Teething Trouble

It was a beautiful day last weekend when Gertie made her first Holy Communion. The sun shone down for my little girl's big day.

But I am struggling a little this weekend once more.  Not over complex theological questions (though she certainly likes to pose those) but over the tooth fairy, and the lengths I am now going to allow the 'magic' to last.  

The tooth in question came out on Friday at school, and Gertie left it in her tray, forgetting to take it home at the end of the day.  She was a little bit upset about this on Friday night, but by Saturday she had found the answer:  She resolved to write to the tooth fairy, setting her straight about the situation, and suggesting that the tooth fairy retrieve the tooth from school, but leave the money under her pillow as usual.

I posted my dilemma on Facebook, and it was quickly resolved by a friend who knew someone who knew someone who has access to the school over the weekend.  I am reliably informed that the tooth will have been removed by Monday morning, and I am fairly confident that the tooth fairy will visit this evening.

What a difference a week makes.

Currently reading: Before the Fall by Juliet West

Walking with sunshine

We came home in the cold and dark, and in pouring rain tonight. It was the sideways rain that soaks you. The porch was flooded again, and by the back door was impassable due to the water: the highest I have ever seen it. The trip out had been unsuccessful too. It was for Gertie's swimming lesson. She has changed groups and we got the time wrong and so she had missed the lesson anyway and the whole thing was therefore an unnecessary waste of time, and needless additional soaking. Are you getting a sense of my mood?


So heading for the car, with the damp permeating my skin (well, ok, just my boots then) and after another stressful day of work, I was muttering various unrepeatable phrases under my breath.


And here is why I want to be six again. Because what Gertie said, in contrast, was this:


"Mummy, I wish I could have my very own sun to take around with me. On a string though, so I didn't burn my hands. Then I could always walk in sunshine."





Currently Reading: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

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."

No Smiles

My daughter told me that this week that she couldn't be loved very much because her name didn't have a smile in it! I asked her what on earth she meant. She explained that when you said Mumm-y or Daddy-y or Gilb-y or Edd-y you had to make the shape of a smile with your mouth. When you said Gertrude you didn't. Simple. No one loved her because her name doesn't smile.

I certainly wasn't smiling at Gilby's new game. He has a fascination with rubbing sun cream in - to himself and to everyone else. His favourite thing is to do it with real suncream, but alas there hasn't been a great deal of opportunity over the last few rain-soaked weeks. So he just pretends. I noticed however, that it was really feeling 'moist' as he was rubbing imaginary suncream in to my legs. I looked down to check that he hadn't, in fact, got hold of some expensive facecream from the bathroom. (Not that I own such stuff anymore, should my husband be reading this.)

But no, it was much, much worse than that. He had tried to make the suncream experience as 'real' as possible by using his own spit. Delightful. He couldn't understand why I didn't want him to 'do' my face...

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.

It's Such a Perfect Day Until...

Let me paint a picture of the Easter harmony and domestic bliss that issued forth from our home yesterday.

The sun is shining and we are in a kind of paradise, our very own walled garden. The children are having fun and their shrieks and laughter drown out the noise of the traffic from the A29 rushing past, so that you could almost imagine you were really in the countryside.

Both children had a sleep simultaneously following their morning swim, so that I have been able to get lots of housework done and do some of the enormous pile of Easter marking that I have brought home with me, so that I don't have The Guilt, and am actually able to sit outside and enjoy the afternoon.

I am on a sun lounger with a book. And although at 20 weeks I already resemble a beach ball with protruding limbs, my children are not judgemental. They are both smothered in enough factor-bastard suncream to last the England cricket team on an entire tour of Australia, so I don't have to worry about sunburn. Gertie is alternating between bouncing on her trampoline and splashing in the paddling pool with her little brother. We had the foresight to fill it up early this morning, so it is now sun-warmed and a very pleasant temperature. Gilby is content to sit in the two inches of water and steadily empty it out using a variety of plastic cups and containers onto the lawn (recently mown and not entirely overgrown). The bare patches of grass are covered with strips of turf, which, whilst not yet properly laid, at least give the impression of an expanse of green instead of a sea of mud.

The three vines we planted in a fit of optimism are still standing upright in their respective places rather than having been uprooted and dragged across the garden by the puppy as they have been most mornings this week. In fact, Kempton is uncharacteristically restrained, and none of the children's toys have yet been chewed today. She is not bothering the chickens, and the cat, in turn, is not bothering Kempton. The new garden furniture is fully assembled and in a shady part of the garden ready for when we all get too hot later on. It is 'rattan effect' and not the rattan itself that we thought we were buying, but we are over that now.

Peace reigns.

In my head, I hear the strains of Lou Reed: It's such a perfect day/I'm glad I spent it with you....

Gilby decides that he wants to strip off and be a 'nunga punga', and so his sister joins him. Together they run around the garden playing happily and cool off in the water from time to time.

And then, I suddenly hear, "Naughty Kempton, naughty Kempton!" I look up from my book. Something is wrong with the paddling pool. It has gone a funny colour. Strange things are floating in it. What on earth could Kempton have done? And then the truth reveals itself.

I mentally change the words of the song in my head: It's such a perfect day/Until Gilby does a poo...

I'm not sure which was worse; the fact that he did it, or the fact that he tried to blame it on the dog!

Swallowing Sunshine

Gertie announced the arrival of good weather at the weekend by rushing back into the house after a few moments in the garden, claiming,
"Mummy, mummy, mummy! I've just swallowed some sunshine!"

The consumption of sunshine has continued with lots of outdoor playing. Daddy compounded his knee injury with some competitive keepy-uppy; suppers have been cooked and eaten al fresco, and, in the run-up to Wimbledon, Gilby has decided that his preferred surface is grass - on which to hone his newly discovered forwards-crawling skills.

But best of all has been Gertie and her 'skipping'. This consists of running forwards in gleeful circles around the garden, waving the skipping rope vaguely in front of her. At no point do her feet 'skip' over the rope, since they are a good foot behind the equipment at all times. It is an interesting technique; but she is quite happy, and assures me that she is 'very good' at skipping. I wonder: At what age can the little people learn to skip with a rope?

Up To Her Neck

We have just spent a gorgeous few days in Dorset staying with family. Glorious weather meant that I turned into Bad Mummy and let Gilby get a tiny bit sun burned on Friday. I prefer 'sun-kissed' in an attempt to alleviate the guilt.

We had a tranquil walk around the Blue Pool (one of Dorset's best kept secrets, I think), enjoyed the Dragon Easter Egg Hunt at Lulworth Castle; avoided falling off the edge during our cliff-top walk at Durdle Door; dodged difficult questions about the anatomy of the Cerne Abbas Giant, splashed in the sea at Weymouth, and caught a fleeting glimpse of Corfe Castle.

But on Saturday afternoon on Chesil Beach, this was one way to keep Gertie quiet!