Tortoise Tales

 There is another new arrival in the household. Meet Blanchefleur:

Blanche is a 10 week old Hermann's Tortoise, though I prefer the sound of her Latin name: Testudo hermanni.  Life expectancy is seventy-five years, though many live beyond this. All things being equal, she's going to outlive me.

I'd like to say that this is a pet for the children, but really, I have a fascination with reptiles - so this is actually one for Hearth Mother. I could watch her for hours as she goes about her tortoise business. She is very cute, and has plenty of growing to do.

Given Blanche's preferred Mediterranean climate, she comes, understandably, with a few housing requirements. I have purchased tortoise 'substrata' and a heat/UVB lamp for her tortoise table. My proliferation of spider plants have been put to good use to decorate her new environment, along with some wooden hiding places and rocks: a mixture of pet-shop purchases and garden finds. Dandelion and coriander are her favourite foods so far, but I have plenty to learn about her diet and caring for her. This is really new territory for me.

That takes the household tally to nine animals. I've been told, in no uncertain terms, to stop there.

Empty Playground

I had to drive past the boys' primary school yesterday, and noticed how overgrown the empty, cordoned off playground opposite looked. The last time we were there was the last day of school, Friday March 20th. We didn't know if it would end up being Gilby's last day at primary school or not (though we are choosing not to send him back on Monday; can't bring myself to do that while people are still dying in their hundreds) and the atmosphere was very weird. It got me writing again - and thinking about how the plague preyed on play.

And Relax

We are finding various ways to amuse ourselves during the lockdown.

Once the Latin and Greek lessons are over for the morning's homeschooling, it's time for Gertie and Gilby to sit back and relax.

Eddie is still having a little trouble sleeping at night, so it's nice for the family to rock him gently before bed...

And last weekend we headed off for a beautiful bluebell walk in Lordings Wood. Of course, we're social distancing, so Kempton had to take this one.

Currently reading: The Volunteer by Jack Fairweather

On Durex and Mashed Potato

In her dotage Hearth-Great-Grandma collected Andrex puppies. She saved up hundreds of coupons from toilet tissue wrappers and added to her soft-toy assemblage over several years. She was obsessed with them. When she died we took a couple away in her memory, and now the kids play with them. Yesterday they began a process of renaming different toys. 

'But you can't,' said Gilby, pointing to the stuffed Labradors, and exclaiming very loudly and publically, 'These ones are all called DUREX!'

In other news, we have taken the plunge and planned a New Year's Eve party at home for the first time in a decade. For the first time post-children, in fact. They are going to be safely shipped off to grandparents for the night, ensuring that things are able to get well and truly out of hand.

We had great fun thinking about invitations and who would come, and in the end decided that we would make it for the villagers, allowing us to use the 'hilarious' slogan: A Local Party for Local People. We got Gertie to take a kind of campaign photograph on the doorstep, arms outstretched for a handshake; placards and rossettes on display.

Hearth-Father went off delivering, gleefully, and returned, still in role, announcing that, 'The invitations have been despatched!'

'What do you mean, the potatoes have been mashed?' Eddie asked.

'And that, I announced triumphantly, is why you can come back on New Year's Day.'

Happy new year everyone! 

Hooray for Walkie Talkies. Over.

In the age of the ubiquitous mobile phone, the walkie talkie is redundant, surely?

Not according to Gilby and Eddie, who decided that this was the best invention since...mobile phones.

The rediscovery of a walkie talkie set (following the house move) caused breathless excitement. They secreted themselves in different parts of the house, one upstairs, one down, and this is the conversation that ensued.

Gilby: (Crackle, beep) Eddie, can you hear me? Over.
Eddie: Yes! Yes! I can! They're working. Gilby, they're really working! Over. (Giggle of glee, beep)
Gilby: I can hear you, too. They're definitely working! Over.
Eddie: Hooray!  Over.

I'm delighted that in the joy of the moment Eddie didn't forget his newly-acquired walkie-talkie etiquette.


Currently reading: A Son of the Circus by John Irving

Holiday's End

The last day of the Easter holidays. Sigh.

About fifteen minutes ago, Gertie was practising her flute, Gilby had finished some reading (he's been inspired by a Tom Palmer football book) and was working his way through some maths problems (for fun) while Eddie was quietly doing some finger-painting.

"I've nailed this parenting lark," I thought to myself.

You know the rest:  Somehow this all morphed into a game of murdering Ninja death warriors and I now have two broken bits of furniture and one child in tears because they smashed their head into wardrobe doors.

"Best to write a blogpost," I thought to myself.



Currently reading: Virginia Woolf A Writer's Life by Lyndall Gordon

Imaginary Gaming

We have been determined to forestall the technological revolution in our household for as long as possible. Not because we are Luddites, but for two main reasons in relation to our children.

Firstly, there is a desire to hold off the inevitably heated debates about 'screen-time' that will ensue for as long as we possibly can. They don't have a great deal of television time but it has already increased dramatically from my original intentions. I hear close friends with older children battling and negotiating in relation to how much time is spent on the computer, and I'm not ready for it.

Secondly, there is the simple fact we can't really afford to furnish all three of them with iPads and the latest games consoles. Nor would I want to, because thirdly, aside from a brief flirtation with Chucky Egg in my very early teens, I've never had a great deal of time for computer games. (Assuming that Words with Friends doesn't count, of course.)

So. The current situation is that, very occasionally, Gertie is allowed to use my iPad for homework-related activities, and Gilby has used it twice to practice with his letters. No gaming products have crossed our threshold, yet; though I know it is only a matter of time.

They don't seem to have been drastically damaged by the absence. But. Eddie won't leave the house without his 'iPad' (a pink mirror compact - don't ask) and I have just caught the older two 'competing' on small console-sized objects from around the house. They pretend to have reached certain levels, and occasionally some victorious cry emanates, suggesting that ten-million-thousand aliens have been killed. Grrr. They are still sitting in chairs, playing at playing games. What's a parent to do?

Talking Turkey

Now that summer's finally here, Gertie and Gilby went to Fishers Farm at the weekend.  Much fun was had by all until they were waiting in the queue for the pony rides.  A large and unexpectedly free range turkey approached them with a waddle that might be described as 'aggressive'.  When you are just three years old and of a similar height to a fair-sized and threateningly-approaching turkey, they can look pretty fearsome.  With round, wide eyes, Gilby grabbed hold of his sister's hand and asked in a tiny voice if turkeys ate people.

Big sister, with all the experience and authority of her nearly-six-years, considered his question carefully.  "No, Gilby," she said, after a moment.  "People eat turkeys."

Call it a Duck

Eddie's been...less keen...than either Gertie or Gilby to walk and talk.  The walking is down to his hyper-mobility and we'll get there in the end with the help of the physio and ingenious playing that involves having to get on his feet to reach stuff.  But with his speech there's mostly a lot of Bill and Ben going on:  Babbly conversations of nothing much in particular that have the intonation and variation of real dialogue.  But he does now have his first ten words, representative of the importance of things in his world:

Dog
Duck
Daddy
Banana
Car
Look
Mummy
That
Sock
Shark

Yes, I'm a bit bemused by that last one.  'Shark' is usually said in the bath, accompanied by a scary sort of a roar. What's going on in that little head, I'm not entirely sure.


But, though the list looks varied, most thing are 'ducks'.  In fact, 'if in doubt, call it a duck', seems to be his maxim. This applies to most animals (that aren't dogs or sharks) including our chickens in the garden abd the cat. And when we are out and about there are ducks that moo and ducks that say 'baa', apparently. It's one of the most common species in the animal kingdom, the duck.

But frankly, with two older and more communicative siblings, usually pointing and a cry of anguish gets what he wants.  Who needs words?  It was fine for Bill and Ben.  Though come to think of it, even those flower pots could walk...

On Supersonic Lambs and Limbs

Last week was overtaken by Gertie's school play.  It was a production of The Supersonic Lamb. For anyone unfamiliar with this nativity variation, it is a moral tale: the story of a fast-running sheep who wanted to be the first to get to Jesus. 

Anyway, only the Year 2 children got to have speaking parts, so Gertie was out of the running, (so to speak) but she performed her role in the choir with gusto, dressed as a shepherd.

There was an impressive array of tea-towels on display, on heads.  Who knew there was such variety?

But the real star of the show was Eddie, who chose the final performance of The Supersonic Lamb as the occasion on which to unleash his clapping on the world.  Now Eddie has been a little...reluctant to do most of the things that babies his age are supposed to do, so the fact that he suddenly began applauding with great enthusiasm after each song in the show turned him into the start.  Never mind that parents were straining to hear what their loved ones were saying for their 15 seconds of fame, my baby was clapping!

He has also in the last fortnight begun to 'stand' (whilst gripping on to something shoulder-height for dear life).  But it is standing, nevertheless, and of his own volition.  Crawling is still more reminiscent of a wounded soldier dragging himself through mud, but....come on those supersonic limbs!  We'll soon have you outrunning that supersonic lamb...

Lady Visa returns to Austria for Christmas on Wednesday.  Not entirely sure how we will cope. 

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.

Send in the Clowns, Carefully

Like most families, we spent half term coming up with ever-more creative ways to have fun whilst avoiding the rain. We saw the stage version of The Tiger Who Came to Tea and marvelled at how they had managed to turn 5 minutes of story-line into an hour-long show. (We have been doing tiger-aerobics ever since.) We had lots of friends round to play, and that kept Mummy very busy with the huge amount of tidying-up it seems to generate. We went to Fishers Farm Park a couple of times and monopolised the indoor play-areas. But the big success, and the one that has given me new insight into my daughter's character, was our visit to the circus.

Max Beecher, the impossibly bendy contortionist of 2009 Britain's Got Talent fame, was the star turn. His first act involved him appearing as 'Max, the swash-buckling pirate' and performing balancing feats on an ever-more precariously arranged tower of chairs. He tried to garner the support of the audience, miming the idea of placing a chair even higher for dramatic effect.

"Yes, yes, yes!" chorus dozens of gleeful children.
"No!" shouts Gertie, loudly. "You might fall."

Christie-Jane, performing on the 'silk tissues' high up in the big top, was the next act. Gasps of delight at each carefully choreographed somersault or stretch went round the ring. "How on earth is she going to get down from there?" was Gertie's serious interpretation.

Looking a little anxious?

The clowns were just about acceptable, though Gertie found one or two moments to pause and frown at moments of perceived danger whilst her peers giggled on.

She was very good at comforting her younger brother who burst into tears at the sound of cracking whips in another act, looking at me reprovingly over her shoulder as she cuddled him.

A future health and safety officer, perhaps?

Names You Should Never Be Called By Your Children

Gertie and Gilby have been playing schools.

Gertie dons a pair of spectacles and is transformed into the teacher. She is then able to boss her younger brother about with impunity. She enjoys taking a 'register', and it seems very important for new pupils to have a 'visit'. She sometimes enlists my help. I am usually 'Mrs Hancock', the school receptionist. At intervals I will be asked for various administrative details...starting date, forms, letters, etc. Gilby plays along well, but he has not experienced school, and certainly can't pronounce 'Mrs Hancock' with any degree of success. Both of them get very involved in the role-play. Gilbert, in particular, is preoccupied with who is who and what is what in their imaginative play-world.

At one point this week, in the midst of a 'lesson', Gertie and Gilby had a bit of a fight. Gertie came running in to the kitchen, shouting, "Mummy, mummy, Gilby's not playing nicely, he just..."

But I didn't hear what he 'just' did, because Gilby himself interrupted. "No Gertie. Mummy is not Mummy. Her is a cock."

The 'F' Word

Sometimes these blog posts just write themselves. No thinking or processing of ideas required when you have such a rich and ready resource available in the form of a four-year-old, a two-year-old and a four-month-old. You just need to tell it how it is. Today is one of those times. Out of the mouths of babes oft times come gems. Well, perhaps not quite a gem.

Gertie and Gilbert love playing around with language. They have their own code words and those that trigger helpless laughter. 'Pom pom', for example, is the biggest insult in the world, and what on earth is so amusing about the word, 'pie'? It can't be just its phonic proximity to 'poo', (one of the most intrinsically funny substances known to mankind) surely? Perhaps, knowing my children, it is. It certainly has the capacity to reduce my pair to uncontrollable fits of giggles.

The new focus, thanks in part I'm sure to current favourite reads, Hairy Mclary, Slinky Malinki and Zachary Quack, is to ensure that everything they say rhymes or is alliterative. To make the latter happen simply involves substituting the initial letter of words in a sentence for a single sound. Popular consonant choices are 'b' and 'd', so in the morning for breakfast we might all have Deerios in a dowl and deat them with a doon, and they're drobably derry dasty. Make sense of what you will.

I like to think that this demonstrates their creativity and willingness to explore and experiment with language.

Today's consonant choice was 'f', so the middle man kept referring to himself as 'Filbert'. That was no froblem at all. But it was in the swimming pool as his teacher handed him a duck that the fun really began.

Perhaps, on reflection, the first thoughts in response from Gilby's swimming instructor may not have been to do with creativity and experimentation.

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

There's A Lot Of It About

I have neglected by blog lately; the household has been plagued with sickness for the last ten days. Apparently, There's A Lot Of It About. Isn't there always? Only Gertie has so far escaped.

At first, Gilby had a number of what can at best be described as 'unhappy nappies'. I put this down to teething, and we had a couple of more-than-usually-unsettled nights.

When I started feeling unwell on Saturday with stomach cramps, I thought nothing much at first. With number three now on the way, I had expected a little nausea. I got worse. To the point where I started thinking about phoning midwives or doctors. I didn't remember experiencing this amount of pain with the previous two pregnancies.

Then Daddy started throwing up. I've never been so delighted to see anyone else being sick! (Sorry Daddy, but this meant an ordinary bug rather than something more sinister and complicated relating to the baby.) So - hooray! All was well. If you see what I mean.

But poor old Gilby was going downhill, and was in too much pain to let his extremely raw nappy skin be touched. "No-oo-oo-ooo," he squealed, trying to hold his body away. "It's all right, it's all right," I kept repeating, aiming to soothe the little man. This became his tearful mantra for a few days: "It's all right. It's all right." He tried to convince himself. Not even the Sock Game could perk him up. (This is the one where they both sit on the bed and Daddy bowls rolled up socks at the pair of them repeatedly amidst much squeals and laughter. I don't really understand it, myself.)

"There's a lot of it about," said the doctor, when we finally took Gilby along to be checked out.

"There's a lot of it about," said the nursery staff, as we explained why Gilby wouldn't be there this week.

And, "There's a lot of it about," said my boss, as I told him I was expecting.

Gilby's New Game

Gilby's communicative skills are developing fast, and I am definitely guilty of not giving him the same attention that his elder sister received. He doesn't get the quantity of books read to him, and it is hard to find that precious solo time when I am completely focused on him, and not splitting myself between the two. This does not seem to have hindered him though, and whilst slow to walk, he is gabbling for Britain , acquiring new (and surprising) words daily.

The fact remains, however, that he is a boy, and essentially likes to hit things. He will make as much noise as possible and seems to have an instinct to destroy...pretty much anything that comes into his path.

His new favourite game fits into these categories. He has made it up himself and it has very simple rules: He likes to gather together as many people as he can (Mum, Dad and big sis at once, if possible) and pat them firmly and repeatedly on the head whilst saying, 'Ow!' on their behalf. He will occasionally hit himself over the head, in the interests of fair play.

The amusement this game causes is difficult to describe. He seems to think that his victims derive some kind of anticipatory thrill from not knowing who will be next to be smacked over the head. It can provide high levels of entertainment for much longer than you might imagine...though only, generally, for one person.

And it doesn't work particularly effective if one of the 'hittees' is suffering from a hangover.

La-la-la-la-la-la

Every mum gets really excited when her child does something for the first time and there are so many important milestones. We reached another one of those today.

But first, a quick example from the past. Ridiculous as it now sounds, Gilby's first poo was one such moment. How can you be proud of an ordinary bodily function, you ask. Well, easily, as it happens. Due to some minor complications at birth, the powers that be at the hospital were insisting that the young man had filled a nappy before they would allow us to leave.

In fact, we took it upon ourselves to discharge from the ward before that happened, and I think he was nearly a week old before the momentous occasion occurred. I was thrilled to finally see a little portion of the tarry black stuff. Needless to say, over the past fifteen months he has more than made up for this early reluctance in the nappy department.

But today's milestone was REALLY, really exciting: Gertie made a breakthrough with her reading.

She has been fantastic at learning her alphabet and can recite her ABCs. She could also recognise the letters in her name. But today, finally, she has started to put those letters together to 'read' her first few words. It is amazing. I am absolutely delighted. She is nearly three and a half. I have no idea if this is good, or late, or normal, and frankly I don't really care. It has just made me want to tell everyone I meet. And sing 'La-la-la-la-la-la' to the tune of La Donna E Mobile or something equally showy-offy.


I think of the doors that reading opens up. She is already happy to sit for hours pretend-reading her books; how much more thrilling will it be when she can actually read them?

And of course, with the delight comes the inevitable guilt. It is half term and so I am on holiday and at home with her spending time playing and learning and reading, instead of thrusting her in front of Peppa Pig before a quick bedtime story.

It just leads me to wonder what would happen if I was actually here all the time....

Licking Drips

Bath time never fails to provide some light entertainment.

It is a time when Gertie is really relaxed so she might come out with the strangest question or random observation about life in her universe.

I was busy playing the Dolphin Game with Gilby (not nearly as demanding as 'Duck Chess': You merely pass the plastic dolphin toy backwards and forwards. Gilby says, 'Mummy' as he does it; I say, 'Gilby' as I return it. That's all there is to it, but it seems to keep him entertained indefinitely).

I looked up and noticed that Gertie had her tongue out and appeared to be sampling the flavour of the wall of the bath.

"Um, darling, what are you doing?"

"I'm tidying up." (Her potential for OCD is well-documented.)

"Excuse me?"

"I'm licking off the drips for you."

"Oh, don't do that; it's yucky."

"No. It isn't."

"Ok; well what do they taste of?" (I was wondering how long it was since Mr Muscle had last visited; probably some time ago)

She looked at me as though I were quite mad.

"Water!"

Duck Chess

It was bath time. I had run out of food suggestions for Gertie to mix up for me. Spaghetti bolognese, chocolate mousse, salmon pasta, a cup of tea had each been presented as a bubble-filled boat at which I was expected to slurp and make appreciative noises towards.

Suddenly the game changed. My beloved bath pillow was upturned and became some kind of gaming board. "What game would you like to play, Mummy? Fuzzy felt?"

"No, I'd like to play chess," I revealed, thinking this might floor her and we might make an earlier exit from the bath.

"How do you play chess?"

"We-ll; you have different types of pieces that you move across the board whilst trying to get the other person's king."

"Oh." She pondered my description for a moment. "Does it have ducks in?" she asked, waving a yellow plastic bath duck at me hopefully.

"Um, no."

"Well it does now. We're going to play 'Duck Chess'.

Ah. The impeccable logic of the three year old mind. Duck Chess. Of course.

I didn't win. The rules are quite complicated and known only to my daughter.