We needed to get out of the house on Mother's day, as Mr Boxer Shorts had work to do. But it was one of those rare sunny days, so we packed up the skates and the skateboard and headed off to the park. Despite the photo to contrary, Miss Comic Relief is getting very very good at rollerskating now.
Miss Trouble Pants probably needs some more expert instruction on the skateboard than me, however!
Miss Comic Relief lost her second tooth this week. She is now sporting a big gap on the bottom of her mouth and she loves pushing her tongue through it. It's going to take me some time to get used to it. The next two teeth are the ones that make the most difference to the face. I am so used to how Miss Trouble Pants looks with her massive beaver teeth (poor child!) that it's always a surprise to look at old photographs.
Miss Comic Relief has picture perfect symmetrical teeth. She always has. They are small and perfectly formed, even at top and bottom. Miss Trouble Pants on the other hand started off with an extra baby tooth that made her teeth look misaligned, and they seemed larger to begin with. Now that her adult teeth are coming in (she has 7 of them) they are already fighting for space. In fact - at the age of 8 she's already seen an orthodontist, as referred by the dentist. They are planning to realign her bottom jaw when she's 10, as her overbite is 10mm.
But this isn't about her, it's about that magical creature who - for some unfathomable reason - wants to collect those little chunks of enamel with fragments of dried blood still caught in the stem of the tooth.
All I remember from my own childhood was that the tooth fairy would come during the night and switch the tooth for a coin. I can't even remember the going rate. I figured that this would be acceptable for my own children.
But apparently not.
My mother-in-law and various other sources had already furnished my girls with books about the tooth fairy. For one thing - these books contradict each other. Is there one tooth fairy, or many? And for a second - one of the books (which also came with its own little velvet bag for holding the tooth) tells the story of a relationship by letters between the child and fairy.
That book mentions that the fairies use the teeth to build their cities - which grosses me out in some ways. I know that they'd make nice white stones, but still - they are teeth! Or perhaps it's something like this -->
The idea of the tooth fairy brigade getting around with tooth encrusted jewellery really opens up a new fear - is there a black market for teeth? Are we likely to be mugged in an inky dark alley at some point?
A fairy with a baseball bat could be a very scary proposition.
Or am I projecting totally irrational and human characteristics on a mythical creature?
Back to the story. Miss Trouble Pants was 2 years old when she was given that book. So wisely - I took the small velvet bag and put it somewhere safe. I return it to that safe place after each use.
Do you think I could find the damn thing when Miss Comic Relief's first tooth fell out? Not a chance.
I found an alternate bag for her to use - a small bag that some earrings had come in. In fact, it's a far better bag than the velvet one, since that lasted precisely 3 teeth before it completely fell apart anyway.
And then came the next big task. The letter to the tooth fairy.
Because of the book, Miss Trouble Pants likes to write letters to the tooth fairy and she receive them in return. Tiny weeny little letters that I print out and cut to size. One day she asked for a photo, and that was an extra challenge. I googled high and low to find an image of the tooth fairy that wasn't comical or sexual (amazingly, that was incredibly difficult!). Finally I found one and printed it out, covered it in contact, and popped it in with the letter.
Miss Comic Relief went straight in at the jugular. She wanted a photo of the tooth fairy too.
Now here is the difficult part. Do we make it the same tooth fairy? Or do they have their own unique tooth fairies? I wasn't sure I could come up with a second image that matched the first one.
In the end, I didn't try and match it. I found a photo that looked sweet and used that. We decided that the tooth fairies would be different ones so that this would be a totally new experience, new territory.
So here, without further ado, is the photo of our newest tooth fairy (lifted from somewhere on the internet).
She was very well received by Miss Comic Relief.
But what is she wearing around her neck? God I hope it's not teeth!
Half term holiday is a time of gay abandon, fun filled days and freedom.
Or should be.
In reality, our half term holiday was a week long agony of torrential rain which trapped us in a tiny house with two sick children who got on each other's nerves so much that we had to separate them. From me.
So we were delighted at the chance to get out of the house on Friday to go into Southbank and see a play aimed at children called "The scribe who wouldn't scribble" which my friend had organised for her two kids and mine.
The rain didn't care that we had planned a day out. Or maybe it did care - and took pleasure in beating down even harder. Whatever devious plot the stratus has in mind, it certainly succeeded in starting our day off with the feeling of damp squibs, and we only needed to go one street to meet our friends and get drenched.
The plan was to have lunch at their house and then catch the train at 20 past one. It was a good plan. We arrived at their house at quarter to twelve, and lunch was nearly ready. Things were organised, running on schedule and the children were in high spirits.
At least - three of them were. The fourth - the youngest - was having a "moment". She was tired from all the late nights of a holiday and being demanding. She kept shouting orders at her mother who wisely decided to ignore her.
Lunch was moderately uneventful, save for the random and constant screams of the youngest, as she kept up the tirade and demanded to be hand fed, like some kind of goat.
Despite her attempts at diversion, we were ready to leave the house well before time - the walk to the station would take about 10 minutes, plus some time to buy tickets. The children were all coated up and dashing about the house in a state of hyper over excitement.
Then disaster struck. The three eldest ran into the downstairs toilet and locked the door. And then the door stayed locked. Resolutely, immovably, totally locked.
So there we were - standing in the hallway, talking through the louvre doors that lead to the tiny under-stair bathroom which is disguised as a cupboard. They are half width doors that lock in the centre with a slide latch. And all their 8 year old (and one "almost" 6 year old) might cannot move the slide latch at all.
With their overloaded excitement gland on pure tickle, they had tried to run back out the doors without unlatching them. The full weight of three girls moving at high speed from a standing start with about half a foot's worth of acceleration has forced the doors semi open while still locked, bending the slide latch in the middle into a permanent state of lockedness.
With the latch opening attempts an obvious failure, the next step is to pass a screwdriver in and see if they can unscrew one side of the latch. The only problem with this is that the only place I can get the screwdriver in is at the top of the door, and none of them are tall enough to reach that. So I have to drop a potentially lethal weapon in on top of three girls who are probably silly (and curious) enough to all be looking up.
The screwdriver drop goes smoothly, and the unscrewing begins. And then it stops.
"It's not the right kind of screwdriver. We need one without the crossy bit."
I look to my friend, M - and she heads off to rummage in the shed again, finally coming back with the right kind. Another dangerous screwdriver handover happens without injury, and my daughter - Miss Trouble Pants is the denominated unscrewer.
It's not to be however. The screws are too painted over and stiff for an eight year old to get loose. We finally give up. The only avenue left is busting the door down.
We get them to turn their backs on the door as we attempt to pull the doors far enough open from the top to make a gap in the middle big enough to wedge our hands into, then pull it forward until the wood splinters. I am expecting great shards of wood to fly out into all concerned, pinking metal fixtures with lethal force.
While it pinches our hands, there are no other injuries - the doors pull open bending the latch further until it finally parts company with the housing and the doors are open.
The girls are free!
And our train? Amazingly - NOT missed!
We dashed to the station and made the train, then got to the theatre with plenty of time to spare.
There was a slight moment of confusion as the play started off in Hebrew - we hadn't realised the jewish connection. But while the main story revolved around three jewish letters - Samehk, Pe and Resh and their message to the errant scribe, the Hebrew language part was shortlived and they sang and acted in English. It was very good and raised some questions from the girls about what they'd seen. The letters were not the most interesting part of it - they were more intrigued by the different headgear worn in the audience.
Unfortunately I was woefully equipped to reply with anything more detailed than "it's part of their culture and religion", I promised to look into it with them.
We thought a cafe would be a good idea after the play, but the rain - it came down. And it kept coming. The walkway near where we were was all uncovered, so we decided that an exploratory trek along the front would just end up sodden, and might not even provide coffee.
So we dashed for the station and piled back on a train.
This is where it gets fun.
My girls are typical girls. They fight, they squabble, they misbehave, they disobey. Like any other kid. But on this trip home, they were angels. Picture this - I am standing on one side of the aisle chatting with my two angels, while my friend M is on the other side - physically trying to restrain both of hers. The youngest is sitting still, but making a load moaning noise at frequent intervals like some crazy snooze button on the alarm. The oldest is trying her best to get away, and is shouting "I don't want to!" and "Let me go".
They do this to her the WHOLE way home.
It was like travelling with the beasts of Bodmin. There are two of them - who knew? You do, now.
And M - my dear friend - looked like she was ready to unravel as we got off. The promised cafe had to wait, since she would not and could not reward her little beasts for that little performance.
But she and I have a coffee in the pipes. We deserve it. SHE most of all, deserves it. Actually, I think vodka might be what she needs! Not for her - for them!
And so that was half term. Thank God school has gone back!
Photo credit: Telemudcat
Right now, the house is silent and calm, as Mr Boxer Shorts is out with the girls on a shopping trip. Shopping for moi.
That is a complete and total first. Normally, he forgets. Normally - I let him forget. I do that in order to allow him to show me that he can do it without me needling him. That he can demonstrate his love for me, and surprise me.
Strangely, it's never worked.
As I turn 40 in 4 days time (deep breath, exhale, relax... you can do this) I made sure that this year he would not be allowed to forget. And so he hasn't
The last time he took the girls shopping for me it was actually on the day of my birthday, and he went up the high street with them before lunch. There isn't a lot up our high street. If you're not in the mood for coffee shops or charity shops, that leaves you with two jewellers, one sports shop, a book shop and one very expensive luxury electrical goods shop (this one sounds promising!)
I knew that the resulting box was too small for a stereo, but the beaming faces told me whatever was in there was specially picked by them.
Sometimes, don't you wish that your other half would steer your kids towards something you'll like?
To this day, I have a small tree made out of wire, with blue rocks for leaves, growing out of a slab of granite.
It doesn't just collect dust, it sucks it in, and requires immersion to get it out!
But it still has pride of place on my dresser, because my three year old thought it was beautiful and thought I would too. So of course I do.
Today, to buy something for my 40th birthday, my husband has taken them to the Glades in Bromely. The magic ingredients of one attitudinally maladjusted 8 year old, one 5 (nearly 6) year old with a cold, and the normal saturday crowds of a shopping centre are bound result in him spending 10 minutes rushing into the nearest shop and bullying them into buying something from there, and then spending 40 minutes in a cafe drinking hot chocolate to make it look like they were shopping for a respectful length of time.
And that nearest shop - it's going to be a jeweller.
Because - when it comes down to it - it always ends up being jewellery. It's such an easy fall back. I should have realised this way back in the day, when he turned all my shirts blue and gave me a bracelet as an apology.
It's not like I haven't tried to drop hints about what I'd like. I saw an apron in the kitchen shop that I really liked. I told Miss Trouble Pants as we walked past (twice), and then I told Mr Boxer Shorts that I'd told Miss Trouble Pants. So in my mind - there is at least 1 person who should know that I'd like an apron. Except that the kitchen shop in question? It's in our high street. Not the Glades.
I know what you're thinking - "An apron?? Why on earth do you want an apron? You're willing to turn down jewellery in preference to an apron to wear in the kitchen when you're cooking fish fingers?"
Well, yeah. Sorta! I started wearing a freebie apron I was given, because it gives me something to wipe my hands on, and otherwise I end up walking around the house with a dishcloth over my shoulder. And then I saw this apron that looked really funky - I just liked the idea.
And truthfully - I don't do cheap jewellery. I don't want huge amounts of money being spent by the children on my presents. I don't wear a lot of jewellery as it is, and yet I have a large amount of necklaces living in my jewellery box. They don't get worn for years. I have my troll bead bracelet that I wear every day, and my chain with the piccolo and star pendant. Sometimes I switch that for a chain with a heart locket. Sometimes I take it off and forget to put it back on for a week.
So jewellery is not really me. Unless it's more beads for my troll bracelet. Or a leather version of the bracelet that I could use instead of my silver chain because I think they look quite good.
But that's neither here not there. Whatever bling my children have bought me, it's the most beautiful bling in the world, and I'll wear it all day.
Because they've given it with love.
And probably very sticky hot chocolatey fingers.
I had the immeasurably pleasurable experience today of accompanying 32 seven and eight year olds on a school excursion to examine rocks and soil.
I say immeasurable, because there really is no scale that can accurately rate the level of enjoyment versus panic that a trip like this can induce.
Miss Trouble Pants always wants me to go on the school trip with her. She's still young enough to think I am cool. I know that won't always be the case, but I revel in it while it's offered.
The instructions for the day were to wear old jeans or trousers that can get dirty, with the school shirt and jumper on top. Wellington boots were to be brought along too.
As a parent helper, I presumed that the same requirements were going to prevail (with the exclusion of the school uniform part, that might be a bit kinky) so I dressed down accordingly, and turned up at the school gate. There were three classes going to the same place, and the parents for each class gathered in the staff room to wait for the buses.
Our bus arrived nice and early - first one on the scene, and promptly broke down outside the school. With one bus in front of the school, there was now no room for any other buses to get through and so the other classes had to walk down to the main road to get onto theirs.
We waited for ours to get started. Then we waited for it to get fixed. And then we waited for a new one to come. From Millwall.
The staffroom was stifling - we'd all dressed for outside in the freezing drizzle, so eventually we all had to strip down to the lowest layer with our piles of outer swathing on the floor. In all, we ended up waiting an hour. But an hour in a boiling staffroom was heaven compared to a room with 32 stir crazy children who were expecting fun and excitement.
Eventually we were on the bus and on our way.
As the mother of two girls, I am very naive in the way of boys. To me, normal boy behaviour seems to be misbehaving. I never quite know whether a game is normal boy fun, or a fight. Like that game where boys try and kick another boy's legs out from under him. Now to me - that's being naughty! But apparently to boy mothers it's perfectly acceptable.
So I am the tyrant mother who is always bossing the kids about. The nagging one. I think they hate me. They also ignore me, so there isn't too much harm done. I get the feeling that I am not supposed to slap them about either. How unfair is that? There are some kids that could really do with a good slap up the backside of the head!
Luckily buses these days have seatbelts, because that limits the scope of misbehaviour! It doesn't do anything for the noise though.
Because we were an hour late, we had to rush through the first few things, which was analysing rocks for their qualities. As there wasn't a huge amount of scope for getting dirty, some of the boys under my care had to resort to rubbing the rocks on their faces to try and get some filth on. This is something my girls would never think of! It's almost as if they had a reputation of dirt to protect!
The centre had a good playground to let the kids burn a few engery bars down. The boys ran off in the direction of a football, and the girls played some intricate game of it in the corner.
I hid in the opposite corner, sucking down coffee from my flask. It was blissful for about 5 minutes - until the first casualty of the day. And guess who - of course, my daughter is face down in the woodchips, having fallen off a log face first.
She's spitting out dirt - must be taking the topic of the trip very seriously! But underneath the muck there are no grazes and no blood, so the only real injury is to pride.
The next part of the day is painting with dirt. Yep - dirt mixed up with water to make mud. They all drew three trees with pencil, then use brushes to paint the dirt over the top. They painted with chalky, sandy, and loamy dirts, which make three distinctly different shades of brown. I was quite impressed with the results.
Then came the muddy part of the day - a walk up to the local church with is built from flint and sandstone. It wasn't as muddy as I feared it might be fortunately! Because we were so late we had to skip a few other mucky activities, including "mud rolling" in order to leave in time to make it back to school.
Just before we board the bus to come back to school the kids run around like crazy for 5 minutes. That's all it takes for the second casualty of the day to occur. And it's my daughter again. I was washing my hands when someone came to tell me she'd fallen over, and I laughed and casually finished drying before I went out to check on her. But then I looked out the open door and saw then entire class including all the adults crowding around her as she lay prone on the ashphalt. Shit! I abandoned the drying and ran out feeling guilty.
She was fine though, she had a graze and probably a bruise on her butt, but it was probably mostly shock at the time. Her legs slipped out from under her and she'd hit the ground hard just below her hip. Her pride however was ever further dented, and she just wanted to sit with me on the bus on the way home. She was crying as we got on because her teacher pairs them off rather than letting them choose their own seat mates.
He's a very smart man though - he manipulated the kids in front so that she had no partner, and then apologised that to her that she'd have to sit with an adult. Which was me.
So we got to sit together and chat all the way home without her being embarrassed.
There won't be too many more moments where I can take an active part in her school life - let alone her want me to be there, so I love the chances I get.
And I am glad we missed out on the mud rolling.
* Picture credit: It's the cover of a book called "The School Trip" by Nick Butterworth and Mick Inkpen, both of whom have been perennial favourites of my girls!
Tonight was the Sunday night bath, which is a weekly ritual that the girls love. Having grown up with a brother, I am relieved for the sake of the general household aroma that mine are both girls, and therefore likely to continue to enjoy cleanliness even as they reach the teen years.
But baths tend to take up a lot of time because the girls love to play. They still have bath toys. Or more correctly - toys that happen to now live in the bath. They'd squeal and laugh and spell out words for hours if I let them. They get out looking like a pair of little pink prunes, and the bathroom is soaked.
During the week there are days where we can safely skip a bath, especially when we're coming in late from drama or ballet or any of the other myriad of extra curricular activities we stack our afternoons with.
Sunday on the other hand, is the night before the week begins again. So there is no skipping to be done. Everything needs to be squeaky clean and ready for school. It's the night I stack all the skivvies in the drawer, line up the grey tights, fold the trousers, hang the blouses, iron the tunics and polish the shoes.
And of so course it's also hair wash night, which makes the whole bath thing that bit more involved.
Miss Comic Relief has long thin fine hair. It's not a problem to wash and comb, although keeping it tidy is another thing altogether. But Miss Trouble Pants has long thick wavy hair. It takes ages to work all the shampoo through in the first place, and three times longer to get it out again. It has to be conditioned after shampooing if I'm going to have even one hope in hades of getting a comb through it afterwards.
So the way it works is like this - I wash and rinse their hair first, then smother it in conditioner and pin it up so that it really soaks through. Then I let them play in the bath for a while.
But this week I am not really very on the ball. I've had a cold since monday, when the gods of snot decreed that I should runneth over, and I've been battling the sore throat, cough and sinus headaches all week. It's not actually a bad cold. I just feel crappy. I feel crabby. And I act it too.
I am so crabby that the joyous sounds of my happy children playing and laughing grate on my nerves, and I hide out in my office while they bathe. I'm only in the next room, but the sound is somewhat muted and more bearable. All that pleasure and delight. Ergh.
I wait until they've reached perfect prune density, then I go back to rinse off the conditioner and get them out of the bath.
I am greeted by a strange sight. As Miss Trouble Pants stands up - a foam "t" sticking to her backside - I notice a strange red rash. It's like a red blob made up of tiny dots just above her bum cheeks. Like dots of blood under the skin.
I am going in for a closer look, my eyebrows narrowing as I squint at it. I can see that it's a concentrated patch of dark spots.
"What have you done to your back?" I ask, although I already fear that the rash is one of those terrifying varieties that doesn't go away when you press a glass against it, and I am visualising the sodden trip to the A&E in our crappy that had broken down earlier that day.
I don't expect giggling from both girls, and a small blue hippo to be presented as exhibit A.
It's the suction cap that holds the netting bag of bath toys to the tiled wall. Comprehension dawns in a rush, and I realise that what my daughter has on her back.
It's a hickie.
A hickie from the sucking kisses of a plastic hippo!
There are more on Miss Comic Relief's back, although they were not as successfully done, so don't have the really scary look of meningitis. They still stand out on her very pale skin.
Still, at least the hippo didn't invite her up for coffee!
As you may know already, I am in love with my iphone. Everything that a girl could want to do can be done on it. And when I say everything, I really mean it. But this post isn't about the "massager app".
It's about controlling my children.
[Segue] Oh God, don't you wish there really WAS an app for that? Like a children remote. It would be like the guy running about in "Aliens in the Attic" under the control of the alien remote which had my kids in hysterics. Left, right, straight ahead. Pick up knickers. Pick up toys. Put toys away. Build an IKEA wardrobe. Invent world peace.
And it would even have a mute button. Bliss.
Actually, what amused my girls the most about the alien remote was the fact that the guy kept running into a car and falling over.
[Back on topic] This is not quite as exciting as that, but nearly. I promise.
My iPhone helps me keep my children in order because I have a reward chart app on it.
So wherever I am, I can threaten them with the loss of a star, or an extra star, which I can do immediately. No more forgetting all about it before we get home, which is the real problem with a sticker chart stuck to the wall.
Plus the app lets me set how many stars will equal a bronze, silver or gold medal, and if they were to get 100% stars, then they'd get a gold trophy. Then it adds them up for me.
I think we all know that a trophy - 100% good behaviour - is just not in the cards. But the medals are. Here the incentive really gets it on. The bronze medal will earn them half of their pocket money, and a silver or gold will earn all of it.
And it really really works. They quiver in fear when I threaten to take away stars, and skip about with pure joy and squeals of childish delight when I award them a star.
The only thing missing is a "black mark" option. Like the digital equivalent of the naughty step. But I consider a lack of a star a black mark. (Because I'm mean and tyrannical like that.)
There are 4 tasks that they need to do each day to earn stars. I have set these 4 tasks, and they range from being ready for school early, to being nice to each other. The latter is the one that earns the least stars from week to week.
And the even bigger joy of it - they love earning pocket money when I press the button to tally up their stars, and I love announcing that they've earned it. They feel the pride of the moment. And then we all forget about it completely! I haven't paid them pocket money in months! And I know from the app that I owe them both about £10.
But THEY don't know that.
Still, a sneaky little thought crept into my mind the other day.
I was kicking Mr Boxer Shorts' boxer shorts (see where his name comes from?) over to his side of the bedroom. He leaves them on the floor in front of the drawers.
That's communal space. That's MY space.
I don't want to have to step on used pants.
And I no longer pick them up. He knows where the washing basket is, so he can transfer them from floor to basket. And it's not even a washing basket. It's a washing step.
It's simples. Take pants in one hand, toss pants out bedroom door onto third stair down. Done. I'll even collect from the first, second and fourth stairs if necessary.
So if there are pants on the floor in our bedroom, that's where they stay. On the floor. But I do kick them across the room, round the corner of the bed and into his space.
That's when the thought occurred to me.
Mr Boxer Shorts needs a star chart too. And I've got just the app for that.
I secretly made one so that I could tally up his stars over the week and reward or punish him at the end of the week. I didn't get the point of thinking up what the reward could actuallybe. He'd probably want to get all hot and heavy - and go rally car driving or something.
I deliberated over what I'd give him stars for. First on the list of course was no pants on the floor. And a very quick second addition was not getting drunk and forgetting to come home at night.
I couldn't decide what the last two tasks should be. I could be kind, and put "make the bed" because actually - he likes to do that, and often does. (I just wish he wouldn't do it when I'm still in it.)
Then I remembered that he stacks the dishwasher like a junkie looking for his next fix. So that was added (that is - to NOT stack it like he's on crack).
Then I very kindly added "bring me coffee in bed" because I knew he'd get a star at least once a week for that, since he HAS to bring my coffee in bed in Sunday mornings as it's my lie in day. (And I text him and remind him until he arrives with it. I was once in bed waiting until 11am on a day when he forgot it. Boy was I MAD! I had things to get done!)
The star chart was made, used, and then forgotten about. A little in-joke with myself. But then the other day the girls were checking out their own charts - sliding from one to the other - and suddenly found the one for Mr Boxer Shorts when they overslid.
There were squeals to high range that all the bats fell off the rafters. They thought the chart was hilarious. And they immediately started making one for me.
Whoops.
Luckily for me, I got to guide them on this one - mostly because I'm the only one who knows how to set it up and I did all the typing. And vetoing. But they weren't cruel like I was, and they probably have no idea of what my worst habits are.
I expected them to give me things like "don't scream like a banshee at us", "don't demean us with that sarcasm crap.", "cook scrambled eggs every day".
But check this out - one of the tasks they gave me was to "say I love you every day". I'm rocking that one in.
I also convinced them that it was my job to get them off to school (because it IS!) and that I should tidy the kitchen and fold the laundry. Very pedestrian - but do-able! I know, I cheated.
Then we set one up for the cat. He's not doing too well on his. He doesn't seem to get the concept of not scratching the furniture or biting Mr Boxer Shorts at 4am while he sleeps.
The minute Mr Boxer Shorts walked in the door they immediately ran to show it to him what we'd created. Let's just say that he was less than amused. The eyebrows went up and got stuck for about 20 minutes.
The girls spent the next week hooting with glee about the pants on the floor. Because they are still there.
Some of it is working though - two weeks running I've had coffee in bed on a Friday as well as a Sunday!
That's a star for you, my boy!
And since today is our 11th wedding anniversary, and he remembered it - actually I had to ask him the other day what the date of our anniversary is, and he knew - he gets an extra star.
A big fat eleven years of marriage and he's still a wonderful sweetheart who I love madly, truly and deeply star.
Happy anniversary darling, tonight you may leave your pants on the floor.
After a boring day of driving - and test driving cars - we stopped at a park to let off some steam. The sun was going down, so the light was very yellow, and hitting from low on one side. The girls just wanted to spin each other on a strange sort of torturous device!
Miss Comic relief has just been to her first Build-a-Bear birthday party. It's something that she was looking forward to with great zeal, because up to this point her big sister had been to three, and she'd been to none. She said it wasn't fair - like a Build-a-Bear party is some kind of right of passage.
If you don't know what Build-a-Bear is, the clue is in the name. You go in to the shop, choose a lifeless furry carcass, stick a cloth heart in it, insert a sound chip with an annoying amercian voice or a random noise deep into its guts, and then stuff the crap out of it and sew it up.
Oh, and don't forget the most important part - whisper a wish into it.
You get to take the pledge of stuffed animal allegience, and receive a birth certificate and a box to carry the thing home with you. It's all so tickity-boo I could just spit with pure delight.
And if you detect an element of sarcasm in my voice, it's because I don't fully uphold the whole thing with the level of joyfulness that apparently I should, because I think it actually devalues the commodity of a "Teddy Bear".
Look at it from our generation's point of view. Did you have a one special teddy that was your favourite? Did someone special give you that teddy? In all likelihood - unless you were that child that played with a brick wrapped in a flannel. Called Alan (the brick, not the flannel), then you probably had a special toy which was quite possibly a teddy bear.
You probably didn't have 56 teddies of various colours and styles that some speccy, spotty holiday jobbing teenager stuffed and stiched for you. Actually, they don't even need to stitch, they just pull the loose back stitched tight and tie a knot.
I think that shops like Build-a-bear water down the whole teddy industry. It's like printing more money to save the econmy. It doesn't really work as expected.
Of course these days it's not just bears - it's bunnys, dogs, cats, wolves and hello kitty's. I can get on board with that concept a bit better than the traditional teddy bear, but because the teddy bears are also available - and little girls LOVE more teddies - they still choose them.
So here was this party, at build-a-bear yesterday. After lunch at McDonalds, 18 six - or nearly six - year olds were running about the store choosing their new best friend. The party budget defines the selection of carcasses that the children can choose from, and at today's party Miss Comic Relief choose a simple teddy bear in a soft light brown. It's a nice teddy, and feels so soft!
I'd have loved her to have to chosen something other than a teddy, but it's up to her to choose (and besides, I wasn't there, I'd rather brave shoe shopping with Mr Boxer Shorts than stand in a shop stuffed to the gills with 18 children all suffering from McDonalds induced hyperactivity).
Having chosen a lifeless bit of fluff, the party guests proceed with all the steps of making a new best friend. And they do this while sitting on the floor of the shop.
Makes it a fun fun place to be if you just happpened to want to go shopping there with your own kids, doesn't it! And it gets worse when the next party is lined up ready to come in, complete with hovering mothers, but the entrance is totally blocked by the previous partie's various motherly appendages attempting to collect the multitudinous offspring from the floor.
Of course, mine came out in tears. Despite just having had a wonderful party time. Firstly because her big sister annoyed her (by simply existing), and then because the speaking thingy in her bear was quiet, and everyone else's was loud. The final upset was because I wouldn't stay and spend money on clothes for her bear.
I put the symptoms down to McD overload and put the wheels of motion into play in order to leave.
I identified her jacket and fleece because it was -2 degrees and a blizzard outside and we escaped to the roof with the loot. (that's where the carpark was, but it makes a good allegory.) And we reached it successfully and without further tears until she realised she'd forgotten her McDonalds toy.
Multilevel hysteria sets in - the McDonalds toy is almost as important as the new bear friend, so the dutiful mother (that's me) starts texting the party holding mother in order to ascertain if there are any McD toys left behind. Yes. Toy nirvana is achieved and a date set for the handover. (Monday at school).
We get home without no further tantrums, other than Mr Boxer Shorts muttering dark threats at the car, since the mini blizzard is now in full flurry, and the wipers on the car cross exactly three times before popping out again and making happy grinding noises at us, plus the fact that we have to stop at the tennis club to pick up George (the camper van) who got a flat tire earlier in the day and had to be pumped up then abandoned.
It's just a non stop ball of fun around our place.
Once at home, the new bear starts to settle in for approximately ten minutes before a new round of hysterics is launched as she realises that it's not sewn together properly at the back and the lining is coming out.
It turns out that the speaking box had to be inserted after it was sewn up, as she'd forgotten to say that she wanted one at the right time. Which explains why it's now falling apart, as it had to be unpicked for that, plus why the box is closer to the elbow than the hand - and maybe why it's not loud enough to hear without a closed loop for the hard of hearing.
As I prepare to sew "Beanie" up, she voices a new concern - the heart may have fallen out while they were playing games.
"Of course it didn't, I reassure her. It was sewn up then."
"No" she quavers, "this was before they sewed them up."
What the frick? What kind of crazy games get played with toys that have their guts hanging out of them? Road kill intestine maze games?
For goodness sake I think, as I shove my fingers into the belly of the beast, feeling about for a heart. There is nothing but polyester wadding in there.
"Yep, there it is" I lie through my teeth. "All fine and beating like a good un,"
I sew the bear up quickly and hand it back.
Both girls then settle down to play with their amassed collection of Build-a-bears. They have a total of 5 now, plus one non build-a-bear bear that I keep insisting gets played included, since it was given to Miss Trouble Pants by her grandmother when she was little. And gets lonely if left out.
This is my point of devaluing the whole "teddy bear" concept. They are no longer special bears. They are a commodity. They are a party favour. They are collectible items that are mass produced.
Plus the whole party aspect seems like a huge pile of stress. Held on a shop floor, with barely enough room to move around and a spotty party leader shouting out things like "Repeat after me! My bear is special!" at the top of his voice, then stopping as someone points out that they already did that bit, and are now trying to get rid of the party goers.
I am relieved that my little girl spoke up when she didn't get a talking chip in her bear, rather than coming home crying that she missed out on it - which is what I would have actually expected to happen with her. But I kind of feel that the whole thing is over taxing on both the parent and the child, as it looked pretty chaotic.
It would be nicer if the company provided a room for parties, to give them a feel of enclosure, and slight privacy (even if it was glass walled) and also to make them feel more special than to actually sit on a shop floor. Do you let your kids sit down on the floor in Boots or Debenhams?
She obviously enjoyed it, since she wants a build-a-bear party of her own when she turns 6 in March, but I have no compunctions about saying no to that - because I don't think that I could stand the stress of it, plus she'd probably choose yet another teddy bear.
But of course since it's her birthday, my final decision will remain to be seen. Despite my opinions on the devaluing of the teddy bear, I actually like the concept of the store. I think it's a fun idea. I'd just like to see the teddy bear part played down. I'd like to the see the party choices NOT include bears, but focus on other animals. I'd like a room for parties to take place in.
I think that they are probably raking it in, and don't give a fig for my opinion however.
Plus she had a ball, loves her new bear, and is happy to sit on any floor whatsoever.
This store is merely a result of this generation, and of what society is like now in the average western country. Our kids have more toys than we ever did when we were kids - and we weren't deprived by any means. Whoever said that less is more was right, but it's a thoroughly ignored bit of advice in the stuffed toy department.
I think it's possible to simply have too much stuff, certainly possible to have too many bears. Plus there is nothing more disturbing than a teddy bear wearing a wig. This is just wrong.
So while she cuddles and talks to her her new bear for the next week (after which it will be languishing, forgotten in the toy basket) I will be taking time to chat with my old bear, who is nearly 40 years old.
Because Teddy Bears should be special.
On the last day of the holidays I had a huge amount of things to get done, but rather than do any of them, I stuck the camera on a tripod and played around with long exposures. The lighting was dim, but the incandescent glow was warm and inviting. Plus the girls loved the ghostly effect that we came up with.
The children have learnt how to push each other's buttons. Or more specifically, the 8 year old has figured out what will wind up the 5 year old to the point of implosion. She's also mastered the art of doing it quietly with the illusion that if we can't hear her, then she's not guilty.
It shows how sneaky she's grown to be. A cunning and guile that I can't help but be impressed by. As well as a nastiness that horrifies me.
And yet, it's something I recognise.
Miss Trouble Pants knows that the best way to upset Miss Comic Relief while playing is to introduce into the roll play some kind of exclusion for the toys they are playing with. Most often it's Playmobil characters.
"Mine are playing on the swings and having a campfire"
"Mine are playing too. 'Wee, this is fun!' "
"No, yours can't play with mine, they have herpes."
"No they don't!"
"Yes, they do, and they are lepers, so they have to live over there in that box."
"WWAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!! MUUUUUUUMMMMMMMY!" * THWACK!*
"AAARRRRRGGGHHHHH! MUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMMY! SHE HIT ME!"
Ok, so maybe the words herpes and lepers were not actually used in the making of this scenario, but you get the point. It ends in screaming and fisticuffs, and I wasn't referring to the children there.
It's a scenario I know oh so well from the annuls of history.
My little brother was 6 years younger than me. If you need the exact age difference, it was 5 years and 10 months, which caused a huge problem with some newly concreted steps created in the 2 months where the 6 year apparent gap closes to 5 years.
So much of a problem, that I scratched "Alison - 11 years" into the new concrete despite being still only 10. My brother had scratched "Andrew - 6 years" above mine, and to commit to stone etched record the smaller gap was unthinkable.
I lived to regret that, as under our etchings, the year was also added, and one of the things I was (am) very proud of is the fact that being born in 1970 means my age evenly matches the last digit of the year. To have "11 years" sitting there beside "1980" was actually more painful than showing a 5 year age gap between my brother and I.
Isn't my life tragic?
But that's completely and utterly unrelated to the point of this post (other than to illustrate some essence of mental instability, which may or may not enlighten you about the rest of my childhood motivations!)
I knew intricately how to wind my little brother up to a point where he'd blow up in a massive and hugely satisfying catastrophic blowout. I may have mentioned this quite recently.
I have a memory of a car journey that shows quite clearly where my 8 year old daughter gets her sneaky, cunning and downright nasty plows from. We were on our way to Budgewoi, where we went caravanning every year (Sunnylake caravan park on Lake Munmora, near Toukley - it's the slideshow of my youth!)
My family loves to sing. Car journeys were always set to a soundtrack of Gilbert and Sullivan or "The little white duck", a tape which has long since been melted in the Australian sun in a forgotten glovebox, but included the lyrics "We have a small surprise for you... And if you want another clue..." (and if anyone can track it down for me, I'd toss in a reward! A packet of digestives perhaps...)
Often we'd drive along, singing merrily together, a family of harmony.
But on that particular drive there was no harmony in the car. A small black cloud was simmering in the backseat, namely my brother.
He did not wish to sing or be jolly. I could see that clearly. I am very empathetic that way. So I did the best thing I could do.
I started to sing.
Oh so sweetly.
I glanced at him and fluttered my eyelashes. I made him know how specially I was singing for him. It was ALL for him.
He reached over and slapped me.
I cried.
The roaming adult hand came suddenly snaking from the front of the car, seeking a target, and found his leg.
He cried.
"I was just singing!" I proclaimed, with wounded innocence, as I started to hum, giving him a through the lashes smirk.
* SLAP * He struck again, and then * TWHACK! * came the front seat arm.
And so it went on. I hummed, sand and whistled until we were both black and blue and there was pinching going on. The car had even been pulled over to the side of the road as if the "we'll put you out of the car and leave you there" threat was ACTUALLY going to happen today. Was it worth it? Who knows. I won. He got in trouble, I was the lovely singing golden girl, but I couldn't wear shorts or short sleeves for a week.
So when I see Miss Comic Relief's face contorted in fury, or hitting Miss Trouble Pants for no apparent reason, I know better than to assume she's the guilty party. I know just how conniving a small girl can be.
And I know what I have to do...
Find out what Miss Trouble Pant's buttons are, and then teach Miss Comic Relief how to press them!
Then lock them in a padded room and go out for coffee.
I don't remember what it was like to believe in Santa Claus.
That's because I never got a chance to.
I was four years old when the older child who lived over the road told me in no uncertain terms that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. My mother was furious, but the damage could not be undone. What was heard cannot be unheard.
Four is such an innocent age. It's pretty hard to shake the faith of a four year old. You can tell them not to be terrified of an enormous fuzzy moose that is walking towards them and seems to want to grab them and gobble them up. You can reassure them that the moose is just a man dressed up and therefore not terrifying at all. But they won't believe a word of it. That moose just keeps coming, and the four year old will start screaming and won't stop until you drag them into a nearby shop where the moose is not.
You'd think therefore that someone could tell the same four year old that Santa doesn't really exist, and the four year old would ignore that statement, because they want to believe the alternative.
But not when the person bearing the news is another child. Adults don't get a look in - children look up to other children like some sort of short mutant God. If a child says it, then it's gospel. Kind of how some people view the gossip rags.
So I have no idea what it's like to look forward to Santa, or to dream of Santa tiptoing in the night. I have no memory of a time when I did. And yet, the fantasy of christmas for me was still a wonderful time. And the reason for that was my little brother.
I didn't believe in Santa because I knew better, but I was determined that my little brother wasn't going have his reality mashed in like that.
My brother was six years my junior. People often say that siblings who are close in ages fight more. That couldn't have been further from the truth with my brother and I. From the moment he turned about four, World War III raged in our house. We may have loved each other deep down, but you had to dig really REALLY deep to find that love on most days.
I was the verbal winner - with the advantage of six years on him, I could cut him down with my tongue in a way he'd never be able to compete with. His retaliation was always physical.
One time we fought, his payback to me was to come into my bedroom and tip over my bookcase. As a typical tweenager, my bookcase was not just full of books, but lined with porcelain ornaments. Ballerinas who spun on their toes when you flicked them, colour changing doves who told you the weather in a rainbow, little bells with silver clangers - and so on. All when crashing down underneath "What Katie did next" and "Pollyanna", and the complete series of "Secret Seven" and morphed into sparking shards and disembodied limbs. I was devastated.
On the upside, boy - did he EVER get in trouble!
But no matter how much we fought, come christmas time I would become his Santa mentor.
If your big sister tells you that there IS such a thing as Santa, then you believe her. You believe her all the way up to your 10th year, when it finally dawns on you that if the tooth fairy wasn't real and the easter bunny was a farce, then things aren't looking so great for Santa!
As christmas approached, I would help him write a letter to Santa which I would mail for him. Then I would write a reply to him from Santa, with illustrations. He never wondered why Santa's handwriting was so appalling, and similar to a teenaged girl's, and his drawings often involved noses and high heels (I had a slight obsession with the profile view).
Christmas was exciting for me because of the wonderment and excitement that he had, and I shared in it and fostered it in a way that was almost parental.
For myself, knowing the santa truth actually gave me some power. With my birthday in February it meant that I could bargain bigger presents by pulling the combo card.
Once christmas was over (or even on the day) we'd got back to screaming at each other and he'd throw the occasional battery at me (they embedded themselves into the bathroom door, which was hell to explain to mum!)
But she always wondered in amazement at the fact that no matter how much we fought, I never pulled out the santa rug. I never shouted in anger that it was all a lie. I kept that fantasy going for 10 years for him. She asked me about that when I was in my 20's. My reply was that "you can't take that back". I knew that no matter what ammunition I wanted to use in an argument, I would never do something that I couldn't undo. I wouldn't destroy a fantasy that couldn't be reclaimed.
That love must have been closer to the surface than we knew!
Now that I have my girls, I am glad that neither of them have had their belief taken away prematurely. At 8, Miss Trouble Pants both believes and is shy of Santa Claus. Miss Comic Relief is 5, and fervently excited about christmas day, but is also nervous of the man himself. She was so shy of him that she couldn't think of what she wanted for christmas when they both saw him at the school christmas fair, so asked for the same thing as her sister. Which was a skateboard. Which is NOT coming.
We just used the "Call Santa" app on my iphone to leave a message for him about what she'd actually like for christmas. Turns out it's a new pair of roller skates, which she remembered that she wanted after I reminded her that she'd grown out of her old ones. How handy... because Santa's already procured those bad boys!
Adulthood comes quick enough as it is, without robbing children of fairytales and Santa Claus. Nothing helps erode that belief faster than not getting what you asked for!
Fairytales, Santa and iphone apps go hand in hand really. They are all quite unbelievable to adults!
And I hope the child that took away my Santa Claus years ago now has children who believe in Santa Claus too, and that they all have a merry christmas together.
See how full of love I am? Oh, and Santa, I'd really like that video camera I can't afford you know...
So, it is exactly one week until I will be leaving on a jet plane. All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.
Well, almost.
And to further destroy the illusion, I DO know when I'll be back again.
And I WON'T be lonesome, because I'll have two children with me, to keep me company on the plane, to constantly want to go to the loo, need help working out the seatback games, and want me to get the bag down YET AGAIN to find something new.
Won't THAT be fun.
Mr Boxer Shorts, on the other hand, will be tarting around town for a week like some kind of fricking BACHELOR and then flying out by himself a week later.
Him being on a completely different plane to us actually makes little difference to the whole travelling scenario, since he always sticks the headphones on and settles down to watch a movie the minute he gets on the plane. So actually, this way I get to travel with 2 children instead of 3.
So I wasn't completely lying when I said I was all packed - we very nearly are. And right now I am working on THE MOST essential part of the travel accessories - the children's entertainment bag.
I am actually disappointed that the seatback TV has got so good in planes now. Because when it comes to packing the entertainment bag for two small girls, I really ROCK at it.
What I don't rock at soooo much is remembering to put it in the car before we leave...
Let me tell you a little story!
Three years ago we went out to Sydney for Christmas just as we're doing now. I packed a carry on bag for the girls that was simply the dogs bollocks in terms of contents. There was plasticine, putty, polly pocket and puzzles. For some reason I was really living in the "p"s. There were also colouring books, pencils, pens, chalk, mini blackboards, etch-a-sketch, scratch-a-doodle, dominoes, magnetic hangman and magnetic snakes and ladders. There were story books with accompanying ipods filled with ME reading the stories (with little "dings" to indicate when to turn the page!). There were also other audio books and nursery rhymes to listen to.
And there was Pyriton, to put the buggers to sleep.
The bag was so heavy, because of the books in it - that I was going to have to pretend it was only half that hard to pull along. It was sitting on the kitchen bench, a-waiting to go.
We were half way to the airport, being driven by my father-in-law, when I suddenly said "Did you pack the pink bag that was in the kitchen?"
"No" says Mr Boxer Shorts.
At this point, I began to wail. There was gnashing of teeth, there was howling, there was "no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO NO!!" There was a good deal of crying. My life was ruined. Pretty much.
"There is nothing we can do about it now, so just stop acting like an idiot" says Mr Boxer Shorts. Wrong thing to say to a hysterical woman - or in hindsight - the RIGHT thing to say.
I got on the phone. I rang my neighbours who were now in possession of the house key in order to collect the mail. I asked them to go over to the house and see if the bag was there. It was. I asked them to call a cab and see if they could get it sent to the airport. They could - and they did.
So there we were - sitting in the most God Awful traffic jam on the way to heathrow, with somewhere - half an hour behind us - one of our bits of luggage.
The traffic was so bad that I had to call the airport and ask if I could check in over the phone. Apparently not. But they got the message that we were coming.
We finally got there and checked in. Stunningly, my message had got far enough down the line to ensure that they'd held the bulk head seats for us. We had about 45 minutes until take-off.
And we were still missing one bag.
"We'll wait until half past." I said, gamely. Thinking that it was obviously never going to arrive.
At 25 past I got a call - the cab was here. He also wanted money. Mr Boxer Shorts ran out, paid him £40 (£40!!!), and got the bag. We dashed through customs, the plane was boarding, we dashed on, we sat down.
We breathed again.
As the plane levelled out, I opened the magic bag of stuff. I lined up something for each girl to play with. I sat back and relaxed. Did you know that children have very VERY short attention spans?
"Mummy, I want to play with something else now" said Miss Trouble Pants.
57 seconds down, 23 hours and 3 seconds to go. Holy crap!
And on it went like that, all through the flight. They played with almost nothing for longer than 5 minutes. Mr Boxer Shorts slept and watched 3 movies. I played the role of entertainment recycler.
That was 3 years ago. I don't have to pack so much these days. Fortunately, now the inflight entertainment is much more advanced. You can pause, rewind and fast forward what you want to watch. You NEVER have to wait for the movie to start again on the preset timer.
Plus at least one of the girls is a fully fledged and capable book reader. For the other one, I've stumbled over a simply fantastic site full of audio books from those wonderful old 78 records we used to get when I was a kid (and a lot BEFORE my time I might add!) called kiddie records weekly. I've downloaded about 20 of them to itunes, including the record sleeve artwork.
And the girls also have a Nintendo DS each, with about 12 games. I wonder how long those batteries will last?
Not long enough, that's for sure!
Photo credit: SC Fiasco
Bedtime in our house is a fixed point. It is 8 o'clock, and not a minute later.
Which is fine in theory, and generally works.
But there are those days when it seems that far too many giggle drops have been consumed, and where every command gets followed using the longest path possible. How long does it take to put on a pair of pajamas? In the normal world of a 5 year old, lets give it 5 minutes. But in the world of MY 5 year old, it's going to be at least 15 minutes from point of fully dressed, to point of nudity. And then there is distraction and a disconcerting show of bottom wiggling and accompanying giggling.
Now that my inlaws have left - a week after the operation - I am on my own with them. But I can't stand up and stand over them all the time, so I am making commands from the kitchen, where I am slowly moving stuff about.
Footsteps scamper down the stairs, and in comes Miss Trouble Pants. She is modelling the next thing in pajama wear, which is apparently a faux fur stole worn as a skirt. Fortunately her gingham pajama pants cover her modesty at the back, otherwise the enormous gap would be revealing a pair of pert and oh so perfect buttocks that I long to slice off and replace my own wide load with.
Miss Comic relief lacks any form of that dignity as she darts down the stairs next.
"Why is there a totally nude girl cavorting towards me?" I ask.
"I'm trying to do a wee mummy!"
"Not THERE you're not! Get thee upstairs, small horror from the depths!"
"I CAN'T do a wee mummy, there is a bath letter in the toilet!"
We all long for that kind of news don't we. There is an orange foam letter L floating about in the toilet bowl. And worse...
"There is also WEE in the toilet." I say with the dawning of revulsion.
But I am a mother, and this is what we do. This is our charter. We use our bare hands to gingerly pluck the letter L from the jaundiced sea, and rinse it under the hot tap until it scalds our fingers. Then we toss it in the bath. Remind me not to suck my fingers for a day or two.
"Now I can do a POO!" laughs Miss Comic Relief.
"Good," say I, "because if you'd decided to tell me that there was a letter L in the toilet AFTER you'd done that, there is no chance in the world that I would be recovering it.
Miss Comic Relief giggles and wiggles on the toilet, nearly weeing on the floor since paying attention isn't her strong point. In fact, it isn't something she does EVER. She is capable of falling over air while walking, simply because she's not looking where she's going. I think she forgets how to walk while mid-stride.
She doesn't do a poo by the way. Either she forget to do it, or never needed to in the first place. Who knows.
I leave them in the bathroom while I carry some washing from room to room. I come back out of their bedroom to see a still naked number 2 daughter watching the flushing water go down in absolute fascination.
"Have you brushed your teeth?" I ask. But I don't get an answer. Using the power of mime, she mimics brushing and then dances around backwards until she falls into the shower.
"BRUSH" I command imperiously, and then leave again. I am in my office in my office chair, which faces the bathroom, and is to the right of their bedroom. I can't see what is going on in there. I can hear them bumbling around the bathroom, and catch glimpses of what appears to be dancing. Mostly led by the bum.. Miss Comic Relief is alternately scolding and crying between brushings. It's all role play - the fake crying warbles and breaks into hysterical giggles before I get worried.
Miss Trouble Pants is back with an updated fashion show - a witches hat and a canary. I can hear Miss Comic relief in the background roaring at herself like a dinosaur. Miss Trouble Pants goes off to find more things to wear.
It goes quiet in the bathroom, and I can just see the edge of a pajama sleeve that appears to be in totally the wrong position for someone standing up - even some who is just 4 feet tall. I sidle up to the door and have a look. Miss Comic relief has put her cat toothbrush on the floor, and is lying on the stool pretending to swim.
"Have you finished brushing your teeth?" I ask from the doorway, making her fall of the stool in shock. She hasn't even put the toothpaste on yet. 15 minutes in the bathroom with nothing to show for it.
We get the toothpaste on and I leave her to it, but within seconds she is singing a song. Something that shouldn't be possible if you're brushing your teeth. I stick my head back around the door and glare. I get a funny face, crossed eyes and a bottom wiggle.
Eventually they are both in bed. 413 stuff animals have been moved off the bed to allow access. Miss Comic Relief still hasn't stopped moving, and is thrashing about, kicking her duvet into the right position. Which is on the floor apparently.
I turn off the light, I kiss goodnight gingerly trying to avoid a headbutt in the stomach, and look at the time. It's 8.30pm. Not too bad for a typical night! But I really must remember to start the charade earlier!
Because mothers are supposed to love everything their children do.
Because the child-filter that is pre-installed on every mother makes it impossible for parents to find fault with anything that their child does.
Because your own child's drawings make it clear that they have artistic potential far outstripping any other pigtailed snot nosed prodigy.
Because your kids are better than anyone else's, and you know it.
Which is why you smile angelically at your little darling as they lay the bow on the string, palm on the neck, fingers caressing the fingerboard, and then...
They drag it over that cat gut and let out the most GOD AWFUL screech that sends the cat running in terror, and has the neighbours two over banging on the walls.
And you have to grab that smile and hold it on your own face. You try and stretch it into place with your fingers, but your mouth doesn't want to play ball. What it wants to do is form a perfect O. Your eyebrows are now fighting with your hairline, any further back and you can wear them as a stole.
Your whole body objects to this noise. It's as if the bow is a sword that is being drawn over all your nerves. Each push, each pull elicits a new screech.
You're not highly strung, but might as well be - you're quivering with spasms of staccato. Every pause only makes the next sound worse, like a sharp blade cutting through the wound over and over and over. Until your whole soul is raw.
Then the silence. The blessed relief. Like a salve, rushing in - soothing - wonderful silence.
The little face turns towards you, beaming with pride. Eyes shining - twinkling, full of joy.
"Was that good?"
You lean down and gather in the limbs, smell the sweet hair, smiling, laughing together.
"It was WONDERFUL darling! It was the best thing I've ever heard." You lie, thinking about your prodigy, and wondering if the violin teacher can provide ear plugs. You consider stepping to the side and knocking the violin off the music stand accidently, then standing on the bridge and jumping up and down a few times. But you don't. Because maybe in about 10 years, it might sound good.
Because that's what mothers do. If they can't delude themselves into thinking that their child is the best of the best, they pretend that they are anyway. They lie to their offsprings face. And they love what their child loves. And they never criticise the child's best efforts. They just suck it up. Well, GOOD mothers's do, anyway.
Miss Trouble Pants loves playing the violin. And the preceding part of this post really does describe the exquisite agony with which I listened to her first attempt at bowing. (Before that it had been all about plucking. I can only think rude thoughts in relation to that word!)
But - I didn't actually stand back and listen, then applaud.
Nope, I am not quite the adoring mummy I was pretending I to be. That part is a slight fabrication. After about six draws of the bow, I stepped in and stopped her. I could NOT listen anymore.
Now - I am a flute player. Wind. I wiggle my fingers and blow. So I have no notion of how a stringed instrument works, other than the obvious. How do you know where to put your fingers to start with? Guitars have frets. Violins are like NAKED. But at this stage we've not got any fingers anywhere yet anyway - just the bow going rockstar. The whole "bow" concept is alien to me. No bows on flutes.
But when Miss Trouble Pants started pulling that bow back and forth across the strings in tiny little motions, the resulting sound was so horrible, I just didn't think it could be right. It felt like she needed at least a run up to the whole thing. So despite the fact that she'd had a lesson that day, and the teacher had obviously instructed her on what to do - and her teacher obviously knows best - I had to step in despite knowing nothing.
I got her to try and draw the bow further back and forth, rather than the tiny inches she was doing. This produced a better tone, and was something I could live with. Something I could manage to listen to.
And she's improved no end from there - now she has three finger positions marked on the neck with small sticky spots, and is onto the second book.
So the next thing to cringe about is why she can't hear when a note she's fingering and bowing isn't "right". I am probably trying to push concepts onto her that her teacher hasn't touched on yet - like being sharp or flat - and maybe I am trying to rush things.
But I'm the one who has to listen to this stuff, I think I should get a say here! Someone please tell me intonation is something that she'll learn in time. Because if she's tone deaf there is no point continuing to put ourselves through this? What sane person would themselves through this aural torture if it was never going to get better?
Or would a good mother do it anyway?
Trick or Treat is an American tradition, like Thanksgiving. But unlike Thanksgiving, Trick or Treat has also become a bit of a UK favourite too. That's because Thanksgiving involves turkey, which to be honest we get enough of at christmas and pumpkin pie which somehow involves buying vegetables in a tin. Whereas Trick or Treat involves candy, with the optional extra of throwing eggs at your neighbour's houses. How can you resist with that appeal?
Where we live it's all families because of the catchment area rule in the UK, so we pretty much have a Trick or Treating loop around the two parallel streets. It always ends up as some sort of like a conga line of children with their trailing adults merging into larger groups then dispersing again as they change direction. Adults often get half way down the street before they reaslise that they are ushering two completely unrelated witches before them, at which point they have start calling out for their real offspring like plaintive mother birds. "Witches switches" are made between families, and the ritual starts again.
Occasionally a family will arrive home with an extra witch. For this reason it's a good idea to sharpie your mobile number up your child's arm so that they can be relocated after the event. Or an excellent chance to get rid of one that's getting on your nerves, by sharpying the wrong number...
Mine love halloween. They look forward to it from they day after the previous years. We've developed a bit of a ritual with our friends. We all go over to one friend's house to begin the assault on the neighbourhood, and afterward return to have hot dogs and wine. The kids don't need the wine, they have sweets that produce pretty much the same sophorific effect. it's a wonderful chance for them to get so wound up on sweets and hotdogs that they virutally implode and fall out with all of their friends, then go home crying that they didn't actually want to go home.
We spent most of the afternoon getting ready for the event. Miss Trouble Pants wanted to go as a zombie, replete with crosses over her eyes to indicate that she was dead. I took that advice and ignored it, creating this instead:
Feeling quite pleased with that effort!
Miss Comic Relief wanted to go as a witch. That one is easy, simply dress her up in my black clothes and paint her face green. We don't do pink frilly witches in our house, thankyou very much. Trying to get her to scowl for the photo was nearly impossible though.
While I took the girls out trick or treating, Mr Boxer Shorts hid at home with the lights off, since we'd not planned to be at home, and so hadn't stocked up on candy. Apparently giving out satsuma's is not regarded as a treat. Ingrates. Last year we ended up with egg all over the door because we were not home, but this year was relatively uneventful in that regard.
When we arrived home with two tired out children we couldn't put them straight to bed however, because with all the talc and hair gel, green and white facepaint, they had to be doused and scrubbed in the shower. This wasn't really the highlight of the night, as there were some disagreements at this point. They thought I was washing too roughly, and I thought I wasn't. I'm bigger, I win.
Finally they were tucked up in bed, dark eyes and green ears still evident due to a less than successful facewashing! I am not sure whether the whole night is really a treat or a trick for us to be honest! But they had fun.
Ok so, (ok, so I completely forgot that I was going to use that as my opening line in all blog entries. So sue me, but I did predict this eventuality didn't I)
I am about the take the cat to the vet for his second shot of cortisone. I've carefully checked the calendar to ensure that today's appointment is the cat's appointment, and not one of mine, or one of my daughter's. That's because right now we seem to be a really dysfunctional family in a health sense.
The cat is trying to remove his hair, one clump at a time, my gallbladder is full of sludge, and Miss Trouble Pants (aka sicknote) is suffering from nondescript "chest pains"
Normally on a Thursday I drop both girls off at school early for gymnastics, then saunter back home to enjoy in slow motion my coffee. Not this morning. Oh no.
After convincing sicknote that she'll be fine, I manage to get them down to the school earlier than normal. In the gate, across the quadrangle (I bet they don't call it that) and into the gym. All that remains is kiss kiss hug hug, run away very fast. But my plan is thwarted by sicknote bursting into tears. Her chest hurts, her tummy hurts. Her big toe hurts too apparently. She doesn't want me to leave. She's sobbing so hard that she can't catch her breath, so starts to gasp "I can't breathe!" inbetween sobs. Real tears are running down her cheeks and by all appearances going up her nose like some kind of continuous water cycle. I am momentarily impressed.
I feel like shaking her and shouting "get yourself together!" I think there is a queue of people behind me waiting to take their turn at it, ala "Flying High" (that's Airplane for the rest of the world, bar Australia and Holland).
But I flick the soothing mummy switch and start to try and untangle the cause of this panic attack. Eventually I manage to eek out the snippet of information that she wants me to be there when she joins the class line after gymnastics. Aha, news to me. I thought she went straight to her classroom. But that was last year, and only reception, 1 and 2 do that. Now that she's in year 3, she has to walk out of the gym into the playground and join the line for her class with her classmates - with all those other mummies standing there amking loving coos at their offspring, and not me.
So I make a deal. I require coffee, which means she has to go into gymnastics now and let me go home and make it. Then I will come back down to school a second time to wave and kiss. Deal done.
This whole debarcle has put a new light on the so called chest pains. We already know that she can bring on a tummy ache through fear. If she has to do something she's afraid of, she suddenly cries that her tummy hurts. So it would appear chest pains are the new tummy ache.
I don't really know what to think.
While I was at orchestra last night she was crying her eyes out at home with Mr Boxer Shorts. Her chest pains enabled her to sit with him and watch tv. Seems to me that he was done over like a dinner there.
This morning she came crying to me at 5.30am that her chest ached. How inconvenient. We are talking about a time of the day that I generally reserve for getting up and hanging about in the bathroom when I have an attack. That's my special time. If I happen to be not throwing up at that time of morning I would prefer to be asleep. The last thing I want is to be woken up by a child who found herself sleeping the wrong way round in her bed and had a panic attack about it.
Do I sound harsh? The doctor declared that the pain must be growing pains. I do worry that growing pains are a cop out diagnosis. But he's tapped, probed, prodded and listened, and she's had a chest x-ray. It's all been clear, and there is no obvious cause for pain. I am not doubting that perhaps there is some pain there to start with, but I am getting more and more convinced that she is elevating the pain to a higher level with stress attacks.
This wouldn't be such a hard problem to solve if the most trivial things didn't cause her stress. Anything that disrupts her routine will cause her stress. Getting to school just as her class line disappears through the door will produce tears, despite the fact that she could have just gone through the door and they'd have all been there taking their jackets off and hanging them up. Going back in to get her violin when she forgets it will cause a major upset - especially if I suggest she can go in and get it herself. Not to mention not getting to sit in the car seat she wants, not getting to sit on the dining chair she wants, not getting what she wants... etc.
So my dilemma is what on earth do I do about it all?
By the way, the cat has now been injected, which ordeal he was particularly unimpressed about, and is now flicking his tail at me in fury. I think I might knit him a hat.
