Creating Monsters

It's the Easter holidays, we're still (sort of) in lockdown and I have inadvertently created some sort of monster in trying to limit the boys' daily screen-time. 

During term they are allowed to be on 'devices' from when they get home from school until 6pm. For Eddie, that generally means two and a half hours. Gilby will get slightly more some days as he walks home for school, but less than two hours on the days when he does a sporting activity or club after lessons. 

At weekends and during the holiday they are allowed to take the 'two o'clock option' - but they must be off by 5pm.

That means that from waking until the magical hour of 2pm when Fortcraft, Mineleague and Rocketnite (or whatever) are allowed, there are just empty hours to be filled.  The last half-term challenges, while updated for this holiday, have lost their allure. My children do not seem to be magically reciting Hamlet or producing short films. Instead the Boredom Basilisk pays a visit.

Things I read tell me that boredom is good for children.  That it is character-building, invites creativity and problem-solving, encourages the mind to wander and daydream, improves mental health.

It doesn't feel like a good thing when they are lethargic and complaining and entirely unmotivated and exist only for Fortleague (or something) later. Oh, and some foraging for food. That happens. Snacks disappear faster than working pens in this house. 

The return of football training and clubs has done much to release some of the pent-up energy in the household, but it has, in turn, unleashed another monster - the calendar Kraken, with its sinister, impossibly-intertwining limbs. 

A bunch of fixtures that I would have taken utterly in my stride pre-lockdown suddenly seems entirely overwhelming as I try to work out how I can get both boys to football matches in different directions at the same time on a Saturday morning or dash between drops to cricket and dancing on the same evening, - while my own diary column fills up with book groups and stoolball training and committee meetings. 

Like many people I have no desire to return to pre-covid levels of craziness, but I feel powerless to stop it happening at the moment.

Pie in the Ground

Early on in lockdown, on one of those warm, sunny spring days, we were all sitting together in the garden having lunch. 

I can't remember who first looked over to the tumbledown shed in the corner (I had earmarked the space for my shepherd's hut when we first viewed the house, but David Cameron got there first and he doesn't appear on the list of people who I would want to share dreams with) but someone remarked on it. 

The idea of a replacing a leaky building that even the cat shunned on a wet day was born.

'I could have a dance studio!' cried Gertie.

'No - it would have to be a gaming room with a PlayStation.'

'And a chumfy sofa.'

'It would definitely be a spare room for when guests come to stay,' I said firmly - not realising then that people would not be 'staying' anywhere but at home for the forseeable future.

'A bar!' said Hearth Father, with a resounding lip smack, eyes alight.

It seemed that we all had a plan. Except that none of us did. Not really. It was all pie in the sky. (An expression, the origin of which incidentally, I had to look up: From the lyrics of a song called The Preacher and the Slave by Joe Hill in 1911, itself parodying a hymn promising heavenly reward after death. Now used to refer to something pleasant to contemplate but unattainable or unrealistically Utopian.)

And there were so may things in the way of it ever happening. Actual, big things - like an enormous beech tree, a brick wall and the aforementioned dilapidated shed. 

Yet somehow, from those idle words, seven months later 'Saplings' has risen from the ground. It comes complete with dance floor, games console and sofa (that becomes a bed for guests, when at some still far distant point in the future we are able to have such things again).

Tree surgeons, diggers, accidents with ancient walls - all are now a distant memory. 

Hours of impressive work from Hearth Father - groundwork, carpentry, building, roofing, landscaping - with much-welcomed support from good friends have helped the project come to fruition in late Autumn.

He just forgot one thing - his bar.

Cheers!

Currently Reading: A Portrait of a Lady by Henry James

The Battle of the Socks

It will go down in history: the one (and only?) time the boys beat the adults in a sock battle.

For the benefit of those who don't regularly engage in sock wars, a reminder of the key elements of the battle might be in order. The rules are simple: 

1. Gather as many balled pairs of socks as you can. 

2. Set a timer. (Five minutes is ample.)

3. Position teams on opposite sides of a double bed.

4. Pelt sock balls as hard as you can at members of the opposing team until the timer runs out

5. Decide which team has sustained the most direct hits.

6. Declare a winner.

Why does Hearth-mother condone such a violent, aggressive activity, you ask? Easy. Because my other sock battle is the endless quest against odd socks, and at the merest hint of an upcoming sock war, Eddie and Gilby can't pair them up fast enough.

Oh, and Hearth-father quite gets into it, too.

You're welcome.

Currently reading: The Language of Birds by Gill Dawson

I Wish I'd Never Asked...

Earlier today, Gertie and Gilbert were gallumphing around the kitchen on either end of the feather duster.

 

 

 

"What are you doing?" I was foolish enough to ask.

"We're playing the willy game!" came the reply in unison.

Right...I don't think I even want to know the rules.

Stop Hitting Me!

Gertie and Gilbert have invented a great new game.

They simulate punching themselves in the face Fight Club style whilst shouting, 'Stop hitting me, Mummy!' very loudly and giggling.

Now, although I came down firmly on the side of Harry in The Slap, Christos Tsiolkas' novel and recent television drama, I can state categorically that I have never hit any of my children.

So bring back Hooker-Mummy, it's a far less damaging cry.

Life of Pie

I have written posts about the exclusive language and silly games invented by the children before. 'Ow' was a particularly good one at the end of last year, though not as impressive as my personal favourite, 'Duck Chess'.

But now, from the makers of these two thrillers, comes the new and exciting, 'Pie'. (Best said in your most impressive James-Earl-Jones-alike voice.) There are two versions of Pie - Bath Pie and Bed Pie. The rules, as far as I can establish them, are thus:

One child holds out my bath pillow (supposed to be exclusively for MY use in long, luxurious baths, definitely NOT a toy, but intrinsic to the success of Bath Pie nevertheless) towards the other and says, "What would you like?". The other thinks for a moment, then replies, "Pie!", at which response both collapse helplessly into fits of the giggles, eventually recovering enough to hand the bath pillow over to the other so that the next round can begin. There are no variations in the answer (only in the length of time it takes for each to think about it) and it is always, always funny (to them).

Bed Pie is more complicated (very slightly). This involves standing at the headboard of Mummy and Daddy's bed and counting to increasing numbers. It might start, "One, two, three...", before both children launch themselves into a forwards topple simultaneously shouting, "Pie!" The next round might count to five, or seven, or eight, perhaps up to twelve. The strange thing is that both seem to know exactly which number they will be counting to next without discussing it beforehand. The important bit, as you are probably realising though, is the shouting of "Pie!", which, you've guessed it, provokes great hilarity every time.

Now, I would like to think that my genius children are practising their Greek alphabet, or developing their numeracy by playing around with this mathematic constant. I suspect, however, that they are not!

32 Weeks pregnant: Still craving tomatoes and bored by anaemia
Currently reading: Starter for Ten by David Nicholls