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

Where's A Masterchef When You Need One?

Food drives me mad at the moment.

There are three fussy eaters to feed; four if you include the German exchange student who is staying with us at the moment; plus one vegetarian (me). That can mean  up to four different dishes being prepared on any given evening.

Eddie and Gilby want bland, bland and more bland. The blander the better. Anything with any kind of flavour is off the menu. Gertie is a little more experimental, finally, having gone as far as a chicken korma. But they don't like the same bland. Although they will all eat vegetables, there isn't a single vegetable that all three will eat.

So mealtimes are not fun.

I think back to my own childhood, where food was definitely not fun either.

My memories may be skewed, but it seems that Mum didn't really cook for us as the primary audience; she cooked for the customers in the pub restaurant. I picture her cooking up batches of shepherd’s pie, browning the mince in enormous industrial saucepans (cauldron-sized to a child) before transferring to individual portions in impersonal, identical, mini brown casserole dishes by the dozen. Or sizzling portions of scampi in lethal commercial deep fat fryers that were NOT TO BE TOUCHED.

There was no sense of finesse. Nouveau cuisine was still a channel away. Making chips for the next few lunchtime and evening sessions could take an entire afternoon (until she was introduced to Mr McCain by Nurdin & Peacock). Everything came in giant packaging from cash and carry: tubs of powdered stock the size of camping gas tanks; shoe-box sixed margarine tubs; blocks of cheese three Encyclopaedia Britannicas thick.

There was an industrial microwave oven, its lights and alarms worthy of a nuclear plant. When it began its incineration of food it sounded like a 747 on a runway.

And then there were RULES. Different coloured chopping boards for dairy, meat and bread. Nail brushes at the hand washing sink, strict temperature controls, certain pans for certain products, a specified number of items that could be dried with a single dishcloth  before bacteria multiplied to epic proportions.

The kitchen was a tense place. My father was once overheard asking through gritted teeth whether my mother would like the kitchen ‘moved two inches to the left’ in a strained impersonation of his comic hero and fellow endurer of the vagaries of the hospitality industry, Basil Fawlty.

Because pub opening times were not really conducive to family life there were not actually mealtimes as such. One had to forage for oneself, while of course maintaining strict adherence to the RULES, and only using food which was no longer any good for customers.

So food was fairly bland for me, too. Pot noodles were good. And I perfected the art of the French bread cheese sandwich. Mostly because it hurt no one, required only two chopping boards and was very filling - if not exactly nutritious. I did have to be ‘trained’ to cut the bread at exactly the right angle, but once I had mastered that I was allowed to use up grated cheese (curling up at the edges and sweating a little having been left out over the busy lunch period).

I therefore arrived in the adult world with a slightly warped perception of what constituted a meal. Food was fuel. It was functional, and economies of scale were more important than taste. Its consumption took place standing up around a stainless steel prepping surface, or a plate might be hastened through a busy bar underneath a paper serviette to be eaten on my lap.  I could happily lay a table but rarely sat down at one to eat convivially; a fact which was brought to the fore when we had to ‘practise’ sitting down to meals as a family before the German exchange student came to stay when I was 15. Thankfully that didn't have to be repeated for the current one. Eddie, Gilby and Gertie can happily sit down at a table; they just might not eat what is put in front of them.

I also had few culinary skills to speak of. The act of cooking was not a thing to inspire love. Mum was certainly not terrifically impressed when she was given a collection of carefully collated kitchen utensils as her Mother's Day gift from me one year. Cooking was all about science and hygiene.

At least until I met and married a Masterchef, who finally revealed its art. He needs to do the same for our children.

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

Stop Press! Family Eats Out In Restaurant Without Row

It has taken the best part of eleven years, but we have finally achieved what seemed an impossible dream: a pleasurable family restaurant meal!

Conditions were good. Children had been for a swim so they were tired, and enjoyed an early Easter egg hunt, so that they were content. We picked a local Italian restaurant where the barman was superb. He allowed Eddie to 'sample' different cordials until he was 'happy' with his drink, then brought him some colouring pencils and a menu to colour in.

The children's meals were actually of a decent size so that they were full by the time they had finished. So much so that Eddie was unable to eat his pudding, and even Gilby's (aka Mr Creosote) hollow legs were full up. 

And the wine was excellent which helped Hearth-mother and Hearth-father's convivial moods. There was no one out of their seat, no spilled drinks, dropped cutlery, farting, belching, pinching, kicking or otherwise typical behaviour. No hissed warnings through gritted teeth, or threats that someone might be eating in the car. 

Now, we had better practise again, (to make sure it wasn't a fluke! 😉)

Food, Glorious Food and a Serious Case of Mouth Exhaustion

Food is a battleground.

If it is healthy, has a vegetable in it, is mildly spicy, in any way exotic or interesting, then it is very likely to be rejected, often without even being tried.

Eddie is the worst culprit, and will often say that he 'hates' something - even it that something was his favourite last Tuesday.

He knows that I get fed up with a simple, 'I don't like it', and so he tried a new one tonight:

"Mummy, I can't eat this.  My lips are tired."

I must remember that. And remember to use it as I reach for a third glass of wine.



Currently reading: A Room Swept White by Sophie Hannah

Toddler Tribulation

A little snapshot of what life is like in our house if the Coco Pops run out:

It doesn't make for a great start to the day.
And no, Rice Krispies with cocoa sprinkled on top does not make an effective substitute.

Note to self: Keep all breakfast cereal topped up.



Currently reading: Chop Chop by Simon Wroe

Masterchef Monster

So, I am away for one Saturday afternoon. One single lunchtime. Hearth-father makes lunch, and what do you know? Everyone's eating vegetables.

Because he was on Masterchef once, briefly, five years ago, he thinks he can just waltz in and do this:

And he did a 'grand piano' for Gertie because she didn't want monster burgers like her brothers.

I officially throw in the apron.



Currently reading:

Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates

Sleepover, Sigh.

Gertie has just experienced what by a rough calculation must be her tenth sleepover. Her fifth birthday was the turning point, and then it somehow became acceptable over night. Literally. She has two 'best' friends and they take it in turns. Last night Jessie came to stay with us. There was nail-painting, brother-baiting and hair-plaiting.


There were also some strange requests. Some things that she wouldn't dare to ask normally. Like, "Mummy, can we go and play with your make-up as Jessie's here?" And, "Mummy, is it ok if we take some food up into the bedroom while Jessie's here?" Um. Let me think about both those things for not very long. NO. And I managed to skirt the staying up late and watching a DVD issue by happily not being able to get the DVD player to work.


By midnight they were still talking. I was a little bit grumpy. This morning I have found the remnants of the feast stuffed under pillows - tell tale chocolate wrappers and crisp packets (so much for no food in the bedroom).


They then had the audacity to come running into our room at too-early o'clock because the brothers had woken them up too early in the morning. I don't think they fully appreciated the irony. Now that Jessie has gone home, Gertie is curled up on the complaining about being too tired.


Gilby is five in a few months time. He's too dependent to really enjoy a sleepover yet, I think. He got excited about it, and then when I mentioned that it would be his turn soon he quickly found lots of reasons why it shouldn't happen. I think I agree with him. I certainly don't remember sleepovers as a regular thing at that age.


As a child, sleepovers fell into two categories. The first meant staying at my grandparents' house as a matter of necessity because my parents needed childcare. This was a fairly regular occurrence, good fun, and is associated in my mind with plenty of treats, a change of books and toys, and some privileges appropriately afforded to being the eldest child. (Like being able to stay up a bit later than my siblings.)


The second kind, with friends, were rare and precious. I can remember only about five occasions, although I'm sure there must have been more. I recall late nights with my friend Liz, stashed food, the intimacy of whispered conversations, the strange noises of the fabric of someone else's house. Scary stories and giggled secrets. I must have been twelve or thirteen, I think. And I suspect that I asked of my parents things that were usually not allowed on the off-chance that they might be because Liz was there.


On my fifteenth birthday I had tickets for Bon Jovi for myself and a bunch of friends. Mum drove us up to London in a minibus, and there must have been at least eight of us. Because we would get home so late, everyone had brought sleeping bags for a sleepover on my bedroom floor. Bundles of bodies arranged haphazardly all over the room. 'Sleepover' was a misnomer, because in the adrenalin-fueled aftermath of the concert very little sleep happened. But I have never forgotten it. Come to think of it, I think my mum might have come in slightly crossly at about 2am because there was too much noise.


So perhaps the only thing that's changed about sleepovers is indeed the frequency. And perhaps not even that; maybe these magical nights seem far fewer in my own childhood just because they were so special. Sigh. And what would I do on a sleepover now? Probably catch up on some sleep...





Currently reading: Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

The Little Things

I went on a cake-decorating course for the first time yesterday.  Not really the type of thing I ususally do.  My husband is king of the kitchen, so I make only the occasional foray into the world of baking, usually just around the time of the little people's birthdays, and then I ususally make it up as I go along, often to the great amusement of my husband.   So the cake-decorating course was probably more about having a few hours to myself and doing something new. 

But thanks to a great teacher and lots of expensive cake-decorating toys, the results were astounding.  Look, I even made the roses!  By the time I was on my way home, (driving at 20 miles an hour to preserve my precious cupcake cargo) Gertie was due at a birthday party and Daddy had taken everyone with him, so I had a few more unexpected hours on my own.

Joy of joys - this meant that I could tidy the house whilst no-one was there to mess it up as I went along, (and admire the greatness of my cup-cakes in solitude).  Such peace.  I even read the paper.  It's the little things.

So for a little while I could pretend that I was one of those cupcake mums who has a tidy house and is in control of everything.  Calm down: I said, 'for a little while'.  By 4.30pm everyone was home, chaos ensued and the cupcakes were demolished in a hundredth of the time it had taken to create them. 

And we discovered that Gertie had head-lice...resulting in a mad dash to the chemist and the destruction of my smug, 'I-can-do-this-motherhood-lark' feeling.  See - it's the little things.

Go Bananas!

I go back to work next week, so perhaps leaving it until now to try Eddie on the bottle might be described as a tad underprepared. His siblings never had a problem switching to the bottle though, so I wasn't really worried.

However, ahem, it appears that Eddie is a little less amenable to the switch than they were. The first three times were 'firm' refusals. Not even polite, if I'm honest. Today there was a small breakthrough as he at least took a few gulps before clamping his mouth firmly shut.

But the bigger news is that he has had his first 'solids' (if mushed banana can be described as such). Up until now he has shown no interest, in spite of being a poor, undernourished little fellow (currently at 22 weeks barely scraping the first percentile on the dreaded charts in spite of his MASSIVE birth weight).

But lunchtime brought success. The first mouthful was a little tentative; the second came straight back out, but the third, fourth and fifth were much more successful, and the rest of the bowl couldn't come quickly enough.

"Mummy, look, banana is his favourite,' declared Gilby, watching his younger brother eat for the first time. I didn't like to point out that it was the only thing he's ever eaten, so at least for now Gilby is correct.

On Modern Chivalry

We went mob-handed to collect Gertie from school today. Usually I leave the boys in the car (happily it coincides with a good time for Gilby to have a nap, and Eddie seems just to sleep whenever he is in the car-seat; it seems a shame to disturb them...) Today, however, we arrived in plenty of time and everyone was awake. So we trundled through the school gate en masse.

Gertie was one of the first out. She usually is, having been well-trained after a whole term of dashing to a dance class or swimming with but seconds to spare. Gilby ran up to his sister, gave her a big hug and then offered to carry her lunch-box.

All the other mums cooed. "Oh, what a little gentleman!" "Isn't he adorable?!" "Look at that. What a sweet thing to do!"

They weren't to know his gluttonous ulterior motive: to be the first to get his hands on anything that might be left over .

Double Bean Surprise

There wasn't much left in the fridge: half a tin of baked beans, some left over new potatoes from a few nights ago, a handful of green beans. Supper-time loomed, but we had had a lovely picnic whilst walking the dog earlier in the day, and I knew, or rather, suspected, that the kids wouldn't eat very much. What to do? Mix those three ingredients together, and call it, 'Double-bean surprise'.

I called them in from the garden, trying to muster as much enthusiasm for the dish as I could. 'Double-bean surprise' echoed Gilby with a shriek and a degree of excitement not really appropriate to the level of culinary achievement that awaited him. But, in his defence, he is at that stage where he just mimics absolutely everything I say.

A few minutes later there was silence in the kitchen. Gertie smacked her lips as her bowl emptied. "Mummy, I love Double-bean surprise," she gushed.

Oh. Right. Gilby mashed quite a lot of it into his shirt; still, 'Double-bean surprise' was clearly a hit. I probably need to be sending Annabel Karmel the recipe. Feel free to use it in the meantime!