Lockdown Letter

One of Eddie's homeschooling activities this week was to write a letter. He will be heading into Year 4 in September, and the idea was to introduce himself to his new new teachers.

He carefully drafted the letter in his notebook, then borrowed my typewriter to type it up. He seems fascinated by the 'instant' nature of the typewriter, in comparison to the laboriousness of having to wait until the end of wordprocessing something to print it off and get the hard copy in your hands.It's an interesting perspective.

Anyway, here's the finished version.

Now, as an English teacher I'm very happy with the layout and paragraphing. Nice work there, on the whole.

I'm less excited by the unintentionally ironic misspelling of 'literacy' in identifying it as his favourite subject.

Then there is the gradual fading out of capital letters and punctuation (some of which can be blamed on the typewriter - it's a temperamental old thing) and the allergy to spaces between words at times.

But I can let those go. 

I'm more bothered by the fact the implicit suggestion that his mother is weird, he's being 'left behind' at school and that he has the onerous task of feeding the cat and dog, as though he lives in some form of Victorian workhouse. The idea that sleeping on a sofa is a particularly human characteristic that the dog has adopted is also a tad troublesome. 

For the record, the chicken run is now a peaceful, harmonious - it just took a few days for the pecking order to be established! (Blanche is in charge, in case you were wondering.)

Currently reading: A Journal of the Plague Year by Daniel Defoe

Mispronunciation Megaboosts

Everyone has a story about the kind of mispronunciation that happens because you have only seen a word in print, never heard it spoken out loud. I can remember reading a Catherine Cookson novel (when I was way too young to be reading Catherine Cookson) and stopping to ask my mum what a w-horror was (whore). She burst out laughing when she realised what I was referring to. I'm not sure I got an adequate explanation.

Eddie, this morning, told his sister that she smelt of 'co-lodge-knee'. It took us a while to work out that he was referring to her perfume as 'cologne'.

Gilby wanted to know what people did to get sent to 'gayol' and why it was so bad.

While both caused some amusement, they get me back by uttering utterly incomprehensible game-related statements such as 'It's a nightmare because I always need to megaboost by stage four when I run out of flying monkeys.'

Or something like that.

Increasingly I find that I have nothing to contribute to mealtime conversation.

I wonder if the flying monkeys smell of colodgeknee before they megaboost, and whether that gets them out of gayol.





Currently reading: Girl, Woman, Other by Bernadine Evaristo

Lockdown

I wrote a poem called 'Lockdown'.  Apparently the poet laureate did, too, so that's not very original. He published his last week, though; so much quicker off the mark than me. But then he's poet laureate. 

Lockdown

The thermometer thrives in the fruit bowl. 

It has moved from the anonymity

of the bathroom cupboard and has new status.

There’s daily disorder while the new world 

order works itself out. What is essential?

Narrowing of horizons on all sides;

as the requisite distance further widens.

We find new fulcrums on which to pivot.

Lines are marked out for us to stand behind,

that were not there before. Along the line 

much is online and that line must be toed.

Solidarity gestures remotely 

jostle with unhealthy suspicion of 

strangers given wide berths. WhatsApp, on tap, 

alerts to the communal carers’ clap.

The pace of change has infected us all.

A nation’s febricity rises into

unsettling peace. I reach for an apple.

Ted Gooda

March 2020

Currently reading: Reading Poetry by Tom Furniss and Michael Bath

(Which is what has prompted today's burst of creativity.)

Guacamole Legs

Like 850, 000 other people around the world, we have been participating in a daily act of worship by following PE with Joe Wicks every morning this week on YouTube.

In the spirit of home educating, both hearth-parents are joining in with the kids. Kempton also decided that she wanted to be part of the action this morning.

And part-way through the session Eddie declared that he was unable to continue since his legs 'felt like guacamole'.

While very much enjoying the terribly middle-class simile (it is evidently far too long since he has had any working-class jelly) I am inclined to agree with him.

It is Thursday evening, day four, and I am in agony. From now on I have declared myself allergic to anything Joe Wicks says that has the word 'squat' in it.

And I can't be the only mother that is ever so slightly miffed that Joe thought it was a good idea to jump against the walls during yesterday's Spiderman move...



Currently reading: War Doctor by David Nott

Sausages! Or Why I Can't Write Blog Posts Anymore

Writing these blog posts has got much more difficult of late. 

Less is funny and more is stressful as they each get older. Eddie will reach double figures later this year, Gilby will start secondary school and Gertie is twelve, going on twenty-five. Hormones mean more-moans, and nothing much seems very amusing. Their problems are more complicated these days. Tantrums aren't cute, they are ugly; and I wouldn't want to write about them. 

Successes sound boastful or smug: both boys scored hat tricks for their football teams in successive weekends; Gertie came fifth at the World Irish dancing championships.

And even the stuff that is funny - Eddie has developed a habit of including the word 'sausages' in every sentence - is difficult to convey. (It is both an insult and a compliment, as in, "You left the door wide open, you sausage, " and "He scored a sausage goal!")

So, for posterity, here's an account of yesterday's not untypical Saturday.

Morning:

Eddie played a very ordinary game of football, and didn't really distinguish himself on the pitch. (That's 'ordinary' in the Australian sense of the adjective.')

Gilby's game was off so he stayed home and watched the F1 on YouTube.

Gertie had a lie in.

Afternoon:

Eddie went to a Flip Out Party, didn't end up in casualty, and got dropped home by another mum so I didn't have to endure the two-hour hell of it.

Gilby went cycling with his mates, then for a swim. (If football's off then there cannot be enough sport in the day, no matter what he does.)

Gertie tidied her room and then went to the gym. The unprompted room-tidying thing is a recent and welcome development - she has gone from living in filth to living in immaculate spotlessness - all seemingly prompted by the addition of a couple of fluffy cushions and a fur throw for Christmas. They appear to have turned her from Stig of the Dump into Marie Kondo. I'm not complaining.

And that's it, really.

Ah. I think I have it. I can see why material doesn't present itself. They aren't with me for the good bits - they are each off, doing their thing. 

And I'm only left with feeding them, doing the laundry, being the metaphorical punch-bag for anything that isn't quite right with their world, and hurrying them out of the door for school. Sausages!

Currently reading: When the adults change, everything changes by Paul Dix

Birth Giver

For a long time now I have had Hearth Father in my phone as 'Love of my Life'. This is not some saccharine romantic gesture, more a way of reminding myself when I am answering the phone (through gritted teeth because he is late, or because I want to carry on the morning's row) that I did in fact choose to marry the man and 'love and honour' him for the rest of my life. 

Unfortunately, on my current mobile telephone there aren't enough characters to spell out the full moniker, and so I answer the phone to 'Love of my Lif'.

Which would be fine if it weren't for the connotations it brings of Douglas Adams and John Lloyd's Meaning of Liff, where the word 'liff' is in fact defined as 'a book, the contents of which are totally belied by its cover'. Don't think I want to over-analyse that one.

Anyway, it was only this weekend that I discovered that I, too, was on the receiving end of similar treatment. I was standing next to Gertie to 'WhatsApp' some photos from my phone to hers when I saw that her notification announced a message from 'Birth Giver'. 

Not quite as affectionate as 'Mum'. More sort of, well, functional and arbitrary than that. 

Currently pondering changing my contacts to update her entry as '12 Hour Labour, Induction & Episiotomy'.

Confessions about Confession

Today was Eddie's 'Sacrament of Reconciliation' in preparation for his First Holy Communion next week.

He has spent eight months taking classes to get ready, and has completed various chapters of his preparatory book. 

One page asked him to complete the sentence, 'When I grow up, I want to be...' To my surprise, his answer was 'a footballer'. It's Gilby who has always seemed to be the sporting star, and though Eddie is a dancer and a gymnast, he hasn't shown a great deal of football ability thus far. 

But then, underneath, he wrote, 'But my Plan B is engineer, scientist or artist'. Nothing like keeping your options open, or embracing an interdisciplinary approach, then.

He was a little bit concerned prior to the act of confession itself. Understandably so - I mean, this is Eddie we're talking about - but he concluded, 'It was actually fine. Even though Gilby told me it was intense'.  Good older brother. Telling it how it is.

But he also observed, 'It's awkward when you can't think of any more sins to say'. Indeed. Which makes me think that he must have a rather inflated sense of his own goodness. He whispered to me that as well as the penance, the priest had counselled him to 'say more prayers' and 'be a better friend'. 

I have to confess myself that I was a tad disappointed that going to bed when he's told, not answering back, keeping his room tidy, not fighting with his brother and doing what he's told generally weren't mentioned. But perhaps the prayers will help with that.

There was also a rehearsal for the main event. Eddie's thoughts? 'The bread tastes like plastic and the wine tastes like beer'. Not a great vintage, then.

Currently reading: Here Come The Girls by Pat Barker

Human, or Dancer

At a recent dance performance I failed to recognise my own daughter when we poked our heads backstage to wish her luck.

I only knew it was she since I got a dismissive finger wave from a mascara-clad, crimped, sequinned, gum-chewing pre-teen that I assumed must be her - as we backed hurriedly out of the room.

On stage, I recognised her from her dance steps rather than her face.

And whilst I was proud of her younger brother dancing with all the big kids, it was pointed out to me that he more resembles a table football peg than a boy:

Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan

Literacy and Tulips

Eddie and I went for a walk this morning.  I'd like to say that it was a meandering purposeless walk; walking for the sake of it, but no - we were in a hurry to get to his holy communion class and steaming down the road at a hundred miles an hour running slightly late, but not late enough to take the car for the short distance.

To make up for the relentlessness of the pace, (and in an attempt at 'good' parenting) I tried to point out a few things along the way. 'Look at those budding tulips,' I urged.

At which point we made an interesting discovery.

'Tulip is one of my favourite words,' he enthused. 'You can really taste it.'

Really, I thought. And what exactly does it taste of? Masticated flesh, perhaps? But of course I didn't say that.

'It tastes of air,' he explained. 'But air in a tube.'

Oh, right.

Turns out that we may have a little synesthete on our hands. Later on we were talking about whether he preferred Maths or Literacy at school.

He physically shuddered at the word 'Literacy' - though it is one of his favourite things.

'I am probably better at literacy,' he explained, but I hear and sort of feel the whoosh of the paper-cutting thing when you say it.'

'The guillotine?' (Not to brag, but I have quite an impressive one in the study: it was one of my favourite Christmas presents last year.)

'Yes, that.'

At bedtime I did another little check. What colour is 'A', I wanted to know.

'Orange,' came the reply. Without any hesitation. C is blue, and S is red, apparently.

OK. So my friend Google tells me that apparently four percent of the population experience this phenomenon of experiencing a cognitive intertwining of sensory perception. But common amongst writers and artists.

Ergo, he'll probably grow up to be a poet or a novelist. Obvs.  Except that 'literacy' and a guillotine is a slightly unfortunate association...



Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan

A Variation On 'The Dog Ate My Homework'

As a teacher, I have heard every excuse for late or missing homework over more than two decades.

At home, I'm very good at checking on the homework produced by Gertie. Obviously I want her to succeed and all, but I also don't want her to get into trouble with any of my colleagues now that she is in secondary school. Might be a bit awkward. It helps that she is relatively organised, and that the homework is emailed to me directly as well as to her through the school's automated system.

Gilby isn't so good at motivating himself to do anything that isn't football, so I've also had half an eye on his homework over the years and we've had a number of Sunday afternoon 'prompts'. (He might call them 'rows'.)

But in the tradition of third children having to fend for themselves, it seems I have rather abandoned Eddie - and so he's had to organise himself for a while. And when I say 'a while' that probably means his entire school career after the first fortnight.

But it's holiday time and Christmas is all wrapped up, so I thought it would be good to show interest.  It provoked mixed feelings, therefore, when I came across this little gem in his homework book this morning:

Didn't seem quite fair to berate him for the spelling, missed capitals, etc. There is something refreshingly - and frighteningly - honest about seven-year-olds.

Currently reading: Things A Bright Girl Can Do by Sally Nicholls

Happy Hour

It was a hot day.

Eddie was a long time in the kitchen and some worrying noises were emanating from behind the door. But he'd only asked if he could help himself to a drink. What could possibly be the issue?

At the point at which my interior monologue was suggesting that I ought to be on the verge of conducting an investigation, he emerged.

'Just making myself a little drink,' he grinned. 'Like I said.'

'MUM!' Gertie yelled. 'Eddie's cut up a lemon with the apple slice!'

You can't argue with his commitment. Though I have no idea where he has the idea that an afternoon refreshment needs to look like something that might be served by members of the Human League in Leicester Square. My similes are a little out of date. Something that would be presented during happy hour in the Atlantic Bar? Just googled that and it apparently closed in 2006. (I don't get out much, these days.) 

But what inspired him? No idea at all. Can't think where he gets it from. Nothing to see here. 

*Whistles innocently.

How to Write a Good...Blarb

The writing theme continues in one of my favourite moments from Mothers' Day. In a clear step up from text messages, Eddie made a card for me. It was a card with a difference, though: It had its own, erm, 'blarb'.

In case your deciphering-a 6-year-old's-handwriting-spectacles are not to hand, it says:

Small boy cald Freddie rites mothers day card to his mum.

And there's not really much to argue with about that. Killer blurb-writing, I say.

In place of the usual flowers or chocolates, my gift was a brown moleskin notebook. They know me well, this family of mine. But another treat of the day was watching Eddie and Gertie perform in an Irish dancing version of Grease. Yes, you did read that right.

Mini-Danny definitely enjoyed having his Pink Ladies in tow.

And, finally, Hearth-Father got to celebrate too, with the keenly anticipated arrival of a hot-off-the-press memoir detailing his mother's childhood in India - courtesy of Great-Hearth-Aunt! Stories of his mother and her sisters dodging cobra-bites, collecting pods from the Tamarind tree, playing with pet goats and riding in a gharry provided welcome insight into his roots. Hearth-Father, it seems, is descended from three generations who served the Raj.

Currently reading: Front Verandah - Back Verandah by Anne Grieger. (When I can wrestle it from Hearth-Father.)

Future Careers

Gertie has announced, from the lofty position of Year 6, that she would like to be a 'human rights' lawyer.

I think she might be actually be headed into discrimination and gender equality law. This term's topic at school is 'Explorers', and asked to choose from the list of famous explorer names on the board one to research independently, she immediately raised her hand and asked why they were all male.

Then, this afternoon I went to pick her up from 'Girls' Football' club after school. I wondered why she looked completely dry given the drizzle. 'Oh no, we played in the hall because it was wet. We can't play outside when it is wet because we only do football on the playground, not on the field.' I enquired as to whether this was the same for the boys.

'No. But don't worry, Mum, I'm already planning to raise it at school council next week...' 🙂

Still we've come a long way since the Intelligent Parents' Manual of 1944, where I have reached this little gem: 

Currently reading: All That Man Is by David Szalay

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! 

Characterisation through Rubik's Cubes

I owned one in the eighties (who didn't?) but was never interested enough to solve a Rubik's cube.

According to an official-sounding website : 'In 1974, a young Professor of architecture in Budapest named Erno Rubik created an object that was not supposed to be possible. His solid cube twisted and turned - and still it did not break or fall apart. With colourful stickers on its sides, the Cube got scrambled and thus emerged the first “Rubik’s Cube”. It took well over a month for Erno to work out the solution to his puzzle. Little did he expect that Rubik’s Cube would become the world’s best-selling toy ever. As a teacher, Erno was always looking for new, more exciting ways to present information, so he used the Cube’s first model to help him explain to his students about spatial relationships. Erno has always thought of the Cube primarily as an object of art, a mobile sculpture symbolizing stark contrasts of the human condition: bewildering problems and triumphant intelligence; simplicity and complexity; stability and dynamism; order and chaos.

Well, in our household it seems to illustrate not just stark contrasts in the human condition, but start contrasts in character.

Presented with a cube each, they have responded in very different ways.

Gilby has spent hours meticulously researching solutions. (I suspect that Father Christmas might even bring him a book on it.) He takes it in logical stages and is making good, if somewhat slow, progress. His eight-year-old mind wants to understand this thing.

Eddie has...ripped the stickers off and made the whole thing black so that it is perpetually 'solved'.

What the Six-Year-Old Said to the Bishop

Last night was the induction mass for our new parish priest, presided over by the bishop, and Gertie and Gilby were asked to serve. (Dangerous in these daddy-long-legs infested days; nevertheless Gilby maintained concentration throughout the service.)

Eddie was (unusually for him) immaculately behaved. Whilst this had more to do with falling asleep right from the responsorial psalm all the way through to communion, than with any great triumph of will, it was worth the dead arm for some peace.

At the end of the service, the bishop shook hands with all of the congregation and thanked Gertie and Gilby profusely for their help. Eddie, wide-eyed and only just awake held out his tiny hand. The bishop, with a twinkle in his eye, looked back and forth between them. "Well," he said, "I think you must be the brother of young Gilbert and young Gertrude here! How do you think I know that?"

"Duh. Because of the eyes and the hair," came the unimpressed retort of the newly-six-year-old.

And the bishop wasn't the only one to be on the receiving end of this treatment. An unsuspecting member of the blue-rinse brigade had overheard that it had been Eddie's birthday. "Let me guess...you were...fifty!" she joked, affectionately.

"Don't be ridiculous. I was six, " came the dismissive, refusing-to-join-in-the-banter reply.

When People Look Smudged

Life doesn't get much more exciting than the eve of your sixth birthday; hence this morning's 3.20 am wake-up, I suppose.  Similar happened a few Christmases ago, but this is the first time for a birthday.  I did managed to get Eddie to stay in bed until 6.30 am in the end, but it was a struggle.

Everything was 'epic' today: the crossbow 'which is my very best weapon, and always will be'; the Mister Maker drawers, the Yoda cushion, the Star Wars bedding. He particularly liked the fluttery notes that came from envelopes (thank you GAS and MGM if you are reading).

One of his favourite presents was a real, actual grown-up digital camera. He was a bit disappointed when his first few pictures came out 'smudged'. I love his language choices, I really do. Part of me is sorry that he has found the delete button already and the disastrous early photographs are not preserved for posterity (I have an album full of smudges).

In other news, Gilby appears to have developed a phobia of daddy-long legs.  Slightly problematic given their ubiquity right now.



Currently reading: Love in a Cold Climate by Nancy Mitford

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

Stumped

Instead of a summer holiday this year we have decided to spend the time at home doing the 'work' that needs doing on the house.

The first job is to construct a home office in the garden. A log cabin is arriving from Holland tomorrow morning (delivered by 'Roger', whom we have now nicknamed 'Roger the Cabin Boy', inexplicably collapsing into laughter whenever he is mentioned). Today's project therefore involved clearing the space ready for its arrival.

At one stage Hearth-Father was being roundly beaten by a stubborn tree stump; he broke a spade trying to dig it out.

Eddie came over to take a look. 'See, what you want to do there, is, you want to bury a bone just beside it?'.  As four pairs of eyes gazed questioningly at him, he patiently explained, 'Well, then Kempy (our golden retriever) will just dig down really hard and dig up the stump for us!' Simple. He gave a detailed description, with some accompanying mime in case we couldn't quite picture his solution.

When I asked how he had come by this idea he told me nonchalantly that he 'read a lot of books'.

This evening we have acquired a digger, so tomorrow should herald faster progress...

Currently reading: Theft by Finding Diaries Volume 1 by David Sedaris

Vowels Rise Like Balloons

Gertie turned ten earlier this week. TEN. I have a decade's worth of experience of parenting under my belt and I'm still none the wiser. The whole thing was, frankly, bewildering.

Her chosen method of celebration was a disco, for twenty eight of her closest friends. At home.

This took some strategic preparation: The borrowing of lighting systems to rival Blackpool; the sourcing of a playlist where not only did I not know many of the artists, but I couldn't actually distinguish between singers and song titles; the downloading of 'mixing software' in order to negate the requirement for a DJ; (Hearth-father secretly fancied the job, I reckon, but his lack of knowledge of contemporary pop rivals mine) the rearranging of every piece of furniture in the house to make way for a 'dance floor'; the purchase of more than fifty sausages, baps, and burgers for the accompanying barbecue. And so on. I feel that my new bookcases were enhanced no end by the sympathetic illumination. A 'bibliotheque', no less:

The allotted time came. I don't know what the collective noun for ten-year-olds is, but they arrived in their hordes. Initially there was a stand off: Girls in the sitting room (cunningly disguised as a nightclub), boys upstairs. There was a collective squeal everytime somebody new arrived. Then some ice was broken, after which they screamed, they sweated, they took selfies and slid down the staircase. They raided Eddie's toy box and had mock sword fights and gun battles. (Am I delighted to say that gender differences didn't seem to count? Not sure.) They charged around the house after the one person who has a mobile phone.

They did everything, in fact, but dance. Still, that's a disco for you.

After a while their noise seemed to float joyously, somehow, in a constant cacophonous chorus (the wine may have helped), clear vowels rising like balloons. Which rather reminded me of Plath's poem, copied below.

Ten years on from the 'birth day', I think I still feel similarly.



Morning Song 
BY SYLVIA PLATH

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons





Currently reading: The Husband's Secret by Lianne Moriarty