee this afternoon. I carried Baby sister, and Big Sister walked down the towpath; there’s no need for the pushchair as she is only a few boats up from us. She has a lovely Dutch barge and it is for sale. It’s wider than a narrowboat, and in comparison seems huge inside. There is a full size bath and two bedrooms! I started to picture that extra bedroom with two little beds in it for my girls. We sat in her wide-beam living room with wooden floorboards and I envied her bookshelves. There is a lovely writing desk in the corner and I imagined myself writing books there. Dutch Barge Mum provided me with coffee and cream cakes, and supplied Big Sister with a washing up tub to splash about in. Baby sister was laughing at Barge Mum’s two little dogs, I don’t think she’s ever seen little dogs up close before.
I told Barge Mum that I am thinking of writing a book about boating-mums. People are always asking me if it is hard having kids on a boat, and I say no. But then I’ve never lived in a house with kids, I’ve been living aboard for ten years, and maybe I don’t think about all the little things I have to do that you wouldn’t have to do if you lived in a house. They all add up. Barge Mum said,
“Yes, like moving the boat, filling up with water...”
“Emptying the toilet, getting rid of the rubbish and recycling...” I added. “Although that’s just a little job, by the time I’ve got everybody’s coats on, loaded them both into the pushchair and carried all the rubbish to the rubbish point it all takes time. If I lived in a house I would just put it all outside the door and somebody else would take it away!”
“Yeah,” smiled Barge Mum, “and you’d be just chilling in the garden with the kids.”
“So what’s the worst thing about living aboard then? Why are you selling the boat?”
“This winter was so cold” said Barge Mum. You can’t maintain a constant heat with a solid fuel stove.
“Yes, this winter was bad” I agreed. “I mean, the canal always freezes for a bit in January but we were frozen in for about three weeks this year. I’ve never been frozen in that long.”
“We ran out of coal,” confessed Barge Mum.
“Oh my god!”
“We managed to borrow a bag from the boat next door, and then Barge Dad got a lift to Uxbridge Boat Yard, and we bought all the bags they had left.”
“We ran out of water,” I replied, “and used bottled water from the supermarket for washing and everything! But having no heating is terrible – especially with a baby!”
Actually, the second winter with Big Sister, our diesel stove broke and we went down to the warden’s mooring and used his electric to run an electric heater. It didn’t keep the boat as warm as the diesel stove though. I think the diesel stove is the best thing we’ve ever bought for the boat. But The Doctor is pretty keen on the solar panel too.
Both girls were asleep and we were sat eating dinner when we felt the boat rock. Not the kind of gentle listing that it does as another boat goes past, but a steep lean to the towpath side, like someone getting on board. The Doctor leapt up and headed for the back door while I stuck my head out the window. We saw a bloke with a camera stepping off the gunwale and back onto the towpath.
“What are you doing?” I asked, angrily. He gave an embarrassed smile and half gestured towards his camera.
“Sorry”, he said, with a foreign accent.
“This is our home, we have children asleep on board here!” I called after him, as he walked away.
Sometimes teenagers untie us and we awake drifting across the canal. Once in Camden I came home to find French teenage tourists with rucksacks just sitting about on the back deck.
“Get off!” I yelled at them – they looked so surprised, as if they had assumed the boats were all part of the tourist attraction for anyone to sit on and enjoy. Once, in Angel, I felt that familiar lean of someone stepping onto the back deck and looked out the back door to find a woman posing for a photograph. When they were discovered her partner explained,
“We thought there was nobody home”.
“Does that make it ok then?” They made as if to carry on and take the photo.
“No, get off!” I shouted.
Today I bumped into another boat mum and she invited me round for coffee this afternoon. I carried Baby sister, and Big Sister walked down the towpath; there’s no need for the pushchair as she is only a few boats up from us. She has a lovely Dutch barge and it is for sale. It’s wider than a narrowboat, and in comparison seems huge inside. There is a full size bath and two bedrooms! I started to picture that extra bedroom with two little beds in it for my girls. We sat in her wide-beam living room with wooden floorboards and I envied her bookshelves. There is a lovely writing desk in the corner and I imagined myself writing books there. Dutch Barge Mum provided me with coffee and cream cakes, and supplied Big Sister with a washing up tub to splash about in. Baby sister was laughing at Barge Mum’s two little dogs, I don’t think she’s ever seen little dogs up close before.
I told Barge Mum that I am thinking of writing a book about boating-mums. People are always asking me if it is hard having kids on a boat, and I say no. But then I’ve never lived in a house with kids, I’ve been living aboard for ten years, and maybe I don’t think about all the little things I have to do that you wouldn’t have to do if you lived in a house. They all add up. Barge Mum said,
“Yes, like moving the boat, filling up with water...”
“Emptying the toilet, getting rid of the rubbish and recycling...” I added. “Although that’s just a little job, by the time I’ve got everybody’s coats on, loaded them both into the pushchair and carried all the rubbish to the rubbish point it all takes time. If I lived in a house I would just put it all outside the door and somebody else would take it away!”
“Yeah,” smiled Barge Mum, “and you’d be just chilling in the garden with the kids.”
“So what’s the worst thing about living aboard then? Why are you selling the boat?”
“This winter was so cold” said Barge Mum. You can’t maintain a constant heat with a solid fuel stove.
“Yes, this winter was bad” I agreed. “I mean, the canal always freezes for a bit in January but we were frozen in for about three weeks this year. I’ve never been frozen in that long.”
“We ran out of coal,” confessed Barge Mum.
“Oh my god!”
“We managed to borrow a bag from the boat next door, and then Barge Dad got a lift to Uxbridge Boat Yard, and we bought all the bags they had left.”
“We ran out of water,” I replied, “and used bottled water from the supermarket for washing and everything! But having no heating is terrible – especially with a baby!”
Actually, the second winter with Big Sister, our diesel stove broke and we went down to the warden’s mooring and used his electric to run an electric heater. It didn’t keep the boat as warm as the diesel stove though. I think the diesel stove is the best thing we’ve ever bought for the boat. But The Doctor is pretty keen on the solar panel too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)