Silverware Wars and Sporting Firsts

There were proud moments at the weekend, as Hearth-Father and Gilby strode out onto a cricket pitch together for the first time, playing in a friendly game for Ladymead, versus Ockley.

Gilby was a little bit nervous, he confided in me on the way to the match. "And I don't think I want to bowl."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm nine and they're men!"

Fair enough. He did, though, and bowled a maiden for the final over. And at one point there was Hearth-Father, Hearth-Uncle and Gilby all in the slip cordon. Not sure how many more times that might happen.

(Now I'm looking forward to stepping out onto a stoolball pitch with Gertie for the first time ever tomorrow night. Come on the weather!)

(*Edit: This did happen! And we batted out the final overs together, me 26 not out, she 5 not out. Dream team!

)

But the cricket wasn't the best bit about Gilby's day. The best bit was being awarded player of the year for the second year running for his football team. It was totally unexpected - especially as I had been suggesting that since he won it last year they would probably share things about a little to give another player a turn. Apparently not.

When he walked off the cricket pitch after three hours of fielding his little face lit up when he remembered the morning's silverware that he had entirely forgotten about in his state of concentration. It's fair to say he slept well on Sunday evening.

Meanwhile, Gertie and Eddie were in action at a dancing competition on Saturday. For the first time ever, Eddie came home with more silverware than his sister. (She's in the top grade and he's still classed as a beginner, but we'll ignore that...)

A wonderful way to end the half-term break. Roll on summer.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

Human, or Dancer

At a recent dance performance I failed to recognise my own daughter when we poked our heads backstage to wish her luck.

I only knew it was she since I got a dismissive finger wave from a mascara-clad, crimped, sequinned, gum-chewing pre-teen that I assumed must be her - as we backed hurriedly out of the room.

On stage, I recognised her from her dance steps rather than her face.

And whilst I was proud of her younger brother dancing with all the big kids, it was pointed out to me that he more resembles a table football peg than a boy:

Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan

What Eddie Did Next

Eddie has, outside of the house, been behaving as a model pre-schooler.  (Notice the qualifying sub-clause there.) The nursery has been praising his helpfulness and there hasn't been a complaint for a while. He was the also the holder of the 'gymnastics teddybear' for two weeks for very good concentration in class.

And, with the retirement of Michael Flatley, our own little Lord of the Dance has been working hard at his Irish dancing, and will perform in the dance team as part of the May Day celebrations. I was breathing regular sighs of relief.  He is five months from starting school and things are going well.

Except that yesterday he was in trouble again: For 'giving the finger' to a fellow dancer.  He is four. And a bit.

Whilst the child inside me found this amusing, the parent and the teacher was disturbed.  He can't have the faintest idea what it means, but he must know that it is frowned upon by adults and is choosing to do it anyway.  We were kept behind at the end of the workshop.

Parents of naughty children feel the shame that the naughty child ought to feel.

Currently reading: Fire Colour One by Jenny Valentine

One on One

That's over, then.

January's gone and good riddance. It's the month of the year I'm most rubbish at.  And, as I like a good list -  here's one to reflect on Things That I Failed To Achieve in January:

• Keeping my temper with Gilby
• Using the rowing machine
• Losing even a pound of weight
• Maintaining my blogging regime
• Serenity - generally

But we did start to achieve something that I had tried for last year: spending time independently with the kids. It was a thought I had a year ago when Gertie fell down a mountain and was in hospital.  I had to spend hours with her in intensive care and had plenty of time to realise that we never did that - just take time out with them individually.  (Not the circumstances I would choose, but it made the point.)

So - under far happier circumstances this year - Gilby got a father-son trip to the Emirates to watch his beloved Arsenal play in the FA cup.  Thankfully it was a win (against Sunderland) so record intact.

Gertie got a mother-daughter trip to Birmingham to see the Strictly Come Dancing Roadshow. Not bad photos with the zoom lens.  (Last year's Christmas present - not quite as good as the car, but up there.) It manages to casually suggest that we weren't in row ZZ:

And Eddie...well, neither of us are quite brave enough to tackle him alone, yet.  But he does do a nice impression of a snooker player:

He came last at his feis, but goodness me he looks the part.

And he has his sister to keep him in check when they are dancing.

His time will come.

Currently reading: The Fatal Englishman by Sebastian Faulks

Lords and Ladies of the Dance

I have actually just organised the best eighth birthday surprise and celebration in the world. (Types smugly)

A few months ago I was accidentally watching Graham Norton's show when Michael Flatley was on promoting Lord of the Dance in London. I hadn't known it was his farewell tour and so I thought it would be a nice idea to get a ticket for Gertie for her birthday. (It goes without saying that this also required buying one for her mother to accompany her...) They weren't cheap, but if this was the only time that the current CAID Primary National Champion was going to get to see the world's most famous Irish dancer then so be it.

Through the wonders of the internet I managed to get tickets for the actual day of her birthday from the comfort of my sitting room whilst Graham Norton and Michael Flatley were still chatting.  He seemed like a nice bloke, so with a glass of red wine inside me and an iPad in my lap it suddenly seemed like a good idea to send Mr Flatley a little email explaining the situation.  I put a little picture of Gertie in for good measure.

Twelve hours later I had a reply, and an invitation to meet the cast.

The show was spectacular. More dramatic, exciting and beautiful than I remember from, ahem, twentyyearsagoish. And Michael Flatley himself performed, which we weren't expecting, so Hearth-Mother was a little overcome.

And the lovely cast (who, at the end of a long week probably had far better things to be doing than meeting an eight-year-old girl) were lovely, even singing 'Happy Birthday' to Gertie.

Gertie was amazed by 'Little Spirit' and her breath-taking flexibility on stage; then delighted to discover that in real life she was so petite that they weren't far apart in height. A magical evening was topped off by the gift of a signed programme from the main man himself.

The following day she had a 'pool party' with 25 friends, including raft races and a profiterole tower instead of a cake (Gertie's choice).


Alas, smug as I am and delighted by the success of creating an absolutely unforgettable eighth birthday, I am well aware that I may have peaked too soon.  What on earth to do next year...?

Currently reading: The Liar's Chair by Rebecca Whitney

More Shelves, Please, I'm Winning

I seem to be a little bit preoccupied by my eldest child at the moment.  I do have other children, I remember, but lots seems to be revolving around Gertie. This is the fifth post in a row in which she is the main event.

I will find other subject matter, but just one last little thing.  She does Irish dancing.  Mostly because this was a thing that I had to do when I was little.  She was at the CAID British Open Championships in Farnham in Surrey a couple of weekends ago where she won her light jig and came third in the championship overall, which generated a sizeable piece of silverware.

I did a reasonable job of hiding the remnants of Scissorgate:

Her comment? "Mummy, I know that you've only just decorated my room, but I think I'm going to need another shelf."

Currently reading: The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin

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.

Dancing Shoes

Gertie has just taken part in her second Irish-dancing class. She loves dancing, and aged four, has already been doing ballet for more than two years. As a child I loved Irish-dancing, and carried on taking part in competitions until I was thirty, (albeit with a long break through my late teens and early twenties!) I loved the excitement of the feis and all the dressing-up that went with it. But at twenty-eight weeks pregnant with baby number three, my dancing days are well and truly over. So the item that has inspired this blog-post in response to Jodie's writing prompts this week are my tired and worn-out shoes, next to Gertie's shiny new and very, very tiny ones.

It is a personality cat-walk as I revist old loves: nostalgic, but memories faded at the edges, a little tarnished on reflection. And watch history repeating itself!

DANCING SHOES

A restless night: my hair in lumpy rags.
For this six-year-old white-dreadlocked dreamer
The unroutine 5am start
Prevents sleep more than the tight wound curls.
In the morning the ritual unwinding,
A mess of ribboned ringlets scooped to top-knot.
Not really a look for London, circa 1980.
Then soft leather shoes lattice-laced
Like twisted liquorice around poodle socks
Thickening my ankles. A racing greyhound,
Hungry for the hare. But my chase was for a trophy
In the jig; a shiny medal in the reel;
Highly commended in the horn-pipe,
And my mother: glowing, proud and smiling.

Now I see the glitz under glare of bare Whitechapel bulb;
Fuss and pomp and empty Gaelic line.
McEvoy by name: a tired cultural link,
Forcing Irishness under lure of dress and gloss.
As I enrol my daughter in her Irish dancing class.