How Not to Receive A Christmas Gift

In the tumble back to school for the new year, we missed a haircut for Eddie.

Consequently he looks like a young Justin Bieber. Never an image I would have consciously sort, and bizarrely inappropriate for a four year old.

But that is the least of my problems.  I know that one of the joys of children is watching them speak their mind, but, when a close family friend arrived at the weekend bearing some late Christmas gifts, the conversation went something like this:

L: Happy Christmas Eddie! (Handing over wrapped present)

E: What is it? (Sound of tearing paper)

L: It's a hat. I thought it would suit you.

E: Ugh. I hate it. (Throws present up in the air and runs from the room)

L: (Laughs, awkwardly)

E: (Running back in) Anyway, are you having a baby?

L: (Shocked) Er...no, I'm not.

E: Oh. Why are your boobies so large, then?


She didn't stay long.




Currently reading: Waiting for Sunrise by William Boyd

More Hair-Raising Adventures

Not to be outdone by the dramas of his big sister, the youngest member of the clan has also had a hair-raising start to the new year:

Those in the know suggest that this replicates his father's style choice aged 16...



Currently reading:

The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton

A Younger, Blonder, Much Weirder Looking Me

Inspired by The Gallery at Sticky Fingers, which I stumbled upon just recently, is a photo of a younger me.  It appeared on Facebook recently, courtesty of an old friend of mine, and has prompted thoughts of a new haircut as I establish myself firmly in my forties.  Probably not a repeat of this one, though.  And for anyone who doesn't know me, and possibly also for those who do, I'm the one on the left.

Scissorgate

Perhaps jealous at her brother's recent 'Niall from One Direction' haircut, Gertie decided yesterday morning to give herself a new style.  This basically involved hacking a very short fringe in the manner of a seventies popstar - perhaps Dave Hill of Slade fame. It is definitely not a good look - though mildly amusing, and we are, at least, several months away from the next set of school photographs.

What was more disturbing was the other use to which the scissors were put; namely, cutting into the upholstery on a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old chair, which I recently moved into the bathroom.  Lucky it wasn't a brand new one, or a might have been really cross.

Currently reading: A Fair Maiden by Joyce Carol Oates

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.

Will The Real Chris and Pui Please Stand Up?

My maternity leave endeth, sadly, and I really tried hard to make the most of the last few days with all the children; especially over half term. We all went to the 'Chris and Pui Roadshow', (they of Show Me Show Me CBeebies fame) which was thoroughly enjoyed by Gertie and Gilby, even if it did seem to me like an incredibly expensive way to do 'Rhyme Time' (free in the local library).

But the event has provoked much discussion about the nature of television. My usually very smart four-year-old questioned me at length about how Chris and Pui got out of the television. This followed on from her comment at the end of the show about how remarkably like 'the real' Chris and Pui they seemed. I had to explain that they were the real Chris and Pui, which engendered a high degree of incredulity for a time. Life's complicated when you're four. Gilby, at two, took it much more in his stride, though his rapt wonder during the performance was a joy to behold. If only we had been allowed to take a picture.

Also in preparation for my return to work I decided it was high time I had a haircut, in some sort of attempt to resemble a professional being once more. I have been having real problems with my hair, even considering cutting it all off in an effort to avoid troublesome tangles. I consulted my hairdresser, who pointed out that it did in fact require brushing every day; something I seemed to have neglected in the blur of raising a third child.

Full time career as well? No problem!

Sweeping Generalisations, Anyone?

Gertie has developed a profound capacity for the sweeping generalisation, and the tag question which ensures that you have to agree or disagree with her.

A prime example occurred this morning as we went shopping for a few groceries. I accidentally dropped a bag as we were walking across the car park, and she said, "Be careful that a car doesn't get your bag, Mummy."
"Thanks Gertie, I shall make sure of that."
"Because mummies cry if cars get their bags, don't they?"
I don't know how often cars 'get' mummies' bags, or indeed how often they cry about it subsequently, though it doesn't seem unreasonable that they might; nevertheless this appears to be a surety for my daughter.

Sometimes however, she is proved quite correct. The other purpose of this morning's excursion was to get her hair cut. So, on our approach to the salon she tried again.
"We get lollipops when we get hairs cut, don't we, Mummy."
"We-ell, I suppose we might if we are good."
The decision was not left to me however, since the young lad who performed the trim offered her just such a treat before I had a chance to intervene.

So, in fact, we do get lollipops when we get hairs cut, I was forced to concede.

Hair Cups

Gertie was a very bald baby, and she still didn't have any hair by her first birthday. I remember putting a hat on her for her birthday party in the vain hope that people wouldn't notice. When it eventually did come it was a bit wispy and grew in a sort of a mullet, that took repeated visits to the hairdressers to sort out. I am happy to report that as she approaches her third birthday she now has a lovely full head of hair that I can put clips in and dress up with pony tails. It's not quite long enough for plaits yet, but it won't be too long. She has loved going to the hairdressers, from the very first time when she asked to have a 'hair-cup'.

Gilby has also been quite bald, (I blame their father) but he's looking a little more hirsute than his sister. In fact, aged eight months, he has now developed something of a little Mohawk on the top of his head. Perhaps 'Mohawk' is a little ambitious to describe the sticky-uppy fluffy bit that has appeared, but I used to think that babies who sported this style had been carefully coiffured by their mothers. This is not the case; it seems to have grown all by itself and will not sit down whatever you do to it. I quite like it. The trouble is that it is complemented (or not) by some funny little curls growing around the back. (Gertie could so have done with those...) So perhaps it is time for a hair-cup for Gilby too.