Things That Go Bang In The Night

No blog post in over a month!  Must try harder.

Bonfire night means that fireworks are out in full force.  I'm a big fan of them: I wanted them at my 40th birthday party that never was.  Perhaps I'll get them for my 50th. They are stunning, frivolous and fully deserving of the oohs and aahs they provoke.  Dark history aside they are reminders of childhood and symbols of celebration.

So I found it quite distressing when child after child of mine didn't like them.  Successively they screamed and shouted and crumbled in fear.  We kept trying.  Each year we have attended a number of displays, and taken it in turns to leap for safety.  Hearth-father spent last year's display cuddling tear-streaked cowerers in the cricket changing room at the local sports ground. (My turn to enjoy the rockets and Catherine wheels and bangers.)

Ear defenders, bribery and bullying have all failed in the past, but we persevere nevertheless.

And this year we accidentally hit on the magic formula to make it all work.

We separated them.

Gertie was with a school friend, and accidentally Hearth-father and I got split up in the crowd so that we had one each.  They were transfixed!

Fear is contagious, so this separation, coupled with the peer group pressure that Gertie must have experienced, finally made for a tear-free Guy Fawkes' night.  Hooray!

Smiles all round. Or perhaps they just grew up while we weren't looking.



Currently reading: The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton

Gunpowder, Treason and Plop!

We were getting ready to go to the fireworks on Saturday night.  This was actually our second fireworks display in the name of Bonfire Night this year, which I know seems a little excessive.

But the first was an unmitigated disaster. It took place at the local cricket ground, and we were doing our best to enjoy the fair rides in spite of the pouring rain, when the display began.  Daddy saw just the first few sparks before Gertie began screaming with terror.  Gilby, shocked by the dramatic reaction in his older sister decided that fireworks must therefore be the scariest thing on the planet, and he went off like a rocket.  Eddy wasn't particularly impressed either.  Daddy bustled them all into the home team dressing room, to wait it out like an air raid.

I decided that it would be better if I didn't hang about inside the men's changing room, so made the most of being able to watch the fireworks.  Spectacular though they were it wasn't quite the same without my family. At least I got to see something, unlike poor Daddy who came home muttering about the extortionate cost of the tickets.  The evening was gunpowder, treason and flop; a damp squib, so to speak.

So it was with a carefully orchestrated Plan B that we were heading off to the in-laws who live on the village green opposite the field of the display.  Grumps would stay at home with them, whilst Daddy and I and Eddy could saunter over and enjoy the display.  Hooray!  Except that there was another unfortunate damp start to the evening.

I was in the bathroom, putting the finishing touches to my make-up.  Tricky these days, since I barely remember how to apply it.  In my haste, I dropped my mascara wand.  Straight into Gilby's freshly-filled potty, with a resounding 'plop'.  It was, uncharacteristically, for me, an expensive brand, as it had been a birthday gift.  I felt like creating a tantrum to rival Gilby's, but managed to reign myself in: I only had myself to blame for lax potty-emptying. It's fair to say that I wasn't in the best of moods as I left the house.

Thankfully, the fireworks were brilliant.  And I preferred the cheap old mascara, anyway. 

Remembrance

Gertie's school-starter inquisitiveness is relentless. She was pre-occupied with poppies in the run-up to Remembrance Day, and wanted to wear one. But in typical Gertie fashion she also wanted to know exactly what it was all about. I tried to explain as gently as I could (after all, she is only four) that we were remembering all the soldiers who had died in war.

"What's war?" she asked.

Where do you begin? I was reminded of trying to explain the word 'hate' to her about a year ago, which really signfied the start of the end of innocence.

I gave as sanitised an explanation as I could and bought her a poppy.

She rushed home from school the next day and looked at me as if I was stupid. "Well you didn't tell me that poppies were a symbol and they were red to represent all the blood, did you?"

I suppose I should have been ready for that after she came home a few weeks ago in the run up to bonfire night fascinated by the idea of the 'plotters', the notion of being hung, drawn and quartered and heads on spikes.

On a happier note, there is cause for another day of national celebration: Eddie slept for nine and a half hours last night, hooray! This is impressive at seven weeks old, and particularly exciting after his nocturnal start to life. Mummy and Daddy high-fived in celebration upon waking this morning...

It may have been helped by the fact that he had his very first swimming lesson yesterday afternoon too. A big day for the little man, and a big night for his parents.

And let's not leave Gilby out; the big man has quietly got on with his potty training, does the whole thing without being asked and is now regularly having dry nights. Go Gilby!