Post Lockdown Birthday

Eddie turned nine last weekend and deciding on a way of marking the moment was trickier than usual. Everyone else in the family had their birthday this year in 'actual' lockdown so there was no question beyond how to make it special at home together. 

Not so for Eddie.

To him, the world appears pretty much back to normal now. He's been back at school since early September, and the classroom seems similar to what he knew before. The teachers are not required to wear masks, nor are the students (unlike at secondary school where they seem to have become something of a fashion accessory). Changes are subtle. Things look much as they ever did. 

His football team are training and playing matches against rivals home and away; social distancing is encouraged, but you can't put a decent socially-distanced tackle in, and it goes out of the window if a goal is scored, in the natural joy and exuberance of that moment. Swimming classes are back on, though he isn't allowed to shower afterwards - an irrelevance to a 9-year-old.

So why wouldn't a party or a sleepover be possible?

It must seem ludicrous to him that he can be in close proximity to his friends during the school day, play on a football team with seven other players, be in a swimming lesson of a different eight kids, travel to school in a car with two classmates - and yet, because we are a family of five, only have one additional person in the house because of the Rule of Six.

It's difficult to make sense of - especially given that as a secondary school teacher I come into contact with between 150 and 200 students on an average seven period day. 

He has been on a fantasy-kick for the last few months, and so in the end we chose to do the Harry Potter  Studio Tour and experience the 'film-making magic'. Eddie was allowed to bring one friend so that we would be a legal party of six amidst the hundreds of other visitors.

In the end it was a fun day out, completed by a wand-fighting lesson, a broomstick ride, a trainride to Hogwarts and lashings of butter beer (well, one serving to share, since the purchase required remortgaging the house. Actually, the whole thing pretty much cost the price of a week's holiday in Spain, but whose counting in these strange times?

The Lowdown On Lockdown Birthdays

We've had three, so far: Hearthfather's, mine and Gertie's. That would be Gertie, who somehow while I wasn't looking, has just become a teenager.

So we are getting quite good at lockdown celebrations as we have had quite a bit of practice. There are a few rules:

• The birthday girl or boy gets to choose the structure of the day and everyone has to go along with it. 
• Lockdown birthdays really ought to last for two days rather than one
• There are more family presents than usual.

So, inevitably, we each went for something different in terms of the 'structure of the day'.

Hearthfather went for

• a lunchtime beer 
• a family Zoom quiz (he won on a bonus question, supplied at the last minute, to ensure that result)
• a takeaway curry.

His was quite early on in lockdown days, and the Indian restaurant (that we are relatively frequent patrons of ordinarily) actually let us have a beer while we waited to collect the curry. And brought some poppadoms to the table. It almost felt like going out. As in olden days. But not quite. Because it also felt quite naughty. But nice.

Mine involved

• no Zooms whatsoever, on pain of death
• a cycle ride 
• a disco. 

I realise that final bullet point requires some explanation. It was a disco for five people. At home. (With rather excellent disco lighting that we have now permanently installed in the sitting room.)

I have decided that this is by far and away the best format for a disco. I could dance like nobody was watching, because, really - they weren't. We went beyond 'air guitar' and mimed with actual guitars. And it was actually enormous fun - we partied until after 10pm. Yes, 10pm. Gilby took himself off to bed just before and Eddie had to be carried up, floppy and exhausted, like back when he was a toddler. Even Gertie got involved. (It was before she became a teenager though.)

Gertie chose

• a family Zoom quiz (which she won by a country mile, not needing the bonus question)
• separate social distanced doorstep deliveries from friends who had baked cookies and a cake
• a takeaway pizza

And what a cake!  We are still eating it. Apparently it feed 30-35. It's not really helping the lockdown diet terribly much.

Gilby is eleven in July and Eddie's is not until September, so there is a bit of a lull now. Eddie has his heart set on Harry Potter World. Fingers crossed.



Currently reading: The London Train by Tessa Hadley

The Birthday Party

Gilby reached the milestone of double figures.

We are a long way beyond the class party these days. Yes, they were horrendous, but at least with the saving grace of being all over and done with in an hour and half. 

But, no. To celebrate, his treat of choice was to:

Take a group of friends to a trampoline park. 

Straight from school on the last day of the summer term. 

A suitably unhealthy burger and chips to follow the bouncing. 

Then all back to our garden for what is breezily termed a 'camping sleepover'.

I try not to begin from a 'deficit perspective' but there seems no other way to approach this given

the significant number of potential, actual and unforeseen pitfalls to this plan.

1. Eight children at a trampoline park.

Now, I don't know what the odds are in relation to number of visitors per injury, but I figured that our chances of ending up in casualty were pretty high. In my head, it was only a question of where the first blow might strike. Our odds were susbtiantially increased because in a fit of what I can only describe as a combination of uncharacteristic generosity and utter madness, I had booked the two hour bouncing deal instead of the single hour option. I had also failed to notice that the 'deal' was actually called 'Hungry Bouncers' and included a 'free' hot-dog. That meant that we were actually filling the boys up with two forms of processed meat in rapid succession. If they weren't going to end up in hospital through bouncing then perhaps the long-term health problems were going to get them there eventually.

2. Decibels

The noise quality in trampoline parks - and I don't mean to do them down specifically; it is generally the same in all 'soft play' establishments - is of a particular quality and timbre that generally leaves me wanting to crawl into a quiet hole after extended exposure to it. Note previous point in relation to the two, rather than one, hour deal.

3. The curse of the Golden Arches.

As a vegetarian I am not generally a big fan of the chains of 'family burger restaurants' with which we are all familiar. I object to the use of the term 'restaurant' when you are required to order at a counter, wait for your food, carry it back to plastic immovable chairs and tables, forage for condiments and then clear up after yourself, even though the person sitting at the table before you clearly didn't. And I object to the term particularly since they are not licensed to sell alcohol at all, let alone in the numbing quantities required to survive this sort of situation. When I say 'situation', I mean the kind of practices that boys eating burgers together seem to enact. Especially when they aren't actually that hungry because they have been bouncing for two hours and been given a giant hot-dog. Gilby is generally the nicest-mannered of my children, but somehow he feels the need to engage in burping, farting, food-throwing, food-wasting and fighting antics that would be unacceptable on any other day of the year, but somehow become tolerated when in the company of other people's children. Which brings me on to point 4...

4. Other people's children 

What is it and what is it not ok to refuse people's children? Three of the boys were very polite. At least to begin with. And three were not. I started getting all judgy at the lack of please and thank yous from the outset. And then there was the asking for things that had not been offered. A round of slushies were included in the two hour deal. I'm aware that I keep using the word 'deal' as though I had obtained some sort of bargain on the day. I would like to disabuse everyone of that idea and explain that in fact, attendance for eight children for two hours at aforementioned  trampoline park was extortionate and virtually required remortgaging. Nevertheless, some rejected the slushies and said that they wanted squash or coke or milk or anything that they could think of that wasn't a slushy. Grumpily, I said no and referred repeatedly to 'the deal'. Dear Jaydn - not quite enough vowels, surely? shrugged off the rejection

5. Sleep

What are the chances of that many boys in a tent, for some of whom it was their first sleepover, actually getting some sleep? The answer is, unsurprisingly, very little. Marshmallow toasting (supervised by Hearth-father while I went in search of the wine that had been so absent from our 'restaurant' experience) went on until quite late, and it seems that an injection of sugar at bedtime is not exactly conducive to 'settling down'. The torrential downpour after days of glorious sunshine didn't help. The fact is they didn't settle down. I sent Hearth-Father out at regular intervals to shush them, with fairly minimal results. The cricket game began at 5am when the rain stopped. At 5.15 the neighbour from two doors down was banging on the front door to complain. Saturday morning did not, therefore, begin in a terrifically positive way, and I did not come out of the exchange terribly well.

6. Inappropriate moral lessons

This one was definitely unforeseen. In an effort to reestablish relations with Two Doors Down, we decided it would be a good idea to send Gilby round the following afternoon with a box of chocolates and a rehearsed apology. Missing nothing, and still in his formative years, we appear to have inadvertently warped Eddie's already fragile moral code. He piped up, 'What? So she gets a present for coming round here and shouting? Are you serious?'

On Hearths. And Mothers.

I have been parenting for twelve years this week. Gertie will celebrate her birthday with a meal at a local restaurant with friends. Very grown up. Very exclusive. In the sense that no adults are allowed. Only at the end to pay the bill.

It follows, though, a bit of a soul-searching weekend. Eldest Gertie has been unrelentingly stroppy and demanding, middle Gilby seems to be in a permanent rage, and youngest Eddie even more than the usual law unto himself. Where have we gone wrong? There was much handwringing and lament. And some consoling wine.

But yesterday! They were immaculate. All day. Morning and evening and bedtime. Eddie went to his gymnastics class without a single murmur of dissent, and on first asking to put his shoes on. First asking! Gertie and Gilby collaborated on a housework project that meant I walked back into a sweet smelling, vacuumed downstairs, with all the laundry put away. I'd only asked them to clear their things after supper. I quite literally didn't know how to respond. 

So. One whole day in twelve years seems to have gone well. (We won't mention today.) Hooray for parenting! Hooray for Hearth-mother!

I chose the name 'hearth-mother' as a reaction against the earth-mother types that I met when pregnant and when Gertie was first born. The ones who were winning at motherhood: those who managed to breast feed incessantly without any effort, and then shredded roast lamb and purée artichoke for the baby whilst serving up four unmushed courses for their partners; the ones who did complex crafting with their precious offspring with endless calm and patience while playing a musical instrument and learning Mandarin themselves; and, most offensive of all: who always had immaculate make-up. I never really picked up makeup again after childbirth, so how women had time to put on a 'full face' was astonishing to me. They seemed there just to make the rest of us (well, mostly me) feel bad.

Going out, as in 'leaving the house', back then was just - well - too hard. Going out with a baby was a massive mission, a feat well beyond my limited capabilities. It was all I could do to sit by the fire, and er, tend the hearth.

Blogposts over the years have regularly been about the funny, silly, awful, brilliant things that the kids do, often alongside barely disguised allusions to my sustained parenting inadequacy. No doubt research could prove a connection between the two.

But I am currently reading Mythos by Stephen Fry, and in discussing Hestia, Goddess of - well, the Hearth, he explains:

In our less communal age of central heating and separate rooms for each family member, we do not lend the hearth quite the importance that our ancestors did, Greek or otherwise. Yet, even for us, the word stands for something more than just a fireplace. We speak of 'hearth and home'. Our word 'hearth' shares its ancestry with 'heart', just as the modern Greek for 'hearth' is kardia, which also means 'heart'. In Ancient Greece the wider concept of hearth and home was expressed by the oikos which lives on for us today in words like 'economics' and 'ecology'. The Latin for hearth is focus - which speaks for itself. 

So. Turns out Hearth-Mother might be a bit of domestic goddess. Literally. Not this one, obvs, but in name, and, on the eve of Gertie's twelfth birthday, my heart (hearth) is singing.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

It's All Greek To Me

It has been a busy old week with regards to the combined demands of primary school and social commitments. Monday was 'Superhero Day' for Year 2. Eddie hasn't worn a superhero costume for a couple of years, so some improvisation was needed. 

Yesterday was 'Forest Schools' followed by a party at a local farm park. This required the sorting out of a present for the birthday girl - on a school night - and, with an after work meeting and ferrying the kids to clubs until 9pm, I left Daddy in charge. He surpassed himself. I had expected a tenner stuffed in a card, but the present was thoughtfully chosen, wrapped and delivered on time.  

Today was 'Greek Day' for Year 5, so, following the success of mid-week birthday-gate, Hearth-Father was promoted to costume design for the first time. With hindsight, I don't know why I have found the last few years remotely stressful. I should have handed over responsibilities a long time ago. I may be about to announce my retirement. Somehow he managed this:

And is utterly forgiven for raiding the wardrobe for my sandals and destroying a pillow case. I have no idea about the authenticity, but am overwhelmed by the commitment. After nineteen years I have discovered my husband's secret dressmaking skill. The needle and cotton are his domain from now on.

Currently reading: The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley

What the Six-Year-Old Said to the Bishop

Last night was the induction mass for our new parish priest, presided over by the bishop, and Gertie and Gilby were asked to serve. (Dangerous in these daddy-long-legs infested days; nevertheless Gilby maintained concentration throughout the service.)

Eddie was (unusually for him) immaculately behaved. Whilst this had more to do with falling asleep right from the responsorial psalm all the way through to communion, than with any great triumph of will, it was worth the dead arm for some peace.

At the end of the service, the bishop shook hands with all of the congregation and thanked Gertie and Gilby profusely for their help. Eddie, wide-eyed and only just awake held out his tiny hand. The bishop, with a twinkle in his eye, looked back and forth between them. "Well," he said, "I think you must be the brother of young Gilbert and young Gertrude here! How do you think I know that?"

"Duh. Because of the eyes and the hair," came the unimpressed retort of the newly-six-year-old.

And the bishop wasn't the only one to be on the receiving end of this treatment. An unsuspecting member of the blue-rinse brigade had overheard that it had been Eddie's birthday. "Let me guess...you were...fifty!" she joked, affectionately.

"Don't be ridiculous. I was six, " came the dismissive, refusing-to-join-in-the-banter reply.

When People Look Smudged

Life doesn't get much more exciting than the eve of your sixth birthday; hence this morning's 3.20 am wake-up, I suppose.  Similar happened a few Christmases ago, but this is the first time for a birthday.  I did managed to get Eddie to stay in bed until 6.30 am in the end, but it was a struggle.

Everything was 'epic' today: the crossbow 'which is my very best weapon, and always will be'; the Mister Maker drawers, the Yoda cushion, the Star Wars bedding. He particularly liked the fluttery notes that came from envelopes (thank you GAS and MGM if you are reading).

One of his favourite presents was a real, actual grown-up digital camera. He was a bit disappointed when his first few pictures came out 'smudged'. I love his language choices, I really do. Part of me is sorry that he has found the delete button already and the disastrous early photographs are not preserved for posterity (I have an album full of smudges).

In other news, Gilby appears to have developed a phobia of daddy-long legs.  Slightly problematic given their ubiquity right now.



Currently reading: Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford

Making and Breaking

Eddie's sixth birthday party is fast approaching. Last year he had only just arrived in reception and didn't know anyone's names, so I panicked and invited the whole class. This year is much more sensible: three friends to a trampolining place - don't know much about it other than the fact that I have had to buy 'special socks' for them to bounce in. That's the party bag sorted, then.

But some of his friends' mums have contacted me to ask what Eddie might like as a gift.

This is quite tricky to answer. Eddie has two main hobbies: making things, and breaking things. By 'making', I mean that he is the most creative of the three. What he can do with a couple of cereal boxes, some toilet rolls and a roll of masking tape is quite astonishing. But he wouldn't be terrifically happy, I suspect, if he unwrapped a box full of recycling. He likes Lego, and insists on making the thing, then remaking it 8-10 times until he can do it without having to follow instructions; useful if I need to keep him busy for a couple of hours. But Lego is very expensive and I wouldn't want to suggest that people spent that kind of money on a birthday present for him.  His newest hobby is whittling, and he's desperate for his own whittling knife, but at six, it just doesn't seem entirely appropriate ask someone to buy him a knife.

By 'breaking' things I do mean smashing things up. He quite likes demolishing the junk models after he has made them, but also shooting, slashing, hitting, firing, blowing things up, throwing things: in short, weaponry. All types, medieval to modern. This is quite a difficult thing to word appropriately in an email or What's app message, and so I made light of it:

"We have bought him a crossbow! Don't tell social services! 😀😔😕😨😩" That sort of thing.

Unfortunately, one of the other mums in the group is, in fact, a social worker. Oh dear. Busted.

So, it transpires that I have indeed bought my son a crossbow for his sixth birthday and am contemplating getting him a knife. I can't help feeling that something has gone a teensy bit wrong with my parenting somewhere along the way.



Currently reading: Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry by Mildred D. Taylor.

Vowels Rise Like Balloons

Gertie turned ten earlier this week. TEN. I have a decade's worth of experience of parenting under my belt and I'm still none the wiser. The whole thing was, frankly, bewildering.

Her chosen method of celebration was a disco, for twenty eight of her closest friends. At home.

This took some strategic preparation: The borrowing of lighting systems to rival Blackpool; the sourcing of a playlist where not only did I not know many of the artists, but I couldn't actually distinguish between singers and song titles; the downloading of 'mixing software' in order to negate the requirement for a DJ; (Hearth-father secretly fancied the job, I reckon, but his lack of knowledge of contemporary pop rivals mine) the rearranging of every piece of furniture in the house to make way for a 'dance floor'; the purchase of more than fifty sausages, baps, and burgers for the accompanying barbecue. And so on. I feel that my new bookcases were enhanced no end by the sympathetic illumination. A 'bibliotheque', no less:

The allotted time came. I don't know what the collective noun for ten-year-olds is, but they arrived in their hordes. Initially there was a stand off: Girls in the sitting room (cunningly disguised as a nightclub), boys upstairs. There was a collective squeal everytime somebody new arrived. Then some ice was broken, after which they screamed, they sweated, they took selfies and slid down the staircase. They raided Eddie's toy box and had mock sword fights and gun battles. (Am I delighted to say that gender differences didn't seem to count? Not sure.) They charged around the house after the one person who has a mobile phone.

They did everything, in fact, but dance. Still, that's a disco for you.

After a while their noise seemed to float joyously, somehow, in a constant cacophonous chorus (the wine may have helped), clear vowels rising like balloons. Which rather reminded me of Plath's poem, copied below.

Ten years on from the 'birth day', I think I still feel similarly.



Morning Song 
BY SYLVIA PLATH

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons





Currently reading: The Husband's Secret by Lianne Moriarty

Non-Stop Party People

We are non-stop party people, oh yes.

This is not a hangover from the rave culture of the late nineties (oh how dim and distant that now seems). In fact, there is often not even a small glass of wine on offer for a weary parent. And they definitely aren't playing the sort of music I like.

No, it stems from the fact that three children means endless rounds of children's birthday parties at the weekends.

Only the two this weekend, which feels like a result.

The complication is that we have a radius of about thirty miles to encompass all the usual suspects in terms of venues: soft play, bowling, cinema, swimming, parks, garden centres (seem to be the new thing!) Pizza Express (other pizza restaurants are available) and people's houses.

Inevitably the three little people will be going in different directions - and at mutually disagreeable different times. Often there is just enough overlap to make it really stressful and touch-and-go in terms of making it to drop-off or collection, particularly when Hearth-Father is working at the weekend. Right child at right venue with right present can be a mission.

Still, all in the name of fun. Wouldn't want to be a party-pooper. Cheers.


Currently reading: Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie

How Not To See Your First Football Match

Gilby is a football fiend.

He can't walk past anything that doesn't have foundations without kicking it to try and score. His first love is Arsenal. He has the kit; he has the pyjamas; he has the Arsenal football.

His sixth birthday was a football party - complete with full size pitch and coach.

He has begun playing for a local club, and his school coaching is done by the Albion in the Community team from Brighton and Hove Albion football club.

But he had, until last weekend, never been to a 'real' game.  (Sorry, Hearth-Father, Sunday morning veterans doesn't count...)

At the final cricket game of the season (a tense few weekends when the cricket and football seasons overlap) I happened to mention that I was trying to get tickets for a local game.

'Why don't you and Gilby come and enjoy the hospitality of my private box for the next Brighton and Hove Albion home game?' offered the president of the cricket club.  Now, there's an offer you can't refuse.

So, off we went - for my first visit to the magnificent AMEX Stadium (saw a few games at the Withdean, but it's been a while), and Gilby's first Championship game.

Now - there were a few rules. It's smart in them there private boxes, so no team shirts and no trainers.  And we had to arrive two and a half hours early in order to enjoy the three course meal...

We were presented with a complimentary programme on arrival.  Waitresses brought drinks directly to us,  and the view from the table was magnificent.

What's more, Brighton's Hemed scored in the opening five minutes after a shot by Dale Stephens was blocked just before. For the first fifteen minutes Brighton dominated and it was all very exciting.  Bobby Zamora came on right at the end for his first appearance at home for his old club in twelve years. The crowd were suitably appreciative, and Gilby was well aware of Zamora as a player from his premiership days. Brighton won 1-0, and whilst the rest of the game didn't quite live up to the pace and promise of the start, the sun shone and it was a fantastic afternoon.

For Brighton it was always going to be a special day - tinged with sadness as the club paid tribute to two of their own lost in the Shoreham air disaster three weeks before.

It was moving and fitting - both solemn and celebratory.

And the Brighton win meant that the club were four points clear at the top of the table. And what did Gilby do at the final whistle? Phone his father, breathless with excitement, to proclaim that, 'We won!'. What happened to my little gooner?

For one six year old boy, a truly unforgettable day. (Even if he did think the mascot looked more like a duck than a seagull.)

And he's in for a shock the next time he goes to game and has to make do with a seat in the stand and a pie...


Currently reading: The Ocean At The End Of The Lane by Neil Gaiman.

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

Magic Number Seven

Seven is a magic number.

It is a lot of candles on a cake.

It is the difference between a cake that looks like a cake - something that grown-ups might like to eat too - and one that looks like this, from last year:

It is the difference between having a tea party with cup cakes and jelly and ice-cream, and going out to the cinema with a few mates from school, which was this year's 'party' choice.

It is a long time in years and it makes for one very grown up little girl.

Things have begun to happen very fast indeed.  She had a sleepover with two friends.  And they were entirely sensible, asking to brush their teeth after their 'midnight' feast, and all asleep by 10pm.

Her present from us was a tablet (much debate and agonising).  We haven't sorted out the internet controls yet, but she has, unfortunately already downloaded 'Candy Crush Saga'. On the upside, it means that presents are getting smaller.  More expensive, yes, but less plastic, bulky and ugly. She is more self contained.  She had a friend round to play earlier in the week and they sat quietly and made bangles for an hour and a half.

She doesn't volunteer for anything anymore.  She used to be the 'pick me, pick me' person, unable to stay in her seat with the effort of thrusting her hand upwards.  She was forever up on stage as the helper in the pantomime or magic show.  Now she would rather sit back and watch other people make fools of themselves, which is a little sad.

But we giggle together at something shared.  Often.  I do a lot of laughing with the boys, too, but it's usually at something they've said or done.

How do I feel?  Proud of my so clever and confident and beautiful girl.  Slightly wistful for the innocent bygone days of pleasures that don't involve a screen and downloading stuff.  A tiny bit frightened by how fast it is all changing...


Currently reading: Strange Music by Laura Fish.

Have the Bumps Gone Out of Fashion?

I only ask because it has never once occurred to me to give any of my children the bumps on their birthday.
In fact, I'd forgotten that they even existed until my memory was jolted by the sight of Arsene Wenger receiving them courtesy of his team following their FA Cup win.

Seeing this white-haired man in his mid-sixties being casually tossed aloft - and looking both delighted and slightly sheepish at the same time -  reminded me of that mixture of fear and exhilaration that came with getting the bumps on your birthday.  It was part of the whole deal...cake, candles, making a wish, presents, musical statues, the bumps.

So where did they go?  We've attended dozens of children's parties in over the last seven years.  Not even a sniff of them.  Wikipedia described them as one of a number of 'birthday torments' that might be inflicted.  I wondered if contemporary health and safety fears have banished them to the annals of history.

So, ignoring all that, we decided to reinstate them for Gertie's seventh birthday.

I think she enjoyed herself!

Currently reading: Death at Wentwater Court by Carola Dunn
Don't judge...it's half term!

Walking Holiday

It has been a wee while since my last post.


This is not an oversight, but as a result of my employer using a 'smart' system at school (and I do use that term very loosely) which meant that all of a sudden I was not able to access my blogger account.  Very frustrating, but a more normal lack of service should now resume.

In the meantime we have been enjoying our summer vacation to the south of France.  A selection of quick highlights will provide a taste.

It was twelve hours each way in a car. There were seven of us on the way out: the five of us, plus Nano and a niece. To while away the time we mostly enjoyed the stilted and frankly inappropriate pronunciation of French place names by the sat nav.  Destinations like "Boulevard Georges Pompidou in Troyes" made my own attempts in French sound positively fluent. We found the most amazing crumbling chateau on the outskirts of Amiens that will definitely be worth a second visit and beat last year's overnight stop in the equivalent of a Travelodge in Lille by a significant margin.

Eddie took his first steps, a month short of his second birthday.  I watched him get up and walk a good four steps across the balcony before reaching out to a folded deckchair which promptly clattered down on top of him.  We were both crying. Mine were tears of joy, his of pain and shock, for a moment that at one stage we weren't sure would ever come. He became a good 'pool guy' and enjoyed holding on to the net pole each morning, and the steps have come fast now that he is back on British soil.

Other highlights included kayaking beneath the Pont du Gard, masses of rosé, early morning lengths, Gilby turning four and inexplicably being let loose with 200 water bombs (thanks, Nano!)great clothes buying in the shops and markets at Uzes and an anniversary meal at Remoulin. Sigh. Over for another year.

The way home was memorable for the wine drinking on a foot-wide balcony of our hotel room in Troyes. I know that we will not be the first parents to have resorted to that, but we could be on for the record for the most wine consumed on the smallest balcony...


We also met a German couple at breakfast who were fascinated by Freddie's ability to talk. I pointed out that this was directly related, perhaps, to his inability to walk - and the necessity of communicating his every whim to two older siblings willing to run around doing anything he needs.

"Ahh!" said Herr with understanding. "I see. It is he who gives zee orders!"

Indeed.

Birthday Know-How

Six years ago our lives were transformed, utterly, by the birth of Gertie.

Ten months of expectation and wonder, followed by a twelve-hour-induced-labour and too many stitches to talk about.

Then two more children, who also have birthdays.  Now I mostly bake cakes.

Who knew that the human body was capable of so much? (The cake-baking is the particularly impressive bit.)

A Very Surprising Kinder Surprise

Yesterday we celebrated Eddie's first birthday.  All went well, (you can invite the grown-ups you like to a one-year old's party, as opposed to other children you don't, as they get older) apart from the fact that Eddie ate so much cake that he made himself sick.  But I suppose you should be able to do that at your own birthday party.

Atthe end Gilby was given the very important job of handing out Kinder Surprise eggs to all the children.  I had carefully calculated to allow at least two or three extra, so that Gertie and Gilby could have one too. 

Shortly afterwards, Gilby came running up to me clutching two little yellow 'surprise' pods and looking mightily pleased with himself.

"Look, Mummy, I have two!"

"Yes, I can see that.  And how, exactly, did you manage to get two?"

"They were there together inside my chocolate egg!"

I didn't bother to talk him through the impossibility of that explanation.

His first deception!  Aaaghh!  And not even a very clever one.  He will need to learn better spacial awareness if he is going to get away with those sort of fibs in future...

Birthdays Abroad and Overheating Kayaks

We were getting ready to head off on our now annual trip to the south of France. I used to think it was a terrible waste of the world to return to the same place year after year; now I find a reassuring comfort in the familiar. This is our third visit.

“Mummy, you look Hanson!” cried Gilby in the morning, and all I could think was “Mmmbop…” Did I have floppy blond hair and look about twelve, suddenly? No, it was merely Gilby’s rapidly expanding vocabulary getting the better of him as it often does. Well, he was going to be three whilst we were away, but we took the decision to ‘save’ the birthday celebrations until our return. I feel a need to justify this decision: his presents were big (like soccer goal nets) and I didn’t fancy spending time baking and icing a cake in the heat of the sun. All the adults agreed to the conspiracy; how would he ever know?

I finished the last day of school and Daddy was waiting in the car park, Alice Cooper blaring from the stereo: School’s out for summer…car packed up with cases and kids, and a grandmother and a niece. Tremendously exciting, and by early evening we were in Lille.

The long trek down through France took the whole of the next day, and was relatively peaceful, aside from the moment when Gilby complained that his crisps had 'gone quiet' but his bread was 'noisy', which are the best eupehmisms for 'stale' I have heard.  Later, Nano calmly asked whether we had a change of skirt for Gertie.
“Only in the roof box…”
“No problem, only she’s just sneezed Babybel all over herself,” Nano went on to explain cheerfully. We arrived mostly in one piece, if a little cheese-sneezed.

A glorious week consisted of fabulous weather, delicious food, too much rose wine, daily water volleyball tournaments and plenty of other pool antics.

Grumps was at his best, or worst, depending on how you view it. We’d finished our main course of ‘chicken au Cabrieres’, and had just got to cheese. Excitedly, we planned our trip to kayak under the Pont du Gard the following morning. “They tried puttingheaters in those, you know,” he began, conversationally. “But they all started to explode.” The rest of us looked at him, bemused. “Which just goes to show that you can’t have your kayak and heat it, really.”

Gilby’s ‘birthday’ passed without incident. Sadly, the terrible twos didn’t end, but I consoled myself with the thought that it was simply that he didn’t yet know he was three. And we’d have got away with the harmless deception, too, if only the passport control officer hadn’t wished on our way back through the tunnel with the parting words, “Where’s Gilbert? Ah, there you are. Happy birthday for yesterday, young man!”

Pass the rose...

Scars, Tantrums and Banishment

Oh.  We are recovering from a row. This is a BAD THING. And I am still nursing the scars from a bouncy-castle related drinking injury at Gertie's birthday party, so feeling doubly wounded.

Have I mentioned recently how 'difficult' Gilby is?  On a scale of one to ten he currently sits somewhere around 'hellish'.  Temper tantrums, an unhealthy preoccupation with the word, 'no', an inability to carry out a task without being distracted by a toy: Eating, dressing, teeth-brushing, putting on shoes...the list of potential clash-points before we have even left the house in the morning is quite...exhaustive.  Sorry: exhausting.

This morning's flashpoint occured in the bathroom.  I have a three strikes rule.  I say 'rule', I suppose it simply reflects the limited amount of patience I possess. Once I have politely requested a course of action twice, I really can't be doing with a third time. So - to cut a tedious story slightly shorter,  I ended up forcibly brushing his teeth for him and then banishing Gilby to his bedroom to calm down.

I went back in to see if he was ready for 'deep breaths and a cuddle' but, no, it was too soon for that.
So, I returned to getting myself ready.  I mostly remember to brush my hair these days, and occasionally find some lipstick to apply badly. It was at this point that Daddy knocked on Gilby's door.  Met with a gruff, "Go away!" he responded with, "Don't worry, Gilby, it's only Daddy."  Don't worry?  DON'T WORRY?  Oh, I see, it's not evil Mummy, it's only Daddy."  Well, I'm afraid I momenarily became 'evil Mummy' until Daddy retracted his statement.  Oh dear.  Was I over-reacting?

And then Gertie decided, inexplicably at that moment, to point out that she hadn't, in fact, had any of her own birthday cake at her party. The cake that I had lovingly laboured over just for her...  It didn't really do a great deal to lower the emotional intensity of the moment.

And all this by 8am, before my day's work has supposedly begun.

Things got better though, and finished this evening with a glass of wine in the garden in glorious evening sunshine. The healing power of sun and alcohol...now only the bouncy-castle scars remain.

Five Years, Five Cakes

Hard to believe that my little girl is five years old. I still haven't quite got used to seeing her in her school uniform, all grown up.  But here is the cake to prove it. Slightly trickier than the 'number one' I made for her first birthday and didn't go far between the 25 kids who came to her party on Sunday, but I was pleased with the finished result.