More Teething Trouble

It's fair to say that our tooth fairy doesn't have the best record. If she was in my employment I'd probably sack her. She is dreadfully unreliable and sometimes forgets to come on time. Sometimes she is unable to find the tooth and wakes the owner up accidentally during the search. She doesn't often communicate like other tooth fairies seem to, and when she does leave a note, her writing is 'too big' - apparently.

Eddie lost a tooth this week. Hearth mother and father had been busy doing a play while dealing with September, back to school routines, the aftermath of puppy-gate and a new member of the family (we have a teenage German exchange student staying with us).

The tooth fairy was up to her old tricks again.

'She didn't come!' cried a distraught Eddie upon waking yesterday morning.

'What do you mean?' I called, frowning at Hearth-father and fumbling frantically in my purse.

Hearth Father's palm was duly crossed and he took up the, er,  baton. 'Now then, let's see. I bet she did. Nothing there under the pillow? Are you sure? Let's look under the...mattress, just in case.'

Lo and behold: a single shiny pound coin. Magic. Sleight of hand. Disaster averted. Eddie was ecstatic. For a moment.

'But she didn't take the tooth!' he wailed.

'No-o. No, she didn't. Um...Perhaps she was disturbed in the night. Maybe you woke up too soon.'

This was followed by some hasty improvisation of fairy folklore.

'She might come back for it tonight?' He added, rather desperately. 'Perhaps that's what happens in these, um, cases...'

Thankfully, the tooth fairy had a better memory in the evening. But there were whispered discussions across the landing.

'She wouldn't just take it and leave nothing...'

'Do you think she would leave another coin?'

'Well, it has always been a two pound coin for the first big front tooth...'

'Fair enough.'

Some urgent checking of pockets and purses ensued.

'I've only got a bloody two quid coin!'

'Ssssssh. Give it here.'

'But then he'll have had three pounds!'

'Never mind. It'll have to do. So be it.'

Thus Eddie came down to breakfast in jubilant mood this morning, his trouser pockets heavy with gold; and was last overheard in the playground regaling his friends with the story of how he tricked the tooth fairy...

Currently reading: Mapp & Lucia by EF Benson

So Last Century

'The Beatles? Aren't they some old band from last century?'

This year's summer holiday was to Liverpool and the Isle of Man. The weather allowed plenty of swimming in the Irish Sea, and the rare occurrence of accompanying sunburn. The return journey included a stopover in Liverpool.

I thought my offspring would be excited to see the world-famous Cavern Club. Turns out...no. Primark was more exciting, as we don't have one near us. Not only were they not impressed by one of the most famous live music venues in the world  ('Can we go now, it's dark and boring'), we discovered that it wasn't just that they were firmly not Beatles fans, but that they actually didn't know any Beatles songs.

Clearly a case of parenting gone wrong, I sought to rectify this, immediately. I know, I thought, the drive back from Liverpool is a good four or five hours. That will give me plenty of time to educate these poor, deprived children.

Cue rapid download of The Beatles 'Essentials'. Don't worry, I felt the hand of Alan Partridge as we were doing it.

And then I thought, it isn't that they don't know any songs, it's just that they don't know they are by The Beatles. Let's see how many they are actually familiar with!

It didn't go well. Gertie had her headphones in, but she did deign to remove them for the opening few bars of each track to then offer an increasingly frustrated shake of the head to indicate that no, she really didn't know this one either.

Eventually, success!  We All Live in A Yellow Submarine provoked a spark of recognition. 'I thought it was a nursery rhyme.'

And Let it Be was 'vaguely familiar'. Nothing else though.

'Do we have to listen to any more of this OLD rubbish music? Seriously, mummy, these songs all sound exactly the same.'

Eddie joined in with the general malcontent, putting his fingers in his ears and pointedly singing, 'HATE Jude' once he'd mastered the refrain.

It was a very long journey home.

The Birthday Party

Gilby reached the milestone of double figures.

We are a long way beyond the class party these days. Yes, they were horrendous, but at least with the saving grace of being all over and done with in an hour and half. 

But, no. To celebrate, his treat of choice was to:

Take a group of friends to a trampoline park. 

Straight from school on the last day of the summer term. 

A suitably unhealthy burger and chips to follow the bouncing. 

Then all back to our garden for what is breezily termed a 'camping sleepover'.

I try not to begin from a 'deficit perspective' but there seems no other way to approach this given

the significant number of potential, actual and unforeseen pitfalls to this plan.

1. Eight children at a trampoline park.

Now, I don't know what the odds are in relation to number of visitors per injury, but I figured that our chances of ending up in casualty were pretty high. In my head, it was only a question of where the first blow might strike. Our odds were susbtiantially increased because in a fit of what I can only describe as a combination of uncharacteristic generosity and utter madness, I had booked the two hour bouncing deal instead of the single hour option. I had also failed to notice that the 'deal' was actually called 'Hungry Bouncers' and included a 'free' hot-dog. That meant that we were actually filling the boys up with two forms of processed meat in rapid succession. If they weren't going to end up in hospital through bouncing then perhaps the long-term health problems were going to get them there eventually.

2. Decibels

The noise quality in trampoline parks - and I don't mean to do them down specifically; it is generally the same in all 'soft play' establishments - is of a particular quality and timbre that generally leaves me wanting to crawl into a quiet hole after extended exposure to it. Note previous point in relation to the two, rather than one, hour deal.

3. The curse of the Golden Arches.

As a vegetarian I am not generally a big fan of the chains of 'family burger restaurants' with which we are all familiar. I object to the use of the term 'restaurant' when you are required to order at a counter, wait for your food, carry it back to plastic immovable chairs and tables, forage for condiments and then clear up after yourself, even though the person sitting at the table before you clearly didn't. And I object to the term particularly since they are not licensed to sell alcohol at all, let alone in the numbing quantities required to survive this sort of situation. When I say 'situation', I mean the kind of practices that boys eating burgers together seem to enact. Especially when they aren't actually that hungry because they have been bouncing for two hours and been given a giant hot-dog. Gilby is generally the nicest-mannered of my children, but somehow he feels the need to engage in burping, farting, food-throwing, food-wasting and fighting antics that would be unacceptable on any other day of the year, but somehow become tolerated when in the company of other people's children. Which brings me on to point 4...

4. Other people's children 

What is it and what is it not ok to refuse people's children? Three of the boys were very polite. At least to begin with. And three were not. I started getting all judgy at the lack of please and thank yous from the outset. And then there was the asking for things that had not been offered. A round of slushies were included in the two hour deal. I'm aware that I keep using the word 'deal' as though I had obtained some sort of bargain on the day. I would like to disabuse everyone of that idea and explain that in fact, attendance for eight children for two hours at aforementioned  trampoline park was extortionate and virtually required remortgaging. Nevertheless, some rejected the slushies and said that they wanted squash or coke or milk or anything that they could think of that wasn't a slushy. Grumpily, I said no and referred repeatedly to 'the deal'. Dear Jaydn - not quite enough vowels, surely? shrugged off the rejection

5. Sleep

What are the chances of that many boys in a tent, for some of whom it was their first sleepover, actually getting some sleep? The answer is, unsurprisingly, very little. Marshmallow toasting (supervised by Hearth-father while I went in search of the wine that had been so absent from our 'restaurant' experience) went on until quite late, and it seems that an injection of sugar at bedtime is not exactly conducive to 'settling down'. The torrential downpour after days of glorious sunshine didn't help. The fact is they didn't settle down. I sent Hearth-Father out at regular intervals to shush them, with fairly minimal results. The cricket game began at 5am when the rain stopped. At 5.15 the neighbour from two doors down was banging on the front door to complain. Saturday morning did not, therefore, begin in a terrifically positive way, and I did not come out of the exchange terribly well.

6. Inappropriate moral lessons

This one was definitely unforeseen. In an effort to reestablish relations with Two Doors Down, we decided it would be a good idea to send Gilby round the following afternoon with a box of chocolates and a rehearsed apology. Missing nothing, and still in his formative years, we appear to have inadvertently warped Eddie's already fragile moral code. He piped up, 'What? So she gets a present for coming round here and shouting? Are you serious?'

Parklife

I love my morning dog walk. It is a quiet time for contemplation and preparation; some fresh air and exercise; an opportunity to fortify myself for the day ahead. 

Before we moved house a couple of years ago, our walks were in wild woodland. Now that we are back in the village they are in a little public gardens up the road. I thought Kempton, our Golden Retriever and sixth family member (who suffers under the illusion that she can talk like a human), would miss the fields and acres; but actually, the fact that is more of a sociable event since she sees other dogs these days seems to be just as exciting for her. It is me who misses the fields and woods of rural Sussex living.

But Kempy has now found a new way to make what is generally a delightful experience something of a torture.

It has long been her particular mischief to do her morning business right in the middle of the large grassy area in the gardens. Now it's worth saying that this is a minor irritant. In olden days I would be 'wellied-up', (not to mention no £1000 fine for failing to pick up poo - a smart kick into the undergrowth was all that was required). Given that we now go for a walk in the nicely landscaped and pave-pathed park, I'm usually in smart clothes and work shoes. Not sartorial choices conducive to walking across muddy grass in order for one of my first actions of the day to be a poo-scoop.

But Kempy has now taken the 'central vantage point' to a whole new level. Did I mention the nice landscaping? Which has resulted in a giant grassy mound, to mimic the nearby undulating South Downs in miniature, perhaps. This is now Kempy's early-morning-dump spot of choice.

I don't know if you have, by chance, noticed the unseasonably inclement weather this June, but earlier this week it was...persistently raining. Cue me, scrabbling my way up the mound on all fours, mud-splattered and mostly slip-sliding away in an ungainly fashion, just to retrieve a wet turd.

Not exactly the blissful contemplative experience I once enjoyed. Thanks, Kempy.

Just for that, I'm going to include one of you not looking at your best:

Currently reading: Bloody Brilliant Women by Cathy Newman

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

Silverware Wars and Sporting Firsts

There were proud moments at the weekend, as Hearth-Father and Gilby strode out onto a cricket pitch together for the first time, playing in a friendly game for Ladymead, versus Ockley.

Gilby was a little bit nervous, he confided in me on the way to the match. "And I don't think I want to bowl."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm nine and they're men!"

Fair enough. He did, though, and bowled a maiden for the final over. And at one point there was Hearth-Father, Hearth-Uncle and Gilby all in the slip cordon. Not sure how many more times that might happen.

(Now I'm looking forward to stepping out onto a stoolball pitch with Gertie for the first time ever tomorrow night. Come on the weather!)

(*Edit: This did happen! And we batted out the final overs together, me 26 not out, she 5 not out. Dream team!

)

But the cricket wasn't the best bit about Gilby's day. The best bit was being awarded player of the year for the second year running for his football team. It was totally unexpected - especially as I had been suggesting that since he won it last year they would probably share things about a little to give another player a turn. Apparently not.

When he walked off the cricket pitch after three hours of fielding his little face lit up when he remembered the morning's silverware that he had entirely forgotten about in his state of concentration. It's fair to say he slept well on Sunday evening.

Meanwhile, Gertie and Eddie were in action at a dancing competition on Saturday. For the first time ever, Eddie came home with more silverware than his sister. (She's in the top grade and he's still classed as a beginner, but we'll ignore that...)

A wonderful way to end the half-term break. Roll on summer.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

On Hearths. And Mothers.

I have been parenting for twelve years this week. Gertie will celebrate her birthday with a meal at a local restaurant with friends. Very grown up. Very exclusive. In the sense that no adults are allowed. Only at the end to pay the bill.

It follows, though, a bit of a soul-searching weekend. Eldest Gertie has been unrelentingly stroppy and demanding, middle Gilby seems to be in a permanent rage, and youngest Eddie even more than the usual law unto himself. Where have we gone wrong? There was much handwringing and lament. And some consoling wine.

But yesterday! They were immaculate. All day. Morning and evening and bedtime. Eddie went to his gymnastics class without a single murmur of dissent, and on first asking to put his shoes on. First asking! Gertie and Gilby collaborated on a housework project that meant I walked back into a sweet smelling, vacuumed downstairs, with all the laundry put away. I'd only asked them to clear their things after supper. I quite literally didn't know how to respond. 

So. One whole day in twelve years seems to have gone well. (We won't mention today.) Hooray for parenting! Hooray for Hearth-mother!

I chose the name 'hearth-mother' as a reaction against the earth-mother types that I met when pregnant and when Gertie was first born. The ones who were winning at motherhood: those who managed to breast feed incessantly without any effort, and then shredded roast lamb and purée artichoke for the baby whilst serving up four unmushed courses for their partners; the ones who did complex crafting with their precious offspring with endless calm and patience while playing a musical instrument and learning Mandarin themselves; and, most offensive of all: who always had immaculate make-up. I never really picked up makeup again after childbirth, so how women had time to put on a 'full face' was astonishing to me. They seemed there just to make the rest of us (well, mostly me) feel bad.

Going out, as in 'leaving the house', back then was just - well - too hard. Going out with a baby was a massive mission, a feat well beyond my limited capabilities. It was all I could do to sit by the fire, and er, tend the hearth.

Blogposts over the years have regularly been about the funny, silly, awful, brilliant things that the kids do, often alongside barely disguised allusions to my sustained parenting inadequacy. No doubt research could prove a connection between the two.

But I am currently reading Mythos by Stephen Fry, and in discussing Hestia, Goddess of - well, the Hearth, he explains:

In our less communal age of central heating and separate rooms for each family member, we do not lend the hearth quite the importance that our ancestors did, Greek or otherwise. Yet, even for us, the word stands for something more than just a fireplace. We speak of 'hearth and home'. Our word 'hearth' shares its ancestry with 'heart', just as the modern Greek for 'hearth' is kardia, which also means 'heart'. In Ancient Greece the wider concept of hearth and home was expressed by the oikos which lives on for us today in words like 'economics' and 'ecology'. The Latin for hearth is focus - which speaks for itself. 

So. Turns out Hearth-Mother might be a bit of domestic goddess. Literally. Not this one, obvs, but in name, and, on the eve of Gertie's twelfth birthday, my heart (hearth) is singing.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry