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.)

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'.

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

I Need A Bigger Bedtime

"I need a bigger bedtime," said Eddie, as I went in to wake him up for a second time for school this morning when he failed to appear at breakfast after the first call.

Yes, I thought, perceptive of you. But, on the other hand, at whatever point in the evening I decide to brace myself and mention the 'b' word, you embark on a sort of squawking performance which I have come to interpret as indicating a level of resistance to the proposal. You are also master of delaying tactics, able to draw out the whole process for a good hour or so. It is, in fact, a tad stressful, if am to be entirely honest.

Though a bigger bedtime would make all of us happier, I thought, longingly. My wine glass could be filled earlier, for one thing. Not to mention the fact that I myself could also do with a bigger bedtime, frankly.

Still, it's hard to believe that something as small and innocent-looking as this can be so noisy and ferocious before sleep, or so grumpy when it wakes up.

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

As Sure as Eggs is Eggs

Gertie announced at breakfast that she had been studying reproduction at school.

Me choking on my cornflakes was taken as a sign to proceed.

"We were mostly looking at where the eggs come from and how they go through a system inside you."

At this point her younger brother decided to intervene.

"Eggs don't go through a system," Eddie explained dismissively. "They go through a duck."

I spluttered again. The cornflakes were not going down well this morning.

In other news, we have been doing this:

At least I can be safe in the knowledge that discussion of pelvic floor is a good few years off.



Currently reading: Teacher's Dead by Benjamin Zephaniah

The F-Word

Saying the F word is not big and it's not clever.

The F word being...'Foof'.

An innocent sounding word. Not even a word, in fact.

But in our house, saying this word is akin to being eaten alive by piranha fish. It is code for 'Please tickle me as hard as you can, immediately.' I dare not write it again, in case a little person happens to be looking over my shoulder. The origins of this word are obscure. Its potency and longevity are, however, not in doubt.

It happens at least once a day. Sometimes it is deliberate, sometimes someone is cajoled into saying 'f**f'. It always results in hysteria.

In other news, Eddie brought home his hand-made Fathers' Day card from nursery. The pre-schoolers are encouraged to dictate something 'personal' which is faithfully recorded by their key-worker inside the card.  I'm delighted to report that Eddie's reads: to daddy who is very good at play dough. When questioned, Eddie explained with a shrug that it was 'all he could think of'. Which made his father feel very special indeed. For foof's sake.

Currently reading: Oranges are not the only fruit by Jeanette Winterson

Saxophones, Mid Life Crises and Magic Dragons

I have recently taken a step towards a long-held ambition to play the saxophone. Not really sure why this particular instrument other than being a teenager of the 80s: surely the decade of the sax solo. I'm thinking of Haircut 100, the bit in The Lost Boys, Bruce Springsteen's Bobby Jean, and my personal favourite from INXS, Never Tear Us Apart. So, as I approach mid-life crisis territory it suddenly seems important to emulate these inspirations from my childhood.

From a 'murder mystery' evening, but this is perhaps how I am picturing my saxophone playing self...

I'm on lesson number four and so far so good.

Apart from the fact that suddenly, last week, I couldn't get a note from the thing. Now, my 'embouchure' isn't terrific, being a beginner, but I can usually make some sort of sound, and, let me tell you, now that I have learnt B flat I am capable of a mean (if slightly slow) rendition of Puff the Magic Dragon. So - what was wrong?

Something looked a bit bent out of shape at the top of the sax.  I had my suspicions, and quizzed the kids about whether any of them had been in to the study and touched it.

"Nope. I definitely wasn't there when it...dropped," Eddie reassured me.

Ok. So we have established that it 'dropped'. Well done, Eddie. Hoisted by your own command of the English language, aged 4. How much Eddie actually had to do with the 'dropping' remains speculation.

£45 of repairs later, the rules about not playing with Mummy's saxophone have now been firmly established. Puff continues to - well, if not quite 'frolic' then perhaps 'wallow'.




Currently reading: The Reader on the 6.27 by Jean-Paul Didierlaurent, translated by Ros Schwartz

Night Terrors: The Return of the Dreaded Anthelope

I'm fascinated by the way that children hear a word and make up the (wrong) meaning for it. I was guilty of this myself as a child. Apparently, I told my parents repeatedly that there was a 'hippotmus in Teasy's bedoom'.

Mum, understandably dismissed the idea. Given that we were living in North London at the time, the notion that there might be a large mammal from sub-Saharan Africa roaming around upstairs was fairly remote.  I was, however, fairly insistent about its presence. And, fed up with not being believed, I picked up the 'hippotmus' and carried it downstairs in my clenched fist.

I opened my hand to show my disbelieving parent the 'hippotmus' at which point it stung me. Somewhere along the way I had inexplicably substituted 'wasp' for 'hippotmus'.

Eddie has woken up a couple of times of late in absolute terror.  He explains that he is being chased by a giant 'anthelope'.  Initially, I thought he meant 'antelope' and I tried to explain that this deer-like creature wasn't terribly scary.  There is obviously a similar disconnect though between the noun and what it represents because Eddie is insistent about the danger of  this anthelope and dismissive of the idea that it might be related to Bambi.

At some point the mystery of the dreaded anthelope will, I am sure, reveal itself.  Meanwhile, we must against the danger of this creature. Difficult to do that when you aren't sure quite what it is.  Perhaps anthelopes truly are terrifying.  Frankly, I hope not to find out.



Currently reading: Lilies on the Land, a play by the Lions part

Feel the Force

I'm all nativitied out, now.

Gilby was a shepherd in his school production: A shepherd dressed in black with sunglasses and a walkie-talkie, but we love a cheeky anachronism or ten.

Eddie was a king (of course, again) in his nursery version.

Both delivered their lines beautifully, knew all the words and actions of their songs, made their mother cry and generally did what nursery and primary school nativity productions are supposed to do - including providing those moments of sublime but unintentional comedy through missed cues and prop-handling (poor baby Jesus slung mercilessly into his cradle is perennially amusing.)

Gertie's class do the Easter production (unless this is her way of letting me down gently with the news that she didn't get a part this year) but she watched her brothers in their different shows patiently and supportively.

And all three were on parade again this morning. It was the advent 'family mass' where the children took responsibility for all the key moments of the service.  Gertie led the opening prayer and lit the advent candle and Gilby wrote and shared his bidding prayer. They both had 'acting' roles in the gospel.

Eddie played with his lightsaber, mostly - and after some cajoling took part in the offertory procession.

But his main, unscripted contribution took place during the contemplative calm of the Eucharistic prayer. He took himself off to stand in front of the kneeling congregation and demanded, loudly, 'When are you all going to stop BEING LIKE STATUES?'

It had the desired effect, since some of the assembled worshippers were, indeed, unable to maintain their stillness; there was some definite shoulder-shaking.




Currently reading: Remember Me by Melvyn Bragg

Dressed to Distress

Everything is a battle with Eddie at the moment, but matters of sartorial choice are the worst.

He uses strange adjectives to explain why he will not wear a particular pair of trousers.  They might, for example, be 'too furry', (though I can confirm, categorically, that he does not own a single pair of fur trousers) 'not bony enough' (likewise) and often complains that the pockets are 'bumpy'.

His wardrobe is extensive, which is what happens when you have an older brother and get all his hand-me-downs; but only two or three items remain eligible for actual wearing at any given time.

This means that mornings are often fraught and it is easiest to let Eddie dress himself.

Which is how he ended up at church this morning clothed in mismatched stripey socks, the lower half of his Ugandan national team football kit, and a t-shirt with a monster on it.  Not exactly Sunday best, more like 'Sunday mess', but at least we managed to leave the house without a row.

Though he decided to announce loudly, delightedly and without preamble during the quiet moment of reflection between the gospel and the homily, 'MUMMY, I HAVEN'T GOT ANY PANTS ON UNDER MY SHORTS.'

A pause, and then a stage whisper, ''SHALL I SHOW YOU?'

Even the priest looked like he had to suppress a giggle, though some older members of the congregation were less understanding.

We didn't stay for coffee this morning.


Currently reading:  Living With It by Lizzie Enfield

Body Bees

Now that Gertie and Gilby are all grown up and at school and flying along, they don't make those funny language slips that are so entertaining for parents.  For some strange reason all three have said 'look likes' instead of 'looks like' all the way from very little. The best ones are when they try to describe something that they don't yet have the words for.

Gertie has come out with some good ones.  After going swimming and getting some water in her ear, she kept pressing the side of her head. "I can't listen properly, Mummy, because my ears aren't turned on."  And my favourite: when she was trying to explain why she doesn't like the scrape of nails down a blackboard she told me that she got the 'white feeling'.

But this week Eddie came out with the best description ever for pins and needles.

His face turned to a frown and, on the verge of tears, he explained that he had 'bees in his feet'.  Hearth-father and I helped him to stamp them out. At least I hope it was just pins and needles...


Two blog posts in a week?  Must be the Easter holidays!



Currently reading: Memoir by John McGahern

Sunshine After the Rain

Today the sun shines brilliantly. What a change from the dreary wet. And the chickens began laying eggs again. Is the worst over?





Eddie thinks that he sees a rainbow in every sky. Mostly this is just wishful thinking. "Mummy, I see a rainbow up the sky!" He points up, usually, at nothing but cloud; though I did take this photo from the classroom window the other day.


Noses seem to have been running since Christmas. And Gilby tells me that he has a very bad cough. When he coughs hard, apparently, he can taste 'sneeze' in his mouth. Ah, yes. That is quite a bad cough. I chose not to introduce him to the word 'phlegm'. Such an ugly word. Much prefer a good mouth-sneeze myself.





Currently reading: Bloody Foreigners by Robert Winder

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

On God and Merkins

Under what circumstances might a four-year-old boy run round his sitting room shouting "I'm a merkin, I'm a merkin, I'm a merkin!"?


I only ask because this is exactly what you might have heard had you been at our place last weekend.


Before you cast aspersions on the kind of household we have created, allow me to explain.


Last Sunday was 'Epiphany', and, as part of celebrating the journey of the magi, Gilby was asked to be a king at church. He was representing Caspar, and we had a jolly old time making his crown. Cereal box, bandage, and some of Gertie's sequins from her Christmas nail art set all came in very handy. Mister Maker wouldn't have been that impressed, but Gilby was, and that was the main thing.


And what did Caspar have to do? Well, as we discovered, he had to give the gift of myrrh to the baby Jesus in a procession at the end of the service. Which is simply what Gilby was explaining to anyone who might listen.


And therein lies the explanation.





Currently reading: And the Mountains Echoed by Khalid Hosseini. Wow.

Fluent in Dubby Dubby

Whilst Eddie's linguistic skills come on apace, Gilby's seem to be regressing.

Since starting school, he has acquired the ability to communicate in 'Dubby dubby': a nonsense language that contains a number of incomprehensible (to me, anyway) words; many of which sound remarkably like 'dubby'.

It is also important that he insult any (male) friend with a compound image involving the word, 'poo'. A conversation at the school gates might go something like this:

Gilby: Bye bye poo-poo-head.

Friend: Bye bye nicompoop-poo.

Gilby: See you tomorrow silly-poo-face.

Friend: You too, poo-poo-pop.

And they giggle and wave at each other as they depart, no sign of any animostity between them.

I always smile, uncertainly, at the inevitably middle-class looking mum whose son is the recipient of these terms of endearment, and comment on how well they seem to be getting along. They usually tend to hurry in the opposite direction.

If I suggest quietly to Gilby that it might be a good idea not to shout so loudly or indeed add the word 'poo' to everything he says, the response is very likely to be something along the lines of "Dubby, dubby, Mummy nicompoo-poo."

Eddie, in the corner quietly scribbling on my freshly-painted dresser with his fat felt-tips, might comment, "Gilby's talking nonsense again, Mummy," and my two-year-old and I will shrug together and share a moment of collective eyes raised to heaven before I throttle him for graffiti-ing the kitchen again.

Walking Holiday

It has been a wee while since my last post.


This is not an oversight, but as a result of my employer using a 'smart' system at school (and I do use that term very loosely) which meant that all of a sudden I was not able to access my blogger account.  Very frustrating, but a more normal lack of service should now resume.

In the meantime we have been enjoying our summer vacation to the south of France.  A selection of quick highlights will provide a taste.

It was twelve hours each way in a car. There were seven of us on the way out: the five of us, plus Nano and a niece. To while away the time we mostly enjoyed the stilted and frankly inappropriate pronunciation of French place names by the sat nav.  Destinations like "Boulevard Georges Pompidou in Troyes" made my own attempts in French sound positively fluent. We found the most amazing crumbling chateau on the outskirts of Amiens that will definitely be worth a second visit and beat last year's overnight stop in the equivalent of a Travelodge in Lille by a significant margin.

Eddie took his first steps, a month short of his second birthday.  I watched him get up and walk a good four steps across the balcony before reaching out to a folded deckchair which promptly clattered down on top of him.  We were both crying. Mine were tears of joy, his of pain and shock, for a moment that at one stage we weren't sure would ever come. He became a good 'pool guy' and enjoyed holding on to the net pole each morning, and the steps have come fast now that he is back on British soil.

Other highlights included kayaking beneath the Pont du Gard, masses of rosé, early morning lengths, Gilby turning four and inexplicably being let loose with 200 water bombs (thanks, Nano!)great clothes buying in the shops and markets at Uzes and an anniversary meal at Remoulin. Sigh. Over for another year.

The way home was memorable for the wine drinking on a foot-wide balcony of our hotel room in Troyes. I know that we will not be the first parents to have resorted to that, but we could be on for the record for the most wine consumed on the smallest balcony...


We also met a German couple at breakfast who were fascinated by Freddie's ability to talk. I pointed out that this was directly related, perhaps, to his inability to walk - and the necessity of communicating his every whim to two older siblings willing to run around doing anything he needs.

"Ahh!" said Herr with understanding. "I see. It is he who gives zee orders!"

Indeed.

The F-Word

My very sweet, intelligent, beautiful (innocent) five year old seems to have turned into a stroppy teenager in the space of a few short days.

Monosyllabic responses to the simplest of requests and questions, a form of amnesia directly related to saying please and thank you, and a pout that makes Angelina Jolie look a bit tight-lipped.

But she came home from school the other day with a question:  "Mummy, what's the F-word?"  When I declined to explain, she complained that people had been talking about how naughty it is and how you shouldn't say it, but she felt silly because she didn't know what it was.

I said that I agreed with the people who said it was naughty and that you shouldn't say it (whilst metaphorically mouthing it to myself as I was undoing her plaits).

Then she asked if she could guess what it was.  I had no idea what was coming next, and took a big gulp.

"Is it....fire?" she asked.

Perhaps my sweet, innocent, beautiful little girl is still hiding in there, after all.