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

Misery Driving Obsessive Compulsion: Back to School

I hate this time of year: the dread of returning to work, coupled with the change in the weather that means that tans fade faster than you can say, 'back to school'.

And it is even more bitter-sweet this year as number three finally begins his formal education and my last baby dons a school uniform for the first time.

So now there will be three sets of school shoes to find, three coats, three school bags, three water bottles, three lunch boxes; three times the level of stress in the morning.

A miserable, wet Saturday afternoon has therefore driven me to this:

So, for approximately five minutes, I think we might be one of the most organised households in Sussex.



Currently reading: Restoration by Rose Tremain

Over the Moon (But No Cows Jumping)

For a long time now Eddy hasn't been growing very well.  He was a big baby at birth (9lb 10oz) but at the age of about seven weeks his growth seemed to tail off.  I wasn't too worried.  He had begun to sleep through the night (not fair, I know, but Gilby took over two years to perform this feat, so I feel like I've done my time).  The health-visitor was not impressed and suggested that I wake Eddy up to feed him in the night.  "But he sleeps through!  Why would you want to wake a sleeping baby?" I protested. 

"Perhaps he's too weak to wake himself up?" she suggested.

I nearly exploded with indignation.  Eddy, of the three, is by far my happiest, smiliest, most contented baby.  There couldn't possibly be anything wrong with him.

Aged 12 weeks

By about ten weeks, the health professionals were suggesting that I give him formula.  "But I have plenty of milk! He feeds very well. Isn't it good to breastfeed your baby?  It worked for the other two..."

Of course, I knew better, and ignored this advice until it was time to return to work and I needed to give Eddy formula.  As he began weaning he displayed a very healthy appetite, and never rejected a single food, often demanding 'seconds' right from six months.  Nothing wrong there, then.  Except that he continued to show poor weight gain until he dropped off the bottom of the chart.  He also didn't seem to want to sit up.  In an effort to get as much fat as possible into his diet, I frantically grated cheese into every meal I prepared for him.

Eventually we were referred to a consultant paediatrician.  I had to concede that there was a problem.  Various tests ensued.  None of which we have had the results for as yet.  Suddenly it all got a little bit scary. 

The consultant suggested that we eliminate dairy products entirely from Eddy's diet for 6-8 weeks, in spite of establishing that he never seemed uncomfortable after meal times, or displayed any of the classic symptoms of having a cow's milk allergy.  So we have a prescription formula free from cow's milk, and all dairy has gone from his diet.  No more manic cheese-grating.

Three weeks in and Eddy has jumped a percentile on the weight charts.  When I say 'jumped a percentile' what I actually mean is that he now registers somewhere on the chart instead of hovering below it in the blank space of nothingness.  He has also, aged eight months, learned how to sit unaided. 

Could it really be as simple as that?  We won't know for sure for a little while longer, but, fingers crossed!

Scars, Tantrums and Banishment

Oh.  We are recovering from a row. This is a BAD THING. And I am still nursing the scars from a bouncy-castle related drinking injury at Gertie's birthday party, so feeling doubly wounded.

Have I mentioned recently how 'difficult' Gilby is?  On a scale of one to ten he currently sits somewhere around 'hellish'.  Temper tantrums, an unhealthy preoccupation with the word, 'no', an inability to carry out a task without being distracted by a toy: Eating, dressing, teeth-brushing, putting on shoes...the list of potential clash-points before we have even left the house in the morning is quite...exhaustive.  Sorry: exhausting.

This morning's flashpoint occured in the bathroom.  I have a three strikes rule.  I say 'rule', I suppose it simply reflects the limited amount of patience I possess. Once I have politely requested a course of action twice, I really can't be doing with a third time. So - to cut a tedious story slightly shorter,  I ended up forcibly brushing his teeth for him and then banishing Gilby to his bedroom to calm down.

I went back in to see if he was ready for 'deep breaths and a cuddle' but, no, it was too soon for that.
So, I returned to getting myself ready.  I mostly remember to brush my hair these days, and occasionally find some lipstick to apply badly. It was at this point that Daddy knocked on Gilby's door.  Met with a gruff, "Go away!" he responded with, "Don't worry, Gilby, it's only Daddy."  Don't worry?  DON'T WORRY?  Oh, I see, it's not evil Mummy, it's only Daddy."  Well, I'm afraid I momenarily became 'evil Mummy' until Daddy retracted his statement.  Oh dear.  Was I over-reacting?

And then Gertie decided, inexplicably at that moment, to point out that she hadn't, in fact, had any of her own birthday cake at her party. The cake that I had lovingly laboured over just for her...  It didn't really do a great deal to lower the emotional intensity of the moment.

And all this by 8am, before my day's work has supposedly begun.

Things got better though, and finished this evening with a glass of wine in the garden in glorious evening sunshine. The healing power of sun and alcohol...now only the bouncy-castle scars remain.

Gilby the Boring and Gina the Cleaner

Today we were heading off to a birthday party late-morning, so I negotiated a 'deal' with Gertie and Gilby. They had to tidy their rooms and play 'nicely' for an hour, enabling me to get all the housework done. We could then all troop off happily to the party.

I should point out that since my return to work last month we have employed a cleaner - Gina - who is a marvel. She comes on a Wednesday and my house is beautiful for an entire evening. We usually return home late on a Wednesday because Gertie goes Irish dancing after school, so there is no chance to mess it up. Of course, by Saturday, especially in a 'holiday' week, it is its usual chaotic self again, requiring significant intervention on my part.

After briefly offering to help with the vacuuming, which he enjoys for all of about ten seconds, Gilby starting huffing unhelpfully around the place. "I am so boring," he kept repeating, clearly not realising the implications of his words. I chose not to correct him because it made me laugh.

Gertie the Good sat quietly reading in her bedroom, whilst Eddie helpfully took a nap, and all was well. We duly went off to the party, returning three hours later to an exceptionally clean and tidy house (even if I do say so myself.)

"Oh look, Mummy, Gina must have been while we were out!" observed Gertie, cheerfully, as we came through the front door.

Grrrr....

,

The Importance of Being Earnest

I came down the stairs this morning wearing the same dress as in this picture. (Not a good photo, I grant you, but I was nearly six months pregnant then, now I look much more svelt in it. Or so I tell myself.)

I'm slightly struggling with the working wardrobe, but this is a trusty old number. Or it was, until Gilby remarked, with an indescribable earnestness, "Oooh Mummy. I like your spiderman outfit!"

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!

Go Bananas!

I go back to work next week, so perhaps leaving it until now to try Eddie on the bottle might be described as a tad underprepared. His siblings never had a problem switching to the bottle though, so I wasn't really worried.

However, ahem, it appears that Eddie is a little less amenable to the switch than they were. The first three times were 'firm' refusals. Not even polite, if I'm honest. Today there was a small breakthrough as he at least took a few gulps before clamping his mouth firmly shut.

But the bigger news is that he has had his first 'solids' (if mushed banana can be described as such). Up until now he has shown no interest, in spite of being a poor, undernourished little fellow (currently at 22 weeks barely scraping the first percentile on the dreaded charts in spite of his MASSIVE birth weight).

But lunchtime brought success. The first mouthful was a little tentative; the second came straight back out, but the third, fourth and fifth were much more successful, and the rest of the bowl couldn't come quickly enough.

"Mummy, look, banana is his favourite,' declared Gilby, watching his younger brother eat for the first time. I didn't like to point out that it was the only thing he's ever eaten, so at least for now Gilby is correct.

Not Waving but Drowning

It's a highly competitive world on a Wednesday afternoon at our local swimming pool. There are a series of lessons back-to-back for tots to teens, which means that virtually every parent in the village is there at some point.

Now that Gertie has reached the grand old age of four, she has just landed herself in the Level 1 class. This is an exciting new development because it means that we no longer have to get into the pool with her. I collect her early from nursery, where she takes great delight in telling everyone that she is going swimming, 'All by myself!" The nursery workers give me funny looks as she swaggers out of the building with all of her 'I've Just Had My Birthday and am Really Grown-Up' confidence.

But at the swelteringly hot poolside (I haven't quite organised an appropriate wardrobe for swimming supervision and usually end up looking red in the face and uncomfortably hot and sticky at the end of the half an hour) I can't quite believe the level of 'parental support' in evidence.

One Mum, dressed in baseball cap and and sports t-shirt, and looking more like an instructor than the actual swimming teacher, struts around the water's edge literally screaming at her son to correct his stroke/speed up/slow down/breathe differently. Whilst her garb marks her out as taking the whole thing just a wee bit too seriously, she is not alone in her vocalisation. In fact, at times I can barely see what is going on in the lesson for the number of grown-ups anxiously prowling the tiles and barking orders at their offspring.

Another mum, whose son clearly has an aversion to water and has sat on the side refusing entry for the last fortnight, now leaves him to endure this torture on his own, disappearing at the start of the lesson (presumably as she can't deal with the waterside tantrum which is now inflicted upon the rest of us.)

I confess that I want Gertie to do well in there, but mostly just feel relieved that I don't have to go through the rigmarole of getting ready for swimming without having the opportunity to actually 'swim' myself anymore. And any thoughts I might have harboured about wanting to encourage her swimming development are put on hold by the spectre of the super-coaches that surround the pool. I don't want to be one!

Gilby is obviously a long way from this point, and he goes swimming with his daddy on a Thursday morning. Happily, the swimming pool is right next door to where I work, so I try to organise a 'break' for some point during his lesson so that I can pop in and see how he is getting on. I managed to time it to coincide with the end of the lesson this week, so that I could give him big cuddles as he came out. I made the mistake of stripping him down before wrapping him in his towel so that my work clothes didn't get too wet. He rewarded me by weeing down said work clothes.

I handed him back to Daddy through gritted teeth, waving and smiling and wondering at the wisdom of my decision to try and juggle work and motherhood more successfully whilst simultaneously attempting to disguise the piss-stain on my dress.

Getting Our Skates On

Yesterday was a really special day. It began with a typical exchange over breakfast, the kind that makes me marvel at my daughter's playful approach to language.

Gertie detected that the marmalade on her toast was "too blimpetty". When I raised an enquiring eyebrow she explained patiently that that meant that it "gets right on your tongue and makes it hurt a bit". ('Sharp', I concluded to myself, but chose not to share it, since blimpetty seemed a much more apt description.)

She then observed that marmalade was obviously for mummies, really, because it had the 'marm' sound in it. I didn't think I ought to mention Daddy's penchant for marmite at that point.

But then we headed up to London to visit Grandpa Mac and after a quick coffee and lots of presents at Victoria Station, we decided on the Natural History museum as a good way to spend the day. It must be twenty years since I have been there myself and although it might be a bit beyond Gilby, my sponge of a three-and-a-half-year-old daughter would certainly get something from it.

But it took us a long while to get there, because as we came out of the tube station at South Kensington we were confronted by the temporary ice-skating rink. Isn't that nice, I thought. We can watch all the other people skating round and it still feels Christmassy. Gertie had other ideas. "Can we do it, Mum? Dad?"

Mum and Dad tossed for the pleasure. (Not entirely sure about that sentence; let me confirm that we tossed a coin...) I lost, and found myself clutching two pairs of skates while Daddy and Grandpa clutched a baby and a poised camera, respectively.

It did not begin well. The intervening time between me last donning a pair of skates is probably close to that of my last visit to the museum, so I wasn't exactly 'solid' on the ice. Gertie had no idea what she was letting herself in for, and it took us fifteen minutes to edge our way down to the little learner-rink with several slips along the way. Gertie had no balance at all. We finally got there and I left her clinging on to Daddy on the other side of the wall while I skated back to try and purchase a £5 stabilising penguin for her to cling on too. No luck. All the penguins were already taken. This was looking like a disastrous idea. Then some kind soul lent us their penguin, and we were off. Slowly, inching, but we were definitely off. The pleasure on her face as Gertie edged a few feet forwards without falling was amazing to see. And she picked herself up each time she did fall over with admirable determination. After another fifteen minutes she was ready to let go of the penguin, and skate over (very slowly and cautiously) to me.

"I'm doing it, I'm doing it!" She was thrilled and so was I. And it meant I got to skate off in the big rink for a few moments (badly and without the grace of many of the other skaters, but I was doing it, I was doing it, too!)

The museum was fantastic. How scary is that T-rex model? I struggled to explain volcanoes to Gertie, but she quite liked that exhibit anyway. Her favourite thing was the wave-machine. I think that might be on next year's Christmas list to Santa, which could cause problems. Daddy was in his element in 'Creepy Crawlies'. I can't wait to do it all again when Gilby is a bit older.

The two of them giggled all the way home on the train, even though it was an hour past bedtime by the time we got back.

Why do I have to go back to work tomorrow? Oh yes, because we wouldn't be able to do stuff like that if I didn't, I remember now.

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.

Home Alone (For Forty Minutes)

I experienced a small and totally unexpected and ever-so-slightly-guilty pleasure today.

I have been back at work for two months now, and Brenda, the wonder from Down Under has been living with us for about the same length of time. (She is amazing, but doesn't look after the children all the time as they are still attending nursery for a couple of days a week; she has just begun another part time job at a local adventure farm park.)

Anyway, she was working at the farm this afternoon and I had to do the nursery run. I also, happily, finished work a little early today. Usually I have to pick up in a mad dash on my way home, but today I just went home first to get everything ready. I could turn lights on, have supper all prepared and then just hop into the car and get the kids.

I couldn't work out was odd as I came into the house. Everything was as it should be. Except that it felt different. And sort of smelled different. And definitely sounded a bit different. And suddenly it dawned on me: this was the first time I had been 'home alone' in nearly eight months. Ever since Gilby was born, in fact.

And I had a whole forty minutes there - in my own house - with only my self for company. I had completely forgotten what it was like. There was just silence and everything was tidy and I was in control. It was really, truly odd. I sort of savoured it, but then it was over oh-so-quickly and once again the house was filled with noise and colour and mess and 'hecticity'. I'm sure that's not a word but it features regularly in my vocabulary.

So now I can't wait until the next time I am able to sneak home alone. Why didn't anyone tell me how great it was?

Inner Ear and Inner Sanctum

More guilt from the 'recently-working-and-not-very-happy-about-it' mum this week.

My baby, Gilby, got an inner ear infection and I didn't notice it until after the worst was over. I came home on Thursday and spotted lots of nasty gunky stuff in both ears, so rushed him up to the surgery. The doctor actually said to me, "Well he's not in pain now, but he would have been two days ago..." Excuse me while I just punch myself in the head.

On the upside, I have been invited into the 'inner sanctum', as I was included in a night out with the Ummer Nursery Mums this week. (Gertie actually stopped substituting 'ummer' for 'other' a year ago, but for some reason neither my husband nor I have made the same linguistic leap...)

I don't know what I have done to deserve such an honour, but it was good fun and something of an eye-opener. Discussion involved the politics of the nursery (I simply had no idea!) and Other Children. It did make me wonder what might have been said about us on all previous nights out. Whilst the wine flowed, I felt that I was undergoing some kind of test.

Only another invitation will determine whether or not I passed, and meanwhile I will contempate whether or not I want to!

Rose Tinted Glasses Perfectly Perched

After three days back at work I am already guilty of wistfully viewing the last six months of maternity leave through rose tinted spectacles.

The mornings now need to be organised with military precision. In order for four of us to get out of the house with something resembling sanity, everything needs to be completely prepared the evening before.

All nursery bags ready packed, lunches made, clothes laid out, work clothes pre-selected for the grown-ups. (Particularly Mummy, as the stuff that she used to wear to work no longer fits quite properly, so a high degree of creativity is required to generate a working wardrobe...) And the cars need to be properly arranged in the driveway so that I can make the first getaway, leaving Daddy to do the nursery run.

Even so, the first few days have been slightly fraught and I have made it to work with only seconds to spare.

And when I get home there are a mountain of domestic things to do before I can even begin to relax. Stuff that used to take me all day now needs to be crammed into a couple of hours; less if there is to be any chance of some fleeting relaxation during the evening . I know that this will all calm down and that we are only a few days in so not yet fully into the swing of things. I know that life will regain a more sustainable rhythm - but right now it is all quite hectic. So I look back lovingly to last week and the week before, and the week before that when:

The house was always clean (I picture it with freshly cut flowers in most of the rooms); I was completely on top of the laundry and ironing; I managed to bake bread and even mince pies; I cooked nice meals regularly; I read books, played imaginative games and did various puzzles with Gertie all day long; there was time to do my blog; I read plenty of improving novels.

But anyone who has been reading this blog for longer than a week will know that there is not an ounce of truth in this. In fact, there were plenty of days where simply managing to get dressed by mid-morning was cause for extensive celebration. My iron and I do not have the best working relationship, and any day where there was baby sick on only one side of my head was considered a good hair day.


This is written in response to Writing Workshop 10 by Josie at Sleep is For the Weak.

Chicken Scraps, Anyone?

Despite the snow's best efforts to prevent me, I have managed to get Gilby to his first few settling in sessions at nursery this week, in preparation for my return to work.

Feeling guilty about the whole process anyway, I have taken extra care with packing his bag and preparing his lunch and bottles. Everything is carefully named; special 'dishwasher-proof' labels on the plastic items and his cot sheets have his name sewn in. I never do sewing! It is as though all this extra detail will somehow make up for the fact that I will not be with him through the day soon.

Anyway, he went off for his first half-day yesterday, and the one thing I had forgotten to get was a lunch-box for him. So I just took an old ice-cream container, put his name on the top and filled it with all his goodies. He's only just weaning so we are still at the mush and puree stage.

Now, I also keep an old ice-cream container near the sink to fill with scraps for the chickens. It makes me feel good to throw out less rubbish, and the chickens feast on Gertie's left over porridge, the vegetable peelings, the remains of supper. You know where this is going, don't you?

My husband did the nursery run yesterday morning, taking Gertie and Gilby in together for the first time. He was explaining all the timings carefully to the nursery carer who would have responsibilty for Gilby.

"And my wife has made him a delicious lunch..." and he lifted the lid of the carton with a flourish - to reveal the extremely unappetising chicken scraps. You quite literally would not feed them to a dog.

Failed again!

(Much laughter ensued, and he did come back and get the right box but I have a feeling that I will not be allowed to forget this...)

One Large Parcel of Guilt, Perfectly Wrapped

I'm carrying around a large parcel of guilt and it's not just a result of the Catholic education, though I'm sure that features.

I was set to go back to work on Friday. Full time. Gilby is not quite sixth months, but given term times, exam classes, financial considerations and all the rest of it, this seemed like the moment.

He was booked in for 'familiarisation' sessions at the local nursery. He will be going three days a week. His sister is already there and she will be attending on the same days. So far so good. On the other days I have an ex-student coming over from Australia to look after them, and Daddy will have one of those mornings off too, to take them both to their swimming lessons. And the grandparents are all very supportive. Great.

But the snow interfered with Gilby having his practice gos at nursery as it was closed last week. So now I am supposed to return to work without even being sure that he is settled. My Australian friend has problems with her visa and has not yet booked flights. And to make things worse, when we visited this morning, I discovered that he is the youngest baby at the nursery by three months.

What on earth does that say?

So all in all, for what would be a difficult time anyway, my guilt and anxiety are growing by the second. It's not feeling very happy-new-yearish any more!