Pride Comes Before A Fall

It was a proud moment when we received Eddie’s school report. His thirst for learning, his mastery of science, his flair with language. My heart swelled. He broke his tablet a little while ago and has missed playing some hideous punchy game where the characters have superpowers like invisibility or unlimited access to dynamite, and have a series of mass brawls. There's probably more to it than that, but that's my non-gaming perception of it.

We presented him with said tablet and he was suitably chuffed. Until the next day when I had to take the thing away from him again. Because we received this:

It reads: Dear parent, Today Eddie has bot been behaving as well as they could in school and spent 15 minutes in Time Out duirng lunch, discussing the reasons and impacts of their behaviour and considering how best to move forward. Reason for Time Out: Fighting at lunch time....

Oh. It's a little crumpled because I think he must have screwed it up when he got it, in a measure of disgust - at letting himself down, I hope.

But we are all are very proud of the performance of the England football team at the Euros, in spite of the sadness at the end of the game on Sunday night. Poor Eddie was inconsolable at the final penalty, until he'd had a good half an hour of Lord of the Rings read to him. Gilby sobbed himself to sleep. They had hoped and dreamed so much. Hearth Mother (and Father) were a little more pragmatic. But Gertie had come across a statistic about how domestic violence rises during an England game and rises more when they lose, so she went to bed worrying about that.

Still, only 55 million pounds needed to complete the sticker book, so we're nearly there.

Currently reading: Spring Cannot Be Cancelled - David Hockney in Normandy by Martin Gayford

Sausages! Or Why I Can't Write Blog Posts Anymore

Writing these blog posts has got much more difficult of late. 

Less is funny and more is stressful as they each get older. Eddie will reach double figures later this year, Gilby will start secondary school and Gertie is twelve, going on twenty-five. Hormones mean more-moans, and nothing much seems very amusing. Their problems are more complicated these days. Tantrums aren't cute, they are ugly; and I wouldn't want to write about them. 

Successes sound boastful or smug: both boys scored hat tricks for their football teams in successive weekends; Gertie came fifth at the World Irish dancing championships.

And even the stuff that is funny - Eddie has developed a habit of including the word 'sausages' in every sentence - is difficult to convey. (It is both an insult and a compliment, as in, "You left the door wide open, you sausage, " and "He scored a sausage goal!")

So, for posterity, here's an account of yesterday's not untypical Saturday.

Morning:

Eddie played a very ordinary game of football, and didn't really distinguish himself on the pitch. (That's 'ordinary' in the Australian sense of the adjective.')

Gilby's game was off so he stayed home and watched the F1 on YouTube.

Gertie had a lie in.

Afternoon:

Eddie went to a Flip Out Party, didn't end up in casualty, and got dropped home by another mum so I didn't have to endure the two-hour hell of it.

Gilby went cycling with his mates, then for a swim. (If football's off then there cannot be enough sport in the day, no matter what he does.)

Gertie tidied her room and then went to the gym. The unprompted room-tidying thing is a recent and welcome development - she has gone from living in filth to living in immaculate spotlessness - all seemingly prompted by the addition of a couple of fluffy cushions and a fur throw for Christmas. They appear to have turned her from Stig of the Dump into Marie Kondo. I'm not complaining.

And that's it, really.

Ah. I think I have it. I can see why material doesn't present itself. They aren't with me for the good bits - they are each off, doing their thing. 

And I'm only left with feeding them, doing the laundry, being the metaphorical punch-bag for anything that isn't quite right with their world, and hurrying them out of the door for school. Sausages!

Currently reading: When the adults change, everything changes by Paul Dix

Growing Vocabulary

Last day of the holidays and an unexpected treat: tickets to the Arsenal game at home to Southampton; courtesy of friends of ours who were unable to go. So big sister was bribed to look after Eddie - while Gilby and I skipped up to London. A packed lunch to eat on the train, and a £2 child train ticket (get in, half-term economy financing!)  and we were on our way. Even the rail replacement service (and the lack of parking at the station we drove to in order to avoid the  rail replacement) couldn't stop us from being in plenty of time for the game. Pocket money was proudly spent on purchasing a programme: A momento of Gilby's third visit to the Emirates and second premier league match.

Unlike on Gilby's previous two visits, the Arsenal scored first: a Lacazette flick just six minutes in. Hooray! And they played beautifully for the first half, with a second goal coming from Mikhitaryan about ten minutes later. I was rubbing my hands together. This was going to be an easy afternoon of joyful football-watching.

But even though it was the holidays, it definitely managed to be an 'educational' visit. Because it is, well, rather sweary in that North Bank. 

Gilby's vocabulary, therefore, has expanded in some unfortunate ways.

He now knows all sorts of ways to describe the ref's parentage and sexual inclinations, as well as some adjectives to describe some issues with his eyesight; not to mention some synonyms for various body parts belonging to the opposition players.

Hey ho. That's football. I dread to think what words he might have learned had we gone behind. 

Final score two nil. Somehow. The less said about our performance in the second half, the better. Which made it all the swearier up there in the North Bank. So. All good for increasing the word bank.



Currently reading: The Book of Dust by Philip Pullman

Different Success Criteria

It has been a good weekend in the Hearth-house. Gertie and Gilby have successfully taken part in the final performances of the school play, Bugsy Malone to great critical acclaim. (From Hearth-mother and Hearth-father at least.)

Gertie has enjoyed her Year 6 prom and all the associated pomp and circumstance, including mini manicure, pedicure and 'waterfall plaits' whatever that may mean. We did have conversations like this, though:

Gertie: Mummy, what was your prom dress like when you were in Year 6?

Hearth-mother: Prom dress, darling? Oh no, we didn't have such things. Proms, or nice dresses. My parents were mostly dressing me in tartan and making me match my siblings...

Gilby has this morning received the 'player of the year' award for his football team and is marching around as though he as won the World Cup. The coach credited his hard work, captaincy skills and being a great 'reader of the game'.

And Eddie? 

Well, results for him to. He is still alive, narrowly escaping being throttled at several points through the weekend, and I ended up not phoning the police yesterday when I thought he was missing. Different levels of success...

Currently reading: Why Mummy Swears by Gill Sims

World Cup Fever

Sport rules right now.

The house sweepstake is going well. Good teams are evenly distributed so everyone still interested. Hearth-mother looking good with Belgium, Sweden, Denmark, Columbia and Mexico!

Not that Gilby needs any more stimulus, frankly. Old Statto can tell you the points in each group, the results  of each match, the goal scorers in each game and plenty of other trivia besides. To enliven things even further (as Germany go out in the group stages for the first time ever) we are hosting a German guest in the house this week so massive bragging rights result.

Today was also Gilby's sports day and he was on the winning relay team; his and Gertie's house team won the cup; and his U9 cricket squad are unbeaten in six games.

England cricket has been quite joyful in recent weeks. There is nothing but sport done or talked of at the moment.

So I'm getting in on the action. Hearth-mother has been asked to fill in for a netball team who are a player short tonight. The last time I did this was just before Christmas and I ended up in hospital. Just hoping that I, too, can ride the crest of this current sporting wave and make it through at least a quarter!

Future Careers

Gertie has announced, from the lofty position of Year 6, that she would like to be a 'human rights' lawyer.

I think she might be actually be headed into discrimination and gender equality law. This term's topic at school is 'Explorers', and asked to choose from the list of famous explorer names on the board one to research independently, she immediately raised her hand and asked why they were all male.

Then, this afternoon I went to pick her up from 'Girls' Football' club after school. I wondered why she looked completely dry given the drizzle. 'Oh no, we played in the hall because it was wet. We can't play outside when it is wet because we only do football on the playground, not on the field.' I enquired as to whether this was the same for the boys.

'No. But don't worry, Mum, I'm already planning to raise it at school council next week...' 🙂

Still we've come a long way since the Intelligent Parents' Manual of 1944, where I have reached this little gem: 

Currently reading: All That Man Is by David Szalay

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

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.

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!

The Value of Saturday Morning

Helluva week.  Celebrated a significant birthday and got all the GCSE coursework sample into the post by some miracle on Friday afternoon.

Daddy works on Saturdays, so far from being a relaxing break, the weekend routine is quite hectic.

Kempy has to be walked by 8.30am (I make this sound like a chore, but actually it is one of my favourite parts of the day) before Daddy leaves; then we rush out of the door to Gertie's gymnastics class.  Thankfully they have progressed a little bit beyond standing on tiptoes, and walking along benches, and she can now turn a dodgy cartwheel, so I feel that I am getting some value at £5 a time.

After dropping off at gym we hare down the road to Gilby's football.  Though, in fairness, that is a little grand to describe the activity of the bunch of three year olds who bumble around the football pitch.  It is week three, and much more successful now that the weather is a bit warmer.  It was a write-off last winter: we tried for a couple of sessions but then it became a case of me holding his hand on the side of the pitch while we all turned blue and he refused to get involved.  He now 'plays' for most of the hour, interrupted by frequent cuddles, snacks and general whinging.  Did David Beckham begin this way?  I suspect not.  It is a bargain though, at a mere £4.50 a session.

Eddie is not really content to sit on the sidelines and would like to get involved.  He mostly shouts, 'Ball!' and points excitedly, but since he is still not able to walk (and is now in the process of having some 'special' shoes made by the physio to encourage him) the likelihood of joining in is quite limited.  I entertain him for as long as possible, then bundle him in the car to dash back to the gym to pick up Gertie (whose class finishes 15 minutes before her brother's), and then hurtle back to the football pitch in time to see Gilby not win player of the day.  Both sporting venues have carparks a significant way away, and timing is so tight I seem to spend most of the time on the run, literally.  Probably doing more exercise than Gertie and Gilby, in fact.

All that fun, for less than a tenner...