Advent Books Adventure

Since Gertie was tiny I have wrapped twenty-four advent books ('pre-loved', in newspaper) and put them under the tree. I can't remember where I first saw the idea and stole it from, but it has become a real tradition in our house.

As they grew up, sometimes Gertie read the books to her siblings, rather than me reading. Last year, all three of them took it in turns to read the story out loud. 

But even Eddie is getting a bit big for picture books now. 

I didn't want to let the tradition die, but I also didn't know what to do to make it work this year. A book a day each seemed ridiculous (that would, after all, mean 72 books. I couldn't find, let alone afford that); and their interests are so different at 8, 10 and 12 years old that I couldn't see a way of pleasing them all with just one. Perhaps I could rotate them? But there still wouldn't be that lovely shared moment.

Suddenly, Agatha Christie books began appearing in the post. Anonymously. I couldn't work it out. Maternal Hearth Grandfather is the only one who sends books anonymously, and so we always know that they are from him. They must have been sent in error. 

But I was around 12 years old when I started devouring them, I realised. As had MHGF. Suddenly I had a little pile of them. And some old Arsenal annuals turned up. Perfect for Gilby.  Random years: 2008, 2013. And some Beano and Dandy annuals. Older, but exactly what Eddie would enjoy. All of a sudden, a book each for every day of December up until Christmas didn't seem so impossible.

So I went for it. A quick trip to the Lions Bookstore (thirty books for three quid) and plenty of newspaper later, we were there.

And then this sort of thing started happening:

I mean, they're not snuggled up together like they used to be, but you can't have everything. 

And this happened, when I wasn't looking and should really have been time for bed:

The only hiccough came when Eddie confessed about a week in that he was 'a bit behind with his advent books'. I think he thought he had to read the whole thing in one day to be ready to qualify for the next one. Whoops. I have reassured him that he can pick and choose.

So, for at least twenty minutes a night, silence reigns in our house. The only sound is the occasional turning of a page. Ssshhhh.

Currently reading: An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

The Angel Gabriel Bit Me Once

"The Angel Gabriel bit me once..."

Those immortal words were uttered by Gertie, whilst watching her little brother perform in the (unsatisfyingly small - am I allowed to say that?) role of 'Courtier Number Two' in the KS2 nativity last week. It was the usual novel re-framing of the Christmas story, (even though this is a church school so you'd think that a 'straight' version would be encouraged). This year's was The Magical Jigsaw Puzzle.

We were commenting on how good the girl playing Gabriel was (very large role; her mother must have been pleased).

It's not the sort of behaviour you expect from God's messenger, frankly. Gertie explained that way back in the days when she was at primary school (like, last term), she was assigned as the girl's 'buddy'. Not an easy mission, given the biting.

Still, just goes to show.  Not sure what, but I'm sure it shows something. I'd love to include a picture of the biting archangel, but photographing other people's children is definitely frowned upon; so I'll concentrate on my own.

Eddie certainly made the most of Courtier Number Two, delivering all six lines with volume and expression. And helping out other members of the cast with theirs - whether they wanted him to or not, frankly.

Last day of term. Only the 'reindeer cones' for sale on the playground and PTA 'lucky dip' to dodge at pick up this afternoon and we are there. And so, as Tiny Tim said, "A Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us, every one!"

Currently reading: The End We Start From by Megan Hunter

Vicious Viscosity

So, what sadist designed this little package?

John Adams, whoevever he be, has a sense of humour.

Gilby and Eddie were, of course, desperate to get involved in this little box of goodies. And, in a titanically bad bit of planning where I had a double play date for Gertie on the last day of the holidays (and I badly needed to mark books and plan lessons), I agreed. Seven plus. Should be fine for a reasonably intelligent eight-year-old and his six-year-old brother, I thought. How bad can it be? 

Now, I should know by now, that whenever I cheerfully have the 'how bad can it be?' thought, the answer is always, 'Very bad indeed'. I had, of course, neglected to notice that the large '7+' on the box actually had an 'under adult supervision' tag line in the instructions themselves.

Thus far we have fart-powder, snot and tears (though I don't think tears were actually one of the chemical compounds). Not to mention one ruined carpet, towel and washing up sponge. That snot is viscous. Not to mention vicious. And there are still far too many pots and potions and unused things left over for my liking.

Eddie's cuteness whilst wearing the safety goggles, and Gilby's earnestness in correctly following the instructions, are the only reasons they remain alive today.

Currently reading: Crooked Heart by Lissa Evans

Steven Gerrard Ate My Sausages

Getting to bed at a respectable 2am after seeing in the new year with friends and family, it is fair to say that I was nursing the suggestion of a teensy-tiny hangover first thing.  Given that I was clearly in the lower magnitude on the Richter scale of hangovers, and was not the only sufferer, discussion at the in-laws this morning focused on the merits or otherwise of different hangover cures. It is worth stating here that Hearth-Father visited the opticians yesterday. I am beginning to wish he had had his ears tested instead. For 'bacon sandwich', that well-known remedy, he heard 'baby cabbage'.

Even as a vegetarian I think I know which I would prefer.

The inclement weather meant that this new year's day has definitely been one for 'plotting up', a favourite expression in our household, rather than going out. I have thereby discovered that it is actually fun spending time with members of my family. Eddie has been running round earnestly completing pages of his 'Wreck This Journal', a lucky, last-minute choice by Santa, as it turns out. Gilby, obsessed by the trials and tribulations of Tom Gates has also begun keeping a journal of his own. Today's entry was entitled 'Steven Gerrard ate my sausages' which is an inspired interpretation of the morning's events.

I won't spoil the mystery by explaining exactly how that came about; suffice to say that is is, in a sense, accurate, (not the Steven Gerrard, obvs) and provides an excellent, if somewhat obscure, title for a blog post.

There has been some new year's brotherly love. I'm not panicking, it's bound not to last, but I enjoyed it nonetheless:

I spent two hours in the bath reading Anna Karenina, which means that I might just about have finished it in time for new year 2018 - but what luxury. Turns out you can do that sort of thing on New Year's Day. And Arsenal won, helped by a blinding goal from Giroud. Happy new year one and all.

A Word on Christmas Cards

Two posts in a day? It must be the holidays.

The mince pies are wrapped, the presents are iced, the Christmas cards are baked and the gingerbread house is posted. Or a version of that.

But the writing of Christmas cards did offer another opportunity for reflection. Eddie decided (after a whole term in reception) that he would write his to all his classmates unaided overnight.  I have grave doubts about how many of them will have actually made it to their intended recipients, since, to give a flavour, this one was meant for 'Lucy':

But Gilby went one better and sent a card to God. Yes, he did. Left it on the gravel outside, assuming. I suppose, that angels might carry it up to heaven. Or a dove, perhaps. Wishing God 'lots of fun' at Christmas. 

Ironies on many levels. But lots of fun.

Currently Reading: Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Another Year, Another Nativity, Another Indeterminate Furry Costume

It has been a few years since Gertie's starring role as the 'hopeless camel' in the Christmas production but, a couple of weeks prior to the end of term, Eddie  announced his important role in the reception nativity. He had been cast as... a donkey.

"Which end are you? Back or front?" asked his older brother, entering into the spirit.

Eddie was affronted. He pulled himself up to his full three foot height and puffed out his chest. "Actually, I'm a full donkey," he replied.

Tension mounted on the night of the performance. The tension of...could we get supper done in time to have eaten before the show? Who would babysit the bigger kids (tickets tightly rationed to a maximum of three per family)? The bigger tension of...would Hearth-Father make it from work in time to actually see the performance?

The nail-biting wait for Hearth-Father gave me time to peruse the programme and the cast list. Turns out Eddie was not just any old donkey. Oh no. He was the grey donkey. Oh yes: The full, grey donkey. 

A star is born. Or something.

Full Grey Donkey 2016

Hopeless Camel 2013

Since nobody had any lines anyway, it was rather a moot point about the colour of his donkiness. 

And, as an aside, there seemed to be a startling resemblance between the costume of the hopeless camel and the full grey donkey.

Currently reading: Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

How Not to Receive A Christmas Gift

In the tumble back to school for the new year, we missed a haircut for Eddie.

Consequently he looks like a young Justin Bieber. Never an image I would have consciously sort, and bizarrely inappropriate for a four year old.

But that is the least of my problems.  I know that one of the joys of children is watching them speak their mind, but, when a close family friend arrived at the weekend bearing some late Christmas gifts, the conversation went something like this:

L: Happy Christmas Eddie! (Handing over wrapped present)

E: What is it? (Sound of tearing paper)

L: It's a hat. I thought it would suit you.

E: Ugh. I hate it. (Throws present up in the air and runs from the room)

L: (Laughs, awkwardly)

E: (Running back in) Anyway, are you having a baby?

L: (Shocked) Er...no, I'm not.

E: Oh. Why are your boobies so large, then?


She didn't stay long.




Currently reading: Waiting for Sunrise by William Boyd

Christmas According to Gertie

It began a few weeks ago with the raised eyebrows, mocking tone of voice and fingers making inverted commas around the word 'Santa'. For Gertie, aged eight, some of the magic of Christmas seemed to have been lost.

And yet it has been something of a social whirl since she broke up from school. There have been parties and play dates and sleepovers. In fact, she has barely spent a night at home and when she has it has usually been accompanied by a friend. And many of them seem to be just that little bit less cynical and worldly wise than Gertie; and I imagine that over those late night bonding gossips and midnight feasts (the sweet wrappers and orange peel beneath her bed is a sight to behold) the question of the man in red must have come up.

And there has been a definite shift in attitude in these final few days. So, whether it is posturing for the sake of her younger brothers, a kind of 'Santa agnosticism', or a last ditch attempt to make sure that her stocking was filled - more magical discussion and less eye-rolling has taken place (the Santa-tracker app was also instrumental) and all is well.

Currently reading: The Road That Led To Where by Sally Gardner

Currently driving: Triumph Spitfire in Pageant Blue.  Clever Hearth-Father in his choice of Christmas present! Who needs Santa?

Sing, King!

It's the season to be jolly and all that.  And to rush around like a lunatic.  And to enjoy youngest son's star performance as a king in the nursery nativity.

I had high hopes.  He sang his king song loudly, confidently and relatively tunefully in the car on the way to the village hall. He was pleased with his costume.  Any resemblance between his royal cloak and our living room curtains is entirely coincidental. I asked him whether he was giving gold, frankincense or myrrh to the baby Jesus.  "Mine's red," he said.  "So that means it's the gold, it's just red." Right.

He had a wobbly moment earlier in the day when he decided that he wanted to abdicate...his kingship and all responsibility for doing the play, but I insisted that we go along anyway just to have a look.  After the sing-song in the car and his delight in his crown he got caught up in the buzz and virtually ran back stage.

I sat in the audience expectantly.  It was the standard nursery production.  Bright, bubbly and exhaustingly enthusiastic helpers narrated, cajoled and over-acted next to unpredictable toddlers, whilst removing screaming children from the stage from time to time.  There were fourteen angels, five donkeys, four stars (yes, I know, that was a new development for me too, but there were also four kings so they kind of had one each to follow), a whole flock of shepherds, one Mary, one Joseph and, thankfully, one baby Jesus.

"Sing, Eddie," I heard the helper next to him implore as they launched in to the first 'number'.  He smiled his cutest smile, waved at me in the audience to make sure that I was looking, and then shook his head like he'd just been asked to tidy his bedroom.  I knew that shake. So I wasn't surprised when he refused to sing any songs for the entire duration of the show, including his special king one.  He did, dutifully, walk over and sling his 'red' at the crib at more or less the allotted time, but then promptly sat himself down again at the front of the stage and proceeded to pick his nose for the rest of the show.

He then had the temerity to demand cake on his return from the stage. Celebrity mindset without the performance, it seems.

And he sang all the way home, too.



Currently reading: Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

On God and Merkins

Under what circumstances might a four-year-old boy run round his sitting room shouting "I'm a merkin, I'm a merkin, I'm a merkin!"?


I only ask because this is exactly what you might have heard had you been at our place last weekend.


Before you cast aspersions on the kind of household we have created, allow me to explain.


Last Sunday was 'Epiphany', and, as part of celebrating the journey of the magi, Gilby was asked to be a king at church. He was representing Caspar, and we had a jolly old time making his crown. Cereal box, bandage, and some of Gertie's sequins from her Christmas nail art set all came in very handy. Mister Maker wouldn't have been that impressed, but Gilby was, and that was the main thing.


And what did Caspar have to do? Well, as we discovered, he had to give the gift of myrrh to the baby Jesus in a procession at the end of the service. Which is simply what Gilby was explaining to anyone who might listen.


And therein lies the explanation.





Currently reading: And the Mountains Echoed by Khalid Hosseini. Wow.

2013: The Highs, the Lows

Happy new year to all my friends and family, readers and fellow bloggers; and during this time of reflection and resolution, a very quick, if self-indulgent, look back at 2013.


For the family, the biggest moment was Eddie finally taking his first steps back at the end of July. Looking at him running round after his siblings now you'd never guess it had been in any doubt. It quite brought a tear to his mother's eye. In September Gilby started school and has shone ever since. How cute did he look in his little school uniform, just a month after his fourth birthday? It...brought a tear to his mother's eye. After one term he can read and write and loves it. And Gertie becoming the Under-5 Celtic National Irish Dancing Champion in November brought, yes, a little tear or two to her mother's eye. A month later she had the lead in the school play. A star all round.


2013 was the year that I turned 40 and I had the most fantastic weekend for this milestone birthday as well as taking a long-held dream trip to Venice (just my husband and I, no kids!) to celebrate later in the year.


I think I have to count diving into the pool in Cabrieres for the first time at the start of our summer holiday as one of my top moments, and arriving at Harburn House in Scotland for Christmas as another. We can't travel the world in the same way as I once did, but clearly those little short trips and family holidays are just as special and important. Learning to ballroom dance is up there too, though we won't be troubling Strictly any time soon. We celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary very happily; where did those years go?


2013 had some professional highs: passing what I thought was my penultimate MA module last January with a merit, being accepted to present a seminar at the NATE conference in June, beginning a National Writing Project Group in Sussex in July, gaining an OFSTED outstanding at school in November. (I know that last one shouldn't count, but it does!)


There were some writing successes: Completing NanoWriMo with a 50,000 word draft of On Sudden Ground was a major achievement and now just that lengthy revision and editing process to go before securing that lucrative publishing deal in 2014. (When I will, also, finally complete my MA.) I won and was placed in a number of different short story competitions through the year; more writing to come in 2014, beginning with an educational article to be published in January.


The lows were thankfully few and far between. We lost my uncle last January. He was relatively young but it wasn't unexpected. Still very sad, though, especially for my mother. The beginning of March was plagued with illness, and I didn't enjoy going to work with an eye-patch during a severe eye-infection. On the upside, Gilby thought it was quite cool. Discovering that my final MA module wasn't was a bit of a bore (20,000 words still to go), and finding another 'suspicious' breast lump was more than a little scary, though thankfully now all fine once more. Being able to count those 'down' things on one hand reminds me of how very much I have to be grateful for.


It remains the family, of course, that is most important. We begin 2014 with a family day out and lunch with some dear friends, and that is the way that I mean to carry on.


Currently Reading: 72 Virgins by Boris Johnson. Not entirely sure why.

8 Reasons Not To Live in a Castle

Christmas 2013 has been spent at Harburn House in West Lothian, a Georgian mansion set in 3000 acres of glorious Scottish countryside. It enabled twenty-one of us, from three generations of family, to all spend Christmas together in luxurious surroundings. All the young cousins could romp around together, and the adults could too, for that matter.


Sitting at my dressing table each morning with the four poster bed reflecting in the mirror made me feel like a character in a Jane Austen novel. Walking Kempy in such beautiful, tranquil countryside, with hills rising majestically in the distance, was dreamy.


So, before I get too carried away with the romance of the whole thing and decide that my real life is inadequate by comparison, I've decided to focus on all the reasons why I really, really wouldn't want to live in a glorious castle.

1. It is a very, very long walk to the nearest pub.

2. You get achy legs from having to keep going up and down colossal flights of stairs. Longer than four days here and I would end up with calves the size of large pheasants.

3. Hanging Christmas decorations becomes a life-threatening mission given the height of the ceilings.

4. There are so many bathrooms that choosing where to have a bath or shower becomes a major decision.

5. The drapes on one's four-poster-bed block out the light from one's bedside lamp, making night-time reading difficult.

6. There's no mobile phone signal, and fairly intermittent wifi, so it's difficult to boast about being here without constant access to social media.

7. Whatever you want is inevitably an awfully long way away from where you happen to be. On occasion I found myself three floors away from my slippers.

8. And, linked with number seven on the list, you have to shout very loudly indeed to be heard whenever you do want something.


But aside from those little niggles, it really has been a magical Christmas. Father Christmas managed to find his way here, alleviating the fears of the children. And though it didn't settle, we even had snow flurries throughout the day on Christmas Eve. I'll just try not to think too much about the journey home.

Christmas Road Trip

'Twas the night before our departure for five days away, and I found myself ramming 'stocking' presents into a hard-structured suitcase thereby crushing carefully wrapped Barbie doll boxes and bending unbendable tubes of smarties. "You - will - go - in.." I snarl threateningly at some inanimate and hitherto unobjectionable objects, regretting it immediately amidst the sound of sinister snapping sounds and as the foot of a dinosaur protrudes menacingly from cheap wrapping paper. It is an ominous start to a long night.



At nine am the next morning, Daddy proclaims that the car is full. I look on to see, with no small measure of alarm, that so is the kitchen. Full of bags that still need to go in to the car. And it is, of course, imperative that most of it is unseen by the children.



The sideways rain doesn't help. It comes lashing at you in waves, like a giant dog in the sky shaking itself off vigorously from side to side. Daddy on a step-ladder fiddling with the things in the roof box is making absolutely no difference to the space available, but quite a lot to his life expectancy. In the wrong direction. Now we are an hour late departing. The giant dog in the car, Kempton, is quaking with fear as she is forced into the boot alongside boxes of bags and tubes and packages. And well she might, since around the first corner most of it falls on top of her. A hasty pull in to a lay by and some significant adjustments later and we are off again. There is a repeat performance round the next bend and Daddy begins muttering about more bungee cords. This will continue until the motorway. Muted swearing and some gritted-teeth conversations take place.



Gilby asks about the language that is spoken in Scotland. He translates my definition for Eddie: "Yeah, so it's English, just not spoken properly." I look at the heavy sky. It doesn't help, or offer any inspiration. That wasn't what I said, nor what I meant. I shrug.



We stop at the printers to pick up photographs that had been promised but aren't ready. I grin and say that it doesn't matter and then promptly step in a puddle outside the shop, smashing muddy water across my clothes. Exactly what is not required at the start of a four hour road trip. More swearing. It turns out that I am quite cross about the photographs in spite of what I might have suggested to the shop assistant.



One more set of Kempy-calamity-avoidance adjustments are made and then we are really off. So far it has taken forty minutes to travel sixteen miles. Now we are nearly two hours behind schedule. Gertie is wedged uncomfortably between a box of Christmas crackers and an extra large bottle of cider. She has heard the exchanges between her parents and knows better than to complain. I am starting to suspect that the cider may not make it past Watford Gap. It wouldn't do a great deal to ease the congestion in the car, which is rammed to the gunnels and has begun to resemble the old woman's house in A Squash and a Squeeze. I don't even like cider. This journey seems more likely to arrive in divorce than in Scotland. But before that destination there is visiting Grandpa Mac in Derby.



The M25 is also congested, so now we are experiencing it both outside the car and in. We come to a standstill around Heathrow. The helpful picture of an upturned car reminds us of our own good fortune in merely moving slowly rather than having been part of a crash.



The first part of the M1 is, unsurprisingly, congested. This time due to 'pedestrians on the road'. Right. I speculate about what they might be doing there. Spontaneously liberating themselves from the stress of long car journeys, perhaps. We manage to successfully dodge them and continue to wend our way. It isn't long before we are heading for 'the North'. I feel like doing a celebratory air-punch.



Eventually we arrive with Grandpa Mac. No thanks to sat nav, who has quite distinct ideas about the best way not to get us to our destination. We have a good lunch, and somehow manage to negotiate the strange requirements of Sunday carvery in far-flung lands. The beer is cheap, and there is an ice-cream machine which delights the children. Though this provides more than enough sugar for one day, Grandpa Mac appears to have bought sweets in the kind of quantities that might have sunk the Titanic should an iceberg not have been around to do the job.



The kids turn hyper.



I drink lots of wine.



And consider the silver lining: I have learned some salutary lessons about the obscene levels of materialistic consumerism to which I have sunk, namely through the recognition of my inability to stuff all this stuff into the car (and I'm not even seeing all my family over Christmas, for chrissakes!), I have discovered that the Premier Inn in Derby is like heaven after that cramped and fractious journey, and I have inadvertently compiled some material for a blog post.



Three sleeps and three hundred miles to go!

The Very Hopeless Mother

This week I have managed to miss my youngest son's nativity, practically ignore Gilby's Christmas play, and cause Gertie's grandfather to miss her performance as the very hopeless camel.

Eddie didn't take part in his play because, well, it was scheduled on a day when he wasn't in nursery and I just couldn't get him there. I console myself with the thought that I don't think he has any awareness that he was missing out on anything. He's too young to remember it.

I missed Gilby's because somewhere along the way we simply didn't find out about it. I checked his book bag to see if I had inadvertently mislaid a letter, but no, apparently it was all done by word of mouth at the school gate. Fine if you are there every day; not so good if you are one of the two full-time working mums of the class. So nobody was at his first performance during the day, and we managed to get him rushed to the second, evening performance, with seconds to spare and a breathless father somewhere at the back having dashed there early from work. There was some talk of me getting there the following night; except that it transpired that this mythical, third performance only existed in Gilby's head. He was very disappointed. Never mind. It's only his first term at school. His first ever nativity. The first time of wearing the tea-towel on his head as a shepherd...

But on the Thursday, we were far more organised for Gertie's starring role in 'The Very Hopeless Camel'. We had grandfather on board to get her there early, and had managed to secure elusive extra tickets, presumably on the basis of having been entirely hopeless and missing out on everything else thus far. It didn't quite go according to plan, though. I neglected the fact that not everyone else in the world is used to flying through the world at an unholy pace. The car journey to school - seven minutes if you really put your foot down and take the sneaky corner parking spot that most other parents wouldn't dare to, and which I have to do each Friday when I fly out of my school with ten minutes before the bell goes for the end of the day at there's - takes much longer in the dark and the rain when you are in your mid seventies and unfamiliar with the route and the idiosyncratic parking arrangements. So Grumps missed his grand-daughter harrumphing around brilliantly hopelessly.

And my new year's resolution? To slow down a little. I am going so fast that I am missing the important moments.

Currently reading: In Praise of Slow by Carl Honore.

Christmas Mysteries

Christmas is full of mystery and magic...the star, the virgin birth, the angel appearing to the shepherds, the three wise men, how Santa manages to get around the whole world in just one night (though thankfully, today, there are websites that track his progress...) but in our house, one major mystery remained unsolved this Christmas.  What exactly happened to the Christmas tree lights? 

In mid December Daddy was sent to the loft to retrieve all Christmas decorations (a job he secretly loves, though pretends to hate.  I have to believe this.)  The tree went up; favourite decorations appeared.  Joy came to the household. 

Except that...there were no fairy lights.  I know I packed them up carefully last year. What on earth could have happened to them?  Daddy was sent to the loft again to double-check that there wasn't a single box remaining...(see, I told you he really liked it up there).  Alas, no lights. 

We decided that the Christmas tree really did need them, and also, when we invested in new ones, that things really had moved on in the fairy-light-world since our last purchase. 

I was also delighted to discover that I had evidently done diligent January-sale Christmas card buying, and that I had even bought one or two Christmasy books and a few odd little bits and pieces that would make lovely presents for our neighbours' children - go me. 

There was a lovely little pack of toy cars - they'd be brilliant for Eddie.  I wrapped them up.  The big day came.  I have found that it arrives whether you are ready or not.  Usually I am not.  But this year, I was in control (ish).  Christmas morning brought shrieks of delight, just as it should, and we let baby Eddie sleep in whilst the 'big' kids opened their pressies.  They then took great pleasure in opening the gifts in his stocking on his behalf. 

So...try explaining why Santa had given Eddie the gift of a set of Christmas tree lights masquerading as a trio of cars.  Yep.  Mystery solved.

Happy new year!

P.S. Best Christmas telly?  Louis Smith's showdance on Strictly Come Dancing!

On Supersonic Lambs and Limbs

Last week was overtaken by Gertie's school play.  It was a production of The Supersonic Lamb. For anyone unfamiliar with this nativity variation, it is a moral tale: the story of a fast-running sheep who wanted to be the first to get to Jesus. 

Anyway, only the Year 2 children got to have speaking parts, so Gertie was out of the running, (so to speak) but she performed her role in the choir with gusto, dressed as a shepherd.

There was an impressive array of tea-towels on display, on heads.  Who knew there was such variety?

But the real star of the show was Eddie, who chose the final performance of The Supersonic Lamb as the occasion on which to unleash his clapping on the world.  Now Eddie has been a little...reluctant to do most of the things that babies his age are supposed to do, so the fact that he suddenly began applauding with great enthusiasm after each song in the show turned him into the start.  Never mind that parents were straining to hear what their loved ones were saying for their 15 seconds of fame, my baby was clapping!

He has also in the last fortnight begun to 'stand' (whilst gripping on to something shoulder-height for dear life).  But it is standing, nevertheless, and of his own volition.  Crawling is still more reminiscent of a wounded soldier dragging himself through mud, but....come on those supersonic limbs!  We'll soon have you outrunning that supersonic lamb...

Lady Visa returns to Austria for Christmas on Wednesday.  Not entirely sure how we will cope. 

I Blame Mister Maker

Now that the big day has passed once more, I find that not only is my house bulging with even more than our fair share of brightly coloured plastic but there are also more dangerous weapons lurking everywhere...

The pen is indeed mightier that the sword, since it can ruin new furniture in a matter of seconds in the hands of an enthusiastic two-year-old; and this Christmas seemed to have 'crafts' as a major theme. Mister Maker has an awful lot to answer for as paint pots, felt-tip pens, gloopy glue, sand art, crayons, glitter, felt shapes and items generally associated with 'messy play' now lurk in every corner, despite my protestations that works of art may only be created in the kitchen.

So I really do need to have eyes in the back of my head if my house is not to resemble a New York subway in terms of graffiti levels. And with three children all activities must be undertaken with military precision. Mealtimes provide an excellent opportunity to get the baby into the bath first, since I can be fairly confident that the lure of food will be enough to keep the big ones in their seats and away from potentially lethal crafts.

So it was that yesterday, Eddie had already had his bath and lay kicking on his changing mat in the bathroom. I prised Gilby away from the remains of his cupcake and got him into the water, whilst Gertie carried on at the table. She is eminently sensible and can be trusted not to autograph the walls, so I wasn't too worried. But I took the opportunity of hanging out some washing in the hallway whilst listening to Gilby's monologue in the bath.

"Right, come on then, Eddie; time to get you into your pyjamas!" I said, folding the last of the laundry in the hallway.

"Mummy, why are you talking to Eddie? He can't talk back to you," observed his big brother whilst blowing bubbles with his bath-water and covering the bath sides in wild red and green circles. Who knew that you could get soap-pens?

"Well I know that he's only a baby, but it is important that he learns how to communicate, and he will understand lots of things we say even though he can't talk yet," I explained as simply as I could.

"No Mummy. Why are you talking to him when he is asleep?"

Poor old Eddie had obviously got bored with waiting for his mother to return and get him dressed and had, well, nodded off. So much for my multi-tasking. Still, at least no permanent scribbles on priceless objects occurred in the interim. Though the bath took a bit of scrubbing...

Help!

What is the correct protocol when one's four-year-old has found the 'Father Christmas' presents stashed in the under-stairs-cupboard on Christmas Eve?

Dear Father Christmas

This was dictated to me by number one daughter yesterday:

Dear Father Christmas,

I really have been a very good girl. For ages. I have tried not to be naughty. I haven't done any snatching from Jenna or Emily at nursery, and definitely no biting or scratching. I have used the new grown-up toothpaste that Mummy told me too, even though it makes my tongue hurt. I haven't got my clothes dirty. I have gone to bed when I'm told and I haven't got up in the night. I haven't had any accidents for absolutely ages. I eat up all the things that I am told too, and even when I really, really don't like them I will have three mouthfuls.

Because I have been such a good girl, I really hope that you will bring me a space hopper and a scooter and a Hello-Kitty-cat and a clock for my room. Maybe some toy food as Kempton chewed some of it. Toy milk, please. She chewed that up.

I think that my brother, Gilby, would like a football, a tambourine and cars and a tractor. He has been a good boy too and hardly ever cries now.

With lots of love, and I'm very excited,
Gertie
(Self signed, with nine kisses)

Luckily, Santa already knew about the scooter and the space-hopper. And I am touched that she thought to ask on behalf of her brother.

I have no idea what a Hello-Kitty-Cat is and I can't think why a three year old would want a clock, except that there was one on the wall in the kitchen when she was trying to think about what to ask for. I notice there is no mention of Peppa Pig, so Santa may have misjudged her (rapidly waning, it seems) affections for old Peppa.

And toy milk? I think that this is the last year we will get away so lightly...

We All Really Needed That

Whilst the festive period played havoc with Gertie's sleeping patterns, Gilby found the departure from normal routine similarly disruptive.

We stayed with family for Christmas night and Boxing Day night and he and his sister slept in the same room which doesn't usually happen at home.

So different place, different set-up, travel cot, lots of noise, and no routine as Mum tried to 'go with the flow', all led to a rapid disintegration of the night time experience for all concerned.

Sometimes he wakes up once, often twice and occasionally three times, so nights are not brilliant anyway; but on the upside he goes down to sleep really easily at 7pm with no fuss and goes straight back to sleep after each feed.

Not over the festive period though. He turned into some strange version of my baby that I suddenly didn't know: crying every time I tried to put him in the cot, waking up much more often and refusing to go down happily after a feed.

This was complicated by the fact that I was desperately trying to prevent him from waking his older sister, sleeping in the cot beside him, so I couldn't leave him to cry.

Anyway, Christmas night was bad. We didn't have longer than two hours between feeds at any point and sleep deprivation coupled with a small hangover (or large, for my husband) was not a recipe for tranquility.

Boxing Day night did not start well, and after agreeing that Daddy would give Gilby a formula bottle at next waking to see if that would encourage him to sleep a little longer, we both fell very soundly and gratefully to sleep, utterly exhausted.

Gilby duly awoke some time later and Daddy did his duty. I looked at my watch and whispered, "You'll never guess what: it's five to four! He's gone for a whole six hours!"

"Brilliant!" he whispered back sleepily in the darkness, "We all really needed that!"

Gilby woke again and I leapt up to breast-feed him thinking it must now be early morning. But no, bizarrely, three o'clock pointed the hands on the dial of my watch. How could that be? Unless I had misread the earlier time: it must have been twenty past eleven, not five to four. So he (and we) would have been asleep for a whole hour and a bit before that first feed, not the six hours we thought we'd had.

Marvellous. Yes, Daddy, we all really needed that.