In the Swim of Things

Eddie has a weekly swimming lesson, and has done since he was about six weeks old. The word 'lesson' here is used in its loosest possible sense, and it's fair to say that he hasn't taken to the water like the proverbial duck. Thursday mornings have the potential to be a very stressful affair.

So, when he announced last Thursday that he wanted to get himself ready for swimming in advance, the suggestion was greeted enthusiastically by Hearth-father. Perhaps this might be a 'good' swimming day.

All was quiet upstairs for a while before Eddie marched down proudly, fully dressed but pulling his shirt buttons apart in the manner of Superman (Eddie is obsessed with superheroes; Batman and Spiderman are his current favourites) so that it was plain to see that he was already sporting his all-in-one swimsuit beneath.

Behaviour was bordering on enthusiastic, and it meant that exit from the changing rooms to poolside was unusually speedy and hassle-free. The chickens were lining themselves up to be counted.  The lesson passed without a tantrum, and Eddie even did some of the things that his teacher told him to.

But there was a problem. Hearth-father realised that, following Eddie's self-selected sartorial arrangements, he had neglected to bring along a pair of pants for Eddie to change back into after his lesson.

"Don't worry, Daddy," Eddie piped up unperturbed, "I kept my pants on underneath my swimsuit..."

Perhaps it's a superhero thing.




Currently reading: The Book of You by Claire Kendal

Festival Fever

The summer of festival fun has begun. First stop was the Hay Festival.

"There's no such thing as fun for all the family," is, I believe, a Jerry Seinfeld quote, and something I have thus far held to be true.

Going to the Hay Literary Festival was a twenty year ambition of mine and when I finally  made it last year, I determined to bring the family back to experience it as soon as I could.  Accommodation is at a premium in the little town during festival time and we found ourselves with no option but to camp. Our few family camping forays have proved...somewhat challenging, so when I was offered an upgrade to a 'yurt', I seized it.

The first day passed in a frenzy of activity. There was face-painting and cartwheel-turning and letters to climb and dinosaur stories and and books to be bought and ice-creams to be eaten and Letters Live for Hearth-mother featuring performances by Sandi Toksvig, Stephen Fry and Jude Law. 

 

There was even, and this is where we get to the 'fun for all the family' part, a selection of West country ciders for Hearth-father to taste. Though 'taste' suggests a little more delicacy in consumption than perhaps might have been observed in reality.

We were all exhausted at the end of day one and I spent one of the best nights I've had for months - in the comfort of the yurt's double bed with cosy wood-burner at its foot.

Even more to do on day two, with writers to meet and journals to be wrecked and faces to be painted, and a pub-supper. See, something for everyone.

Then marshmallows to be toasted around a campfire before bedtime.

Two weeks until the Isle of Wight festival (though we are child-free that weekend, so it will be an altogether different experience)...

I love summer!



Currently reading: Cruel Summer by James Dawson

Lords and Ladies of the Dance

I have actually just organised the best eighth birthday surprise and celebration in the world. (Types smugly)

A few months ago I was accidentally watching Graham Norton's show when Michael Flatley was on promoting Lord of the Dance in London. I hadn't known it was his farewell tour and so I thought it would be a nice idea to get a ticket for Gertie for her birthday. (It goes without saying that this also required buying one for her mother to accompany her...) They weren't cheap, but if this was the only time that the current CAID Primary National Champion was going to get to see the world's most famous Irish dancer then so be it.

Through the wonders of the internet I managed to get tickets for the actual day of her birthday from the comfort of my sitting room whilst Graham Norton and Michael Flatley were still chatting.  He seemed like a nice bloke, so with a glass of red wine inside me and an iPad in my lap it suddenly seemed like a good idea to send Mr Flatley a little email explaining the situation.  I put a little picture of Gertie in for good measure.

Twelve hours later I had a reply, and an invitation to meet the cast.

The show was spectacular. More dramatic, exciting and beautiful than I remember from, ahem, twentyyearsagoish. And Michael Flatley himself performed, which we weren't expecting, so Hearth-Mother was a little overcome.

And the lovely cast (who, at the end of a long week probably had far better things to be doing than meeting an eight-year-old girl) were lovely, even singing 'Happy Birthday' to Gertie.

Gertie was amazed by 'Little Spirit' and her breath-taking flexibility on stage; then delighted to discover that in real life she was so petite that they weren't far apart in height. A magical evening was topped off by the gift of a signed programme from the main man himself.

The following day she had a 'pool party' with 25 friends, including raft races and a profiterole tower instead of a cake (Gertie's choice).


Alas, smug as I am and delighted by the success of creating an absolutely unforgettable eighth birthday, I am well aware that I may have peaked too soon.  What on earth to do next year...?

Currently reading: The Liar's Chair by Rebecca Whitney

Toddler Tribulation

A little snapshot of what life is like in our house if the Coco Pops run out:

It doesn't make for a great start to the day.
And no, Rice Krispies with cocoa sprinkled on top does not make an effective substitute.

Note to self: Keep all breakfast cereal topped up.



Currently reading: Chop Chop by Simon Wroe

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

Carry on Not Camping

Easter 2015 was the time that Hearth-Mother decided it would be a Good Thing to have a camping adventure in the garden.  The little people had been looking for a good excuse to set up their 'dens' and there would be space enough to pitch a proper tent close by. It might even be considered 'glamping' given the proximity and availability of electricity, heat and lighting. She reckoned without the chickens, the commuters on the A29, the three-year-old's tantrum, a snuffling retriever and a Chinook helicopter.

Two sets of our friends are camping this Easter, and reluctant to join in since our last outing two years ago when I had to be chipped from a block of ice in the middle of the night, I thought a garden expedition would be a happy compromise.

It took one evening to pitch the tent so that everything was ready for the following night. Youngest, Eddie, came home from nursery in the filthiest, blackest of exhausted tempers, and refused to wait for his campfire supper. He fell asleep in a stroppy huff on the sofa.  One down.  Not the holiday bliss I had imagined.

Three of the chickens had 'escaped' from and were careering round the garden doing what chickens do, which is mostly to poo everywhere.  Hearth-father thought it was time their wings were clipped again.  My less rational explanation was that the sight of a large purple canvas erection next to their coop was enough to send them on the run.

Kempton got over-excited and got in to the bin, so that as well as chicken excrement, our campsite was also now littered with a week's worth of decomposing rubbish.

We cooked beans and sausages on the campfire, followed by marshmallows. In a fit of guilt at all the fun we were having I decided to wake up Eddie to see if he wanted to join in.  Big mistake. The pre-supper tantrum was just a warm-up for the screaming and relentless sobbing all over the garden he had planned for the rest of the evening.

Just as we got all three sleeping (and overcame the difficulty of Eddie getting his bottom all the way into his sleeping bag) a pair of helicopters decided to circle low over the house with searchlights, so that we felt like we were in the middle of a James Bond film at the very least.

By the time we settled everyone again the roaring traffic of the A29 was just about to begin for the morning rush hour. (Or so it seemed!)  I was under this strange illusion that we lived in a rural area, but it transpires that our main road is more like the M1 first thing in the morning. The over-efficiency of the heater meant that the previous year's defrosting wasn't necessary; in fact we all woke up with a bit of a sweat on.  One that had absolutely no relation to the amount of red wine I felt it necessary to consume in order to sleep five in our four-man tent.

'Again, again!' said the kids in the morning, like demented Teletubbies.

But that nonsense is all over for another year, at least.

(Although I do, inadvertently, appear to have book a yurt for us all to stay in for the Hay Festival next month.  Whoops...)



Currently reading: A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh

How Do You Eat Yours?

Eddie would not, it's fair to say, fare well in the infamous 'marshmallow test'.

After his Easter Egg hunt he was allowed to choose one thing to eat straight away.  He promptly selected the largest egg, sat in the middle of the kitchen floor and ate the whole thing top down without pause.

Later, when he was having a tantrum - can't remember what it was about, but it would have been something like having the wrong-coloured straw in his drink or having been given the Octonauts plate instead of the tractor one, that sort of thing - I made the mistake of saying, "I think chocolate makes you grumpy."

He stopped sobbing for a moment, looked me squarely in the eye and replied. "No, it doesn't. You make me grumpy." Which rather told me.

Happy Easter!


Currently reading: The Lie by Helen Dunmore