Bubbled School Days

Life has returned to normal, somewhat, for Gilby and for Hearth Father. Gilby is back at school for four days a week, and Hearth Father back at work full-time after being furloughed in April and May. 

The rest of us are still, for the most part, stuck at home. 

Gertie goes out occasionally to meet one friend. Eddie is too little, still, to be able to do this. Excitement for him comes in the form of being able to go to the shop once a week, alone, to buy some sweets or chocolate. On his last visit a man 'was quite old and a bit confused and wasn't able to properly socially-distance,' he explained. Given that the pubs have only just reopened and the local is next door to the shop, I expect I know the reason for his confusion. Football training returned last week for both boys. In 'bubbles' of five, maintaining two metres distance at all times, each child with their own ball.

Socially-distanced football training

I escape into school occasionally for a meeting with parents - in the open air - or a meeting with teachers. I have not been assigned to operate a bubble at school because I have two children of my own at home. My teaching is all online - through a blog and Google Classroom, with a few 'live interactions' via Google Meet or Teachstream through the week. The days beat out to a different rhythm, punctuated now by the additional demands of  'staggered' drop-off and pick-up times for Gilby. 

As a Year 6 student Gilby could have returned on the 1st June. We waited a couple of weeks and sent him on the 15th June - time for the dust to settle on new systems.  As well as the variations to the start and end of the school day, I have to wash his uniform every night to 'decontaminate'. He has had his leavers' assembly - split into three celebrations with the maximum fifteen students spread out on chairs two metres apart in the hall - where he received a dedicated copy of the Bible along with a virtual handshake. This was videoed for parents and sent out as a YouTube link. The moments of Gilby holding the candle and doing a reading didn't make the final cut.  Fridays are reserved for teachers to make their Zoom calls to other students and set on-line work, so it is a four-day week in school.

A new suit for the Year 6 prom

A socially-distanced 'prom' has been organised for the Year 6s for next week. Pupils must bring their own food and drink, and only one parent is able to drop them off. At the suggestion of the school, Gilby has also taken in a polo shirt for his fellow students to sign - in a sealed bag that can only be opened after seventy-two hours.

They play cricket each day, with two balls; one dropped into a bucket of disinfectant each time it is played - touched by the bowler and a single fielder before being thrown to the teacher and cleaned while the other ball goes into play. 

There is no interaction with anyone outside of Gilby's bubble. It seems a strange way to end primary school, but perhaps better than no ending at all, which is what it looked like back on Friday 20th March when they were sent home for what we thought might be the final time this academic year.

Currently reading: The Illustrated Pepys From the Diary, Edited by Robert Latham

Beer Ballet

Very occasionally, Hearth-Father has to do Gertie's 'ballet run' when I am otherwise engaged.

We were driving to her ballet class last week when Gilby piped up from the back seat, "Mummy, shall I take you to this little pub I know where Daddy and I go sometimes when ballet is on?"

Now.  Where to start?  Best not to, methinks.

Anyway.  The day of the ballet exam finally arrived at the weekend.  There was much fussing and an hour's worth of rehearsal beforehand.  Ribbons and hairnets and hairspray and endless tying of ballet shoes.  This was, of course, enough to send Gilby, Eddie and Daddy running for this little pub they know...

And on the way home?  After their respective afternoon exertions?  Well.  It's hard work in that pub!

Currently Reading:  Falling by Elizabeth Jane Howard

Baggy Trousers

The world's 'most prolific' streaker, Mark Roberts, with 519 streaks under his...er, well not his belt, I suppose...retired last month, much to the reported relief of his children.

This is lucky in that it leaves a gap in the market for my son.  Still four months away from his fourth birthday, he is showing early signs of a vocation.  In truth, he finds any excuse to drop his trousers.  In public is best, preferably a restaurant, or somewhere equally embarassing (for his mother);  since he appears to feel no embarrassment whatsoever, but gains some kind of genuine pleasure from this exhibitionism.  And people laugh.  Which he loves. 

He usually claims that his trousers are too big.  I have resorted to adjusting every pair to the tightest setting, so that he has to breathe in to get them done up in the morning.  Nevertheless, at some point during the day, they will be round his ankles, and he'll have a mischievous look on his face, arms outstretched to absolve himself from blame. (Yes, a little bit like Mark Roberts in the picture...)

It's been going on for a couple of years.  Ever since his release from the imprisonment of nappies, I suppose, and the freedom of potty training with its inbuilt excuse to whip his pants off without prompting. His audiences are confined to Pizza Hut and the local pub at the moment, but when he makes a name for himself at Wimbledon, or Wembley, in a few years time, you heard it here first. 

Bashing the Pedals for a Perfect New Year's Day

We've just spent the most perfect new year's day.

Gertie got up quietly and played with her little brother for a good hour this morning, giving us a tiny lie-in following last night's (moderate) celebrations to see in the new decade.

A large, leisurely breakfast followed; then a long walk through the woods from our house to a nearby pub for lunch beside a roaring log fire. (Entirely appropriate for this Hearth-mother.)

On the way home there was plenty of splashing in puddles, or 'bashing the pedals" as it is forever known in our family since this is how Gertie used to pronounce it when it first became one of her favourite things to do.

Lots of fresh air for the children put the colour back into their cheeks and means that they have both gone down to bed willingly and a little early.

How different from hungover, unproductive new year's days of old! The me of now bears hardly any resemblance to that person a decade ago who hadn't yet met her husband, was barely at the start of her teaching career and who most definitely did not have any interest in having children.

I spent the millenium eve a decade ago on Westminster Bridge awaiting the fireworks and 'river of flame' with a group of girlfriends. It was a cold, depressing evening, with my overriding memory being of drinking too much cheap wine from plastic cups resulting in us having to take turns to surreptitiously wee (if such a thing is possible) within a huddled circle of the girls due to the fact that we couldn't move off the bridge because of the crowds. I lost my sister for a couple of hours, she sprained her ankle and it took hours to get back home. Now this year's experience was far less dramatic but much, much happier.

What a difference a decade makes.