Silverware Wars and Sporting Firsts

There were proud moments at the weekend, as Hearth-Father and Gilby strode out onto a cricket pitch together for the first time, playing in a friendly game for Ladymead, versus Ockley.

Gilby was a little bit nervous, he confided in me on the way to the match. "And I don't think I want to bowl."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm nine and they're men!"

Fair enough. He did, though, and bowled a maiden for the final over. And at one point there was Hearth-Father, Hearth-Uncle and Gilby all in the slip cordon. Not sure how many more times that might happen.

(Now I'm looking forward to stepping out onto a stoolball pitch with Gertie for the first time ever tomorrow night. Come on the weather!)

(*Edit: This did happen! And we batted out the final overs together, me 26 not out, she 5 not out. Dream team!

)

But the cricket wasn't the best bit about Gilby's day. The best bit was being awarded player of the year for the second year running for his football team. It was totally unexpected - especially as I had been suggesting that since he won it last year they would probably share things about a little to give another player a turn. Apparently not.

When he walked off the cricket pitch after three hours of fielding his little face lit up when he remembered the morning's silverware that he had entirely forgotten about in his state of concentration. It's fair to say he slept well on Sunday evening.

Meanwhile, Gertie and Eddie were in action at a dancing competition on Saturday. For the first time ever, Eddie came home with more silverware than his sister. (She's in the top grade and he's still classed as a beginner, but we'll ignore that...)

A wonderful way to end the half-term break. Roll on summer.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

8 Reasons Not To Live in a Castle

Christmas 2013 has been spent at Harburn House in West Lothian, a Georgian mansion set in 3000 acres of glorious Scottish countryside. It enabled twenty-one of us, from three generations of family, to all spend Christmas together in luxurious surroundings. All the young cousins could romp around together, and the adults could too, for that matter.


Sitting at my dressing table each morning with the four poster bed reflecting in the mirror made me feel like a character in a Jane Austen novel. Walking Kempy in such beautiful, tranquil countryside, with hills rising majestically in the distance, was dreamy.


So, before I get too carried away with the romance of the whole thing and decide that my real life is inadequate by comparison, I've decided to focus on all the reasons why I really, really wouldn't want to live in a glorious castle.

1. It is a very, very long walk to the nearest pub.

2. You get achy legs from having to keep going up and down colossal flights of stairs. Longer than four days here and I would end up with calves the size of large pheasants.

3. Hanging Christmas decorations becomes a life-threatening mission given the height of the ceilings.

4. There are so many bathrooms that choosing where to have a bath or shower becomes a major decision.

5. The drapes on one's four-poster-bed block out the light from one's bedside lamp, making night-time reading difficult.

6. There's no mobile phone signal, and fairly intermittent wifi, so it's difficult to boast about being here without constant access to social media.

7. Whatever you want is inevitably an awfully long way away from where you happen to be. On occasion I found myself three floors away from my slippers.

8. And, linked with number seven on the list, you have to shout very loudly indeed to be heard whenever you do want something.


But aside from those little niggles, it really has been a magical Christmas. Father Christmas managed to find his way here, alleviating the fears of the children. And though it didn't settle, we even had snow flurries throughout the day on Christmas Eve. I'll just try not to think too much about the journey home.

The Very Hopeless Mother

This week I have managed to miss my youngest son's nativity, practically ignore Gilby's Christmas play, and cause Gertie's grandfather to miss her performance as the very hopeless camel.

Eddie didn't take part in his play because, well, it was scheduled on a day when he wasn't in nursery and I just couldn't get him there. I console myself with the thought that I don't think he has any awareness that he was missing out on anything. He's too young to remember it.

I missed Gilby's because somewhere along the way we simply didn't find out about it. I checked his book bag to see if I had inadvertently mislaid a letter, but no, apparently it was all done by word of mouth at the school gate. Fine if you are there every day; not so good if you are one of the two full-time working mums of the class. So nobody was at his first performance during the day, and we managed to get him rushed to the second, evening performance, with seconds to spare and a breathless father somewhere at the back having dashed there early from work. There was some talk of me getting there the following night; except that it transpired that this mythical, third performance only existed in Gilby's head. He was very disappointed. Never mind. It's only his first term at school. His first ever nativity. The first time of wearing the tea-towel on his head as a shepherd...

But on the Thursday, we were far more organised for Gertie's starring role in 'The Very Hopeless Camel'. We had grandfather on board to get her there early, and had managed to secure elusive extra tickets, presumably on the basis of having been entirely hopeless and missing out on everything else thus far. It didn't quite go according to plan, though. I neglected the fact that not everyone else in the world is used to flying through the world at an unholy pace. The car journey to school - seven minutes if you really put your foot down and take the sneaky corner parking spot that most other parents wouldn't dare to, and which I have to do each Friday when I fly out of my school with ten minutes before the bell goes for the end of the day at there's - takes much longer in the dark and the rain when you are in your mid seventies and unfamiliar with the route and the idiosyncratic parking arrangements. So Grumps missed his grand-daughter harrumphing around brilliantly hopelessly.

And my new year's resolution? To slow down a little. I am going so fast that I am missing the important moments.

Currently reading: In Praise of Slow by Carl Honore.

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. 

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...

Nous Sommes Back!

I know that one shouldn't complain when one is on holiday, but here are ten things I have struggled with whilst in the South of France (in 38 degree heat) and very heavily pregnant...

1) Heaving my remarkable bulk onto a lilo whilst retaining some dignity.
2) Watching all around me drink copious amounts of rose whilst I look on enviously.
3) Not being able to kyak to the Pont du Gard for fear of disproving Archimedes' Principle (and capsizing).
4) Heaving my remarkable bulk up from a sun-lounger.
5) French squat toilets: difficult to negotiate with precarious centre of gravity. (Although I did find the fact that Gertie did a wee on her grandmother's foot the first time she attempted to use one more than faintly amusing.)
6) Avoiding all those delicious but 'illegal' cheeses.
7) Covering up the chloasma or pregnancy mask.
8) Trying to get my back as brown as my front: impossible with a bump this size!
9) Climbing to the top of the amphitheatre in Nimes. Highly ambitious given the size and quantity of the steps.
10) Looking glamorous in a bikini. Ha!

That's not to say that it wasn't all brilliant and worthwhile. The 14 hour drive home was interesting, although my husband probably didn't fully appreciate the urgency and frequency with which one has to pee in this condition.

37 Weeks Pregnant: Wondering why I finally have an 'outie' belly-button when that never happened with babies 1 and 2.
Currently reading: How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran

Number Post

Gilby's vocabulary is increasing exponentially, but some of his pronunciation is causing a few problems in communication.

Gertie and Gilby are both fond of Numberjacks, a Cbeebies special that I tolerate because it purports to be vaguely educational. The numberjacks are sort of animated superhero numbers who solve mathematical problems.

So when Gilby started putting 'number' as a kind of prefix to virtually everything he said, I thought it must be a side effect of bad parenting in the form of too much television. But I tried to answer him each time.

So, for example, outside the swimming pool on Thursday, 'Number bin?' a little voice said. The uplift at the end suggested a question. There were two recycling bins outside the leisure centre. 'Um, well, there are two bins.'

As we approached the car, he pointed at one on the other side of the car park. 'Number car.' The tone of this one sounded more like a statement, but one which needed some kind of response. 'Well, let me see. My eyesight's not really good enough, but it looks like a the registration is 'HY47 XXP'. It seemed to satisfy him.

A few minutes later, as we were driving along, he pointed towards the sky. 'Number plane?' He was really quite excited now.
'Gosh, I don't really know much about planes. Probably a 737...' I trailed off, slightly defeated, thinking that CBeebies had a lot to answer for.

It was only as I re-analysed those exchanges (which continued all day long, I might add) that I realised that he was in fact attempting to say 'another' each time, and pleased with himself for making connections between the objects - another bin, another car, another plane. Gertie used 'ummer' to represent this adjective when she was learning to talk, so I was temporarily flummoxed.

Still, we are going to have to ask Grumps for a 'Number pound', as it seems he took one from his eldest grandchild when he was looking after her on Thursday afternoon. She had one in her pocket that was no longer there by the end of the afternoon. He has admitted his guilt. Stealing from a three year old? He should be ashamed of himself!

Gumps' Ossage

I often write about Gertie because at Nearly-Four-Going-on-Forty, practically everything she says or does is inherently funny to me.

But my little man is now beginning to come in to his own. He won't be two until late in the summer, but the pair of them will now sit at the kitchen table together, falling about helplessly with giggles at something only they are complicit in, and being Actually-Not-Far-Off-Forty myself, I don't have a hope of understanding.

Gilby now has a bedtime ritual to rival Her Ladyship's: placing all his 'people' one by one in the cot (Iggle Piggle, Macca Pacca, Alien, a dinosaur, a crotcheted blanket and a stuffed bee with crackly wings) then gathering them beneath him mother-hen style to sleep on top of them all. They all have poky, uncomfortable looking bits, especially the dinosaur, but this doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. I'm not entirely sure how the blanket constitutes one of the 'people', but it is at least soft. World War III breaks out if one of them is missing but as long as they are all in position, a simple, "Night, night Mummy," is followed by thumb in the mouth and lights out. This will inevitably be repeated when he still wakes for another bottle of milk somewhere between 1am and 3am.

He is exceptionally, at times, comically, polite, with an exaggerated, "No thank you Mummy," accompanying any food or activity offering not entirely to his taste. When playing he is regularly heard to insist, "My turn..." which he just looks far too little to be saying. At first this is cute and endearing, but when you realise that it is his turn straight away, always, it becomes less so. Other Mums smile at me in a congratulatory fashion the first time it happens over a disputed toy, then frown at me the next fifteen. Particularly when it is then accompanied by tears and a tantrum.

"Where's Gumps' Ossage?" is an oft-heard cry in our house too. Well, 'Gumps' only has himself to blame for this one. It has become Grumps' new nickname since their grandfather often arrives with a cling-filmed cooked sausage for each of them when he comes to visit. It may stick long beyond toddlerhood. I rather like it.

But my current favourite catchphrase and behaviour, clearly adapted from a well-known television quiz show with a distinctive presenter, is where he runs in to the room and without any preamble tells me, "You are weak! Bye!" before disappearing again.

I'm recording all this because I now know that it will change within a matter of weeks, and then I will probably forget, but I wonder about other parents' most remembered phrase and fable?

New Term, New Job and a Marriage Proposal

I have survived the first week of the new term in a new job at a new school and I'm pretty certain that I was at least as nervous than the new Year 7 pupils.

But the benefits are already showing: the biggest one being the fact that the nursery that Gertie and Gilby have been attending since both were just a few months old is actually on site. So when I had the call from nursery on Friday afternoon to say that Gilby needed collecting since he had 'two bad nappies', I was able to pop straight over and see that he was fine. Not in fact, in need of collecting at all, but at least it prevented me from staying on for another hour and gave me the perfect excuse to get away at a sensible time for the start of the weekend.

And I cycled for the first five days, though I did take the car today due to the 'severe weather warning' announced this morning for West Sussex that never actually materialised. Much nicer than the forty minute car journey I used to have, and a little healthier too. Though I have become a figure of fun as the only member of staff to arrive by bicycle in the morning.

And the final piece of news is that Gertie has decided she will marry her grandfather.

We were discusssing marriage and I was explaining that mummy and daddy had got married as they 'love each other' and she came to the obvious conclusion that she would, by the same logic, marry Grumps. When I pointed out that this wasn't really appropriate she settled on her brother as a future spouse. I suggested that she wait a while to make a final decision.

Sausages

One of Gertie's favourite foods is sausages. Her 'habit' is fed by her grandfather who never fails to bring her a ready-cooked sausage wrapped in cling-film whenever he visits. He has even, on occasion, gift-wrapped them; much to her delight.

At breakfast this morning, (sausages, obviously), Gertie suddenly noticed that I wasn't eating any. I am vegetarian and have been for twenty-five years, but Gertie had a slightly different take on things.

"Don't you like sausages, Mum?"

"No, not really..."

"That's because you're a teacher, isn't it?"

Now I can only assume that this three-year old logic stems from 'sensible' comments about her level of sausage-consumption. But perhaps there is some correlation between teaching and sausage-dislike that I have been hitherto unaware of?

Happy Easter Grumps and Mumps

Dear Grumps,

Mummy tells me that you and Mumps have gone on holiday to Australia, but I think that really you are still in your blue house. You wouldn't have got on an aeroplane without me, and anyway, I have't had a postcard yet. Are there lions in Australia?

But if you have gone away, please come back soon because I haven't had any salmon dip for three days now so Mummy can't say that if I eat any more salmon I'll turn into one. She likes saying that.

I certainly won't turn into yoghurt, that's for sure; she only lets me have one a day and you let me have two after each meal! I accidentally let that slip at lunch today, but I think I got away with it. The sausages are pretty thin on the ground, though, so please hurry home. Oh, yes: And I miss going to the pub.

As it's Easter tomorrow we are going to have an Easter egg hunt in the garden. I am planning to eat lots and lots and lots of chocolate. (Well, as much as Mummy will let me, anyway.) And the big news is that after Easter I go up to pre-school full-time. Hooray! Then I can be with Emily Smith all the time. Her mummy has just had a baby so now she has a baby brother just like me - though he doesn't do as much as Gilby as he is only two days old. You should see Gilby - I think he will be crawling by the time you get back.

Anyway, I hope that you're getting under the skin of it, and you've got your show on the road. Oh, and don't forget to seize the day.

Love and kisses,
Bunks
P.S. I didn't see you in church this morning!

Party Pooper

It was Gertie's nursery Christmas party today and she was sick.

This doesn't surprise me in the least because her timing is fantastic. Last year she contracted chicken pox three days before Christmas so that we were in quarantine for the big day. Whole other story - but back to the present. She regularly tells me that she feels sick and my typical response is unsympathetic: "Ok, well finish your lunch and you will feel better; just drink some water and you will feel better; a bit of fresh air and you will feel better..." This morning, however, she seemed genuinely under the weather. Subdued, clingy, and a little shivery.

I was upset. Mostly because I didn't want Gertie to miss her Christmas party and the arrival of Father Christmas ('wrapped, named present to the value of not more than £5' had been supplied by us the week before), partly because we had made a plate of marmite sandwiches as our contribution to the festivities and I didn't want them to go to waste, and a little bit because I was due to be spending the day with an old school friend that I don't get to see very often and it would be distracting enough with the baby, let alone a sick toddler accompanying us. I know: selfish thought. Shouldn't really reveal it in a public forum...

Anyway, the party was fancy dress, so Daddy and I glanced at each other conspiratorially: "Why don't we just try your gold princess dress on with the tiara and see how you feel?"

One glance in the mirror seemed to do the trick and I haven't had the dreaded call from nursery to come and collect her. I do think however that I have discovered the real root of the problem, because my other method of persuasion was along the lines of, "And you don't want to miss Father Christmas do you?"
No response.
"You do want to see Father Christmas?"
Short pause.
"No...I want to see Grumps!"
So she would have preferred to be seeing her grandfather today instead of a random old man she doesn't know. Fair enough!